Carson’s lounging on my bed when I get back to the Spadari. Yes, it’s the only place in the room where she can see the TV—which is playing RAI News 24—but it’s still a little disturbing. “Like being an action hero?” she asks.
“I never wanted to be an action hero. I wanted to be the romantic lead.”
She rolls her eyes.
I lean against the stainless-steel railing surrounding the pit my bed is in. “What’s on the tube?”
“Dunno. It’s all Italian.” She hefts her laptop off the white duvet and plops it on her lap. “Web’s saying ‘attempted assassination of an unidentified Mafia figure.’ No suspects yet. Cops busted Angelo’s security detail. Lots of ‘it’s a miracle nobody was hurt.’” She gives me her lopsided smile.
“I believe in miracles.”
I have no idea how much Olivia had to lay out for the talent or how many arms Allyson had to twist, and I don’t really want to know. It’s more than a little scary that I work for somebody who can pull off something like this in less than twelve hours.
“Now we need somebody to link this to the gallery bombing.”
“AFP’s already there.” Carson leans back into her nest of pillows and folds her hands behind her head. She looks awfully comfortable down there. “Angelo was grateful?”
“Intensely. Let’s hope Salvatore is, too.”
My black Brioni slacks and Z Zegna green-and-gray microprint shirt are dirty, but somehow I managed to not rip them. I ship them off to the hotel laundry, switch to jeans and a red polo, tank up on Tylenol (the action-hero act has my ribs screaming) and rejoin Carson. She’s lugged the aqua desk chair into the pit, so I don’t have to throw her off the bed, which I doubt I could do in my condition. I sit on the warm spot she left. Now we watch and wait.
We wait to see if security-cam footage splashes my face all over the Web.
We wait to see if anybody identifies Angelo.
We wait to see if any of our gunmen get caught.
We wait for a telephone call.
We wait for a knock on the door.
The knock on the door finally comes, but it’s room service, which I discover after my heart attack. Carson and I use the bed as a table and keep watching TV and checking the Web for news. Now other outlets are linking the “attempted assassination” to the gallery bombing, and talking heads spin out their theories about whodunnit. Some of them are pretty wild. When somebody on Sky News mentions IS, we both laugh our butts off. The tension release feels great.
My work phone rings around nine. It’s a local Italian number I don’t recognize. “Hoskins.”
“Richard. It is Angelo.”
Yes! It’s the call I’ve been waiting for. I snap my fingers at Carson, then do the Charades version of muting the TV. “Hey, you’re someplace safe, right?”
“Si, si. My father wishes to talk to you. I will use the speaker. One moment, please.”
I mute and tell Carson, “Salvatore wants to talk.” She gives me two thumbs up.
“Ricardo?” It’s Salvatore’s voice, echoing in that special speaker-phone way. “Here is Salvatore Morrone. You are there?”
I un-mute and switch to speaker. “Right here. What can I do for you?”
“I must say ‘thank you’ for what you do for my son today. He says to me that you save his life.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just glad I was able to help.”
Carson rolls her eyes.
“I, too, am happy. Angelo is my only son. He is prezioso, ehm… precious to me. He takes my business when I am gone. It is the tragedy if he is hurt, si? I cannot allow. I am full of thanks for you.”
I hope he’s leading up to what I think he is. “I appreciate that, Salvatore.”
“I talk about our deal now, si? I cannot say ‘no’ to the man who saves the life of my son.”
Yes yes yes…
“You ask to see the art in the storage, si?”
…yes yes yes…
“I show this to you. I let you take any you want. I give you the very good price to show my thanks to you.”
…YES YES YES!
Carson flings both fists straight up over her head like she’s scored a goal.
Which we have. Finally.