Page 47 of The Crimson Lily

I can hear Chiara and Giovanni behind me, yelling at each other in the car, wild chimes of Italian wrath aimed at each other. Two violins competing in a battle of resonance.

A few minutes later, Giovanni comes to check on me. “How are you feeling?”

“Great!” I exaggerate. The answer is actually: mediocre at best .

“It’s almost six,” he informs. “We need?—”

I rise to my feet and stare him down with fury in my eyes. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Giovanni!” I scowl. I’m still angry.

I search for Chiara, who’s leaning against the car, her arms crossed. I can see her in the spotlight of the tall lamppost, her nose red, her eyes baggy with tears, about to pop.

“She didn’t know,” Giovanni says softly, noticing my anger.

He wants to absolve her of any blame. How nice of him, but I don’t care. Sure, maybe Chiara didn’t know this was all a trap, but I hold her responsible for it.

I march toward her with heavy steps. Once I’m close, I push her against the car and hold my sharp elbow under her throat. I have no self-restraint anymore.

“What instructions did you get about this meeting?” I interrogate.

She coughs at first, in my face, choking under the pressure of my arm. I don’t care.

“Please…” she stutters.

Giovanni comes to her rescue. “Liliana, calm down!” he commands with urging movements.

I relax my muscles, giving Chiara some space to breathe and cry.

“I got a letter,” she begins. “To pick up the token and meet here on Thursday. That’s all, I swear.”

I release her. She collapses to her knees and sobs at my feet.

Looking upon her, I can feel my anger resonate and how hard it is for me to contain it, but maybe the spark of compassion ignites inside me as I watch the sobbing Chiara.

I inspect my hand, which trembles as I move it.

It’s obviously broken, probably from my punch to Giovanni’s face.

I don’t feel the pain. I look to the car’s window, at my reflection, not recognizing myself.

My hair and coat are soiled. My black boots are brown with dirt and maybe traces of my own vomit.

Chiara looks like a child who did something bad, then I realize she is a child. She’s so young.

I sigh, lowering all shields and disabling weapons, and help her up.

“Your instruction was to pick up that token?” I make sure I heard her words correctly.

She nods, gripping the sleeves of my coat a little too hard, and I turn to Giovanni.

“You know what I’m about to say,” I declare.

He rolls his eyes as a response. Of course he knows.

He’s aware of how much I want to get to that shopkeeper, the one who distributes the tokens.

That man could be the answer to many of my questions, starting with what he knows about the Syndicate and their lair in Rome.

That man is the only clue we have right now.

Something else hits me. Maksim was caught.

How?

Two possibilities. Number one: Syndicate members know exactly who attends those gatherings. Number two: Either someone told them about Maksim, or they had a way of finding out who did not belong.

Chiara swears it could not be option one. Moreover, something in my gut agrees with her. That leaves us with option two, but I don’t believe Chiara to be capable of double-crossing the Syndicate, the Mafia Capitale, and the Bratva, so I’m certain they have a way to identify an intruder.

I can bet all my money there’s something about that token that doesn’t add up.

The Syndicate set a trap for us, and they knew Chiara would be the key to luring us right into their snare.

That’s how I would have done it, at least. Having a meeting where nobody knows each other and want to spot an intruder? Ensure the intruder gets their hands on a token you know is fake but looks absolutely legitimate.

“We’re going to that antique shop,” I say without leaving them a choice.

“It’s six in the morning!” Giovanni exclaims.

“Darn it, Giovanni!” I shout. “I’m sure the Syndicate knew darn well Chiara was working with the mafia! I’m certain they sabotaged her token order, but I need confirmation. So, we’re going to that antique shop.”

Giovanni raises his palms in the air in resignation. He turns around and walks to the front side of the car, not looking at us.

“I think they used you, Chiara,” I inform, but it’s more of a j’accuse moment.

She stays silent and guilty. I pick the front seat this time, letting her hide behind me.

I slam the door shut. I’m getting ready to pierce through Giovanni with dragon eyes, but I know I have to make peace with at least one person.

My posture relaxes, and I give him a quick and cautious glance. “I’m sorry I punched you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He’s now holding the gearstick. I lay a careful hand on his, and our eyes meet. “I mean it.”

I only let go of his hand after he gives me a forced smile. Giovanni starts the engine and gets the car rolling back on the road, toward the gates of Rome.

I have no space in my head or time to be tired. My eyelids are heavy, but my blood is still boiling. My heart is pumping, and my stomach is clenched in the tightest of knots.

