daughter, especially their blonde hair and blanched faces. They have bodies by design, svelte and athletic with meat to grab hold of. The husband and son are too tall for his liking. He mocks anyone so much taller than him.
Filomena is the exception. His height plants his eyes squarely between Filomena’s breasts.
The man and his family remind him of his own brood back home in Spormaggiore, a commune in Trentino in northern Italy. With a population of just over 1,200, Spor has fewer citizens than Vatican City employs. There, the mountain air is fresher. The piazza is hospitable. The Dolomite mountains are his ever-present friends.
Often Emilio takes his folding beach chair up to a landing on one of the highest peaks, sits back and sips espresso spiked with grappa from a thermos. He marvels for hours at the wondrous mountain range. Seeing snow-blessed mountains in solitude is a magical escape from sordid, past deeds. It cleanses his soul.
Rome is not his Italy. Rome is for students, professors, naive vacationers, bureaucrats and crooked politicians. He considers the Vatican offensive. Uncontrolled, bleeding hearts within the papacy, would, to sustain their power, support
the Mafia scum in the south. He does not have any love for the platoons of priests and nuns. They live spoiled with riches and ritual. They repulse him. He longs for the simpler life of his village.
Now, duty calls. There is one more sacrifice for Stregheria—an unpleasant but necessary action. “Salute,” he says aloud holding his empty
wine glass like a gun aimed at the Vatican.
Filomena intrudes. “Allora, ecco la pasta e il vino” (it’s time for pasta and wine).
She places the overflowing plate in front of Emilio. She kisses the Amarone flask, winks to her angel of darkness and skips to the adjoining apartment door. Emilio knows the routine. She will require a few minutes to prepare herself. He fingers the spare key taped underneath his plate.
Niceties aside, Emilio pitches into his food with craving. A street performer stationed at the head of the tour bus lines amuses him. The man is in a black tuxedo with a top hat. He has a white chalked face. His violin virtuosity is creditable. He is playing a tune from Rigoletto. Ladies and children drop euros into his contribution basket.
Finally, it is time for dessert. Emilio opens the steel-plated door and enters to find an ordinary staircase to the upper landing. Though familiar, his climb is guarded. The summit opens into a living room. It is a noble retreat of enchantment. There are rustic beams overhead. A chestnut-colored sofa splashed with too many cushions. Ornate chairs and brown, stone walls coexist with vases upon vases of colorful flowers and an array of scented candles.
The door to the bedroom is wide open. The
drift of melodic music is inviting. Emilio traces his fated footsteps into the bedroom. Antique wall sconces with candles embellish the room. Linen curtains surround the vintage bed shielding a naked Filomena. She lies with her arms and legs outstretched as if handcuffed to the metal bedstead. She is so inviting.
Emilio advances. Through the open window, he observes police movements in St. Peter’s Square, right in front of the public washrooms.
Emilio needs to relax, killing time, before passing final judgment on Cardinal Pio. The afternoon pageant, with throngs of up to a quarter of a million people, in the square is still an hour away.
It is too bad about Cardinal Pio. He has been a loyal ally of the professore’s mission. He should not have ceded to bodily temptations offered by the Calabrian Mafia. Priests should remain celibate in service of God.
Looking to Filomena, he unbuckles and drops his pants to the floor. First, his testosterone, fully armed, will fire his pent-up energy into Filomena. Later, he will reload his other gun for the final killing of the day.
Chapter 10
Rome, central Italy Vatican Square
There are no sirens. Blue and white strobe lights wigwag defining a hazardous area in front of the public washrooms. Police beacons lose their mystic appeal under the cloudless sky. Officers and paramedics move about unimpeded. The engagement looks rehearsed and mundane.
Strollers, unflustered, change course. They have no interestinseeingsome type of police exercise orsecurity build up for the approaching celebrations. The neighboring shops with their variety of religious paraphernalia are more captivating.
Preventing access to the public washrooms, several carabinieri are huddled in talk. These policemen look stylish wearing garb designed by
the Italian fashion house of Valentino. They wear, short-sleeved shirts blue with black and red-striped trousers. A white diagonal band accessory across the chest indicates the officers placed on duty. Those dismounting motorcycles wear knee-length boots. Everyone’s caps bear the symbol used by numerous military constabularies: an exploding grenade. The carabinieri have been waiting for their comandante to arrive. Undoubtedly, the comandante’s morning cappuccino al fresco, traditionally consumed only before 11a.m., is the delaying culprit.
Finally, the commander’s signature vehicle wheels in. The doors of a red Lamborghini, Italy’s unrivaled luxury and super sports car, unhinge like the wings of an eagle in flight. The chief has consistently maintained that the police need velocity to catch speeding criminals. The passenger, a detective, surfaces first. He is fat and round, speckled and perfectly groomed. The driver, a lieutenant colonel in charge of the precinct encompassing the Vatican, ascends from the low riser. This young commander presents a striking balance of order, safety, sporty comfort and authority. Service awards and decorations accent his slim cut black jacket. He is confident and conspicuously cocky.
Several carabinieri step aside as the detective and the lieutenant colonel make their way into the public washrooms. Medics are standing idle in the men’s washroom. They are waiting for the police photographer, who is feverishly snapping pictures from every possible angle, to finish.
Inside, one man is prone near the paper towel dispenser. The back of his skull is missing.
A splatter of blood decorates the wall like a canvas of modern, incomprehensible art. Another man lifelessly sits sideways against the underside of a sink.
An apathetic, seemingly bored medic theorizes, “The bullet entered his temple, exploding an entire third of his skull. Sprinkled scraps on the floor are remnants of his brains.”
The detective, Alfredo, is queasy. Giacomo, the lieutenant colonel clenches his teeth. Both men retreat and enter the women’s washroom expecting even worse. They are not disappointed.
Alfredo vomits on his silk tie and Armani suit. Two crouching women have bullet holes on the top of their heads. Two small girls have gunshots in their torsos. A baby, on the floor in front of one of the women, lies riddled with gunshots enough to have severed the head and one of his hands.
Giacomo recognizes the trademark and the message. He recognizes the families. He hungers for fresh air, leaves and immediately lights a cigarette.
Alfredo has not quite regained his composure. Jumbled, he seeks order.
“Giacomo, in God’s name, why do that to a
child?”
The commander is pensive and deeply
disturbed.
“Decapitation