The antique shop is closed, but I have a justified feeling someone’s in there. Because it isn’t just an antique shop. It also has a higher floor that could be an apartment, and there’s no visible door leading upstairs. The blinds don’t allow me to see inside, and the front door is locked.

Oh well, no time for pleasantries. My instincts take over. I ram the door open with a furious push kick that impresses even Giovanni.

We enter a dark, wooden space with endless shelves full of vases and miniature sculptures I might care about under normal circumstances. The racks are meticulously aligned. The damp smell of old is fixed in the air. The floor reminds me of the oiled wood that makes up the deck of a pirate ship.

My march has significantly slowed down from the violence of but a second ago.

I discreetly approach the counter at the end of the room, a large chunk of wood covered in pieces of colorful cloth and a heavy, old-school cash register.

I’m almost within reach of it when a man appears out of the door behind the counter.

Behind me, Giovanni cocks his gun instantly and points it at the man.

The man, an old guy with a crooked nose, an olive-green pullover, and a beret, launches his arms in the air and opens his eyes wide. He trembles and squirms upon seeing Giovanni, the Mafia Capitale soldier, ready to shoot. He’s making puffy squeals, probably as an attempt to beg for our mercy.

I turn to Giovanni, my hand raised at him as a sign to lower his weapon. Chiara, behind him, looks almost as afraid as the old man.

“Is this him?” I check with her.

She gives me frail, little nods.

The man mumbles some Italian words. Giovanni, who’s lowered his gun, responds in a low voice.

I hear the word Sindacato . La lista del Sindicato . Something like that.

The old man keeps on squirming; it mildly irritates me.

“Tell us about the token you gave her,” I order and flick my head in Chiara’s direction.

Giovanni has to translate, and the man oozes out some words.

“He says he’s just a pick-up point,” Giovanni relays. “He gets a coin, a name, and a description, that’s all.”

“How does he get this information?” I ask Giovanni while still looking at the man.

Same exchange.

“A phone,” Giovanni blurts.

“He needs to give us that phone,” I say.

“ Dacci il telefono ,” he hisses at the old man.

I understood that.

The old man refuses at first, but he immediately retreats to fetch us the phone once Giovanni raises his gun again. He hands it to me, that black piece of flat technology with names of Syndicate members. How valuable is that?

I then hand it to Giovanni, who immediately takes a video with his own phone of all communiqués, all instructions the old man ever received, swiping through them fast. Better take precautions before the Syndicate erases that phone. Smart.

“Does he have more tokens?” I wonder, and Giovanni translates for me while he’s still busy collecting all evidence.

The old man nods. My eyes scream: show me .

He returns with a small wooden box full of brass coins.

I accept the box and inspect the tokens one by one.

Rough edges of imperfect art and a banana leaf.

Dots and engravings. Nothing more. Nothing special.

What is supposed to be a quill, a delicate feather, looks like a lazy lump.

Stars are dirty spots. Three ugly pimples.

Hang on…

I swear Chiara’s coin had four stars, not three. I’m more than certain.

My memory isn’t failing me this time.

Confirmation. Our token was our Achilles’ heel.

Ring, ring, ring.

The shop’s rotary dial phone loops.

I have a bad feeling about this. The old man answers the phone and instantly hands it to me, his mouth agape and his eyes none the wiser.

I take the handset and tuck it underneath my ear. I clear my throat and say: “Hello?”

A silent pause. “Good morning, Liliana. How good it is to hear your voice.”

William fucking de Loit. His voice is as gravelly as I remember it. My heart squeezes itself.

I sigh. “You.”

“I never got the chance to tell you,” he begins, “but I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“You’re the one who tried to kill me,” I call his bluff. “Where is Maksim?”

“Leave Old Marco alone, will you? That man doesn’t deserve the heart attack you’re giving him.”

“Where is Maksim?”

William snickers through the old telephone. “I was disappointed your Bratva dog had taken the bait instead of you. Again.”

“Tell me he’s alive.”

“Oh, he is very much alive, although he could be in better shape?—”

“What did you do to him?” I screech so loudly that the floor shakes beneath me.

“Tell you what, Liliana, I’m willing to let him go.” He pauses, solemnly. “But I want something in return.”

Me. William wants me in return. I know it. He doesn’t have to specify. It’s not surprising. It’s not far-fetched. It’s the only option that makes sense.

“When?” I ask.