Chapter 2 - The Red Wax
At twenty minutes past midnight, the study on the third floor of the main house was lit by a single reading lamp made of green milk-glass and brass.
Cristiano Vicari sat behind a desk of carved walnut that had belonged to his great-grandfather during the reign of Umberto the First. The desk was clean except for three items: a glass of cold water that had not been touched in two hours, a black leather ledger bound with silk thread, and a single letter written on thick, cream-colored linen paper that bore the crest of the Ministry of Justice in Rome.
He was thirty-eight years old, though his hair—dark, straight, and cropped close to the skull—was already silvering at the temples in a way that made him look like an engraving of an eighteenth-century judge.
He reached for the glass of water, held it for a second without drinking, and set it down again.
A knock came at the door—three short, heavy strikes of a knuckle against the five-inch oak panel.
"In," Cristiano said.
The door opened silently. Bernardo stepped in. Bernardo was fifty-two, had served three years in the Paracadutisti before entering the Vicari family service, and carried himself with the rigid, unobtrusive competence of a man who had cleaned up forty years of other people's blood without ever letting a drop land on his own cuffs.
"The transport from Seville," Bernardo said, placing a thin yellow cable on the corner of the desk. "The breeder’s representative in Madrid says the animal was certified sound when it crossed the border at Ventimiglia."
"He isn't sound now," Cristiano said. His voice was low, flat, and lacked the sharp regional accent of the south; he had been educated at Stonyhurst and Lausanne, and he spoke Italian with the cold, unaccented clarity of a Swiss banker. "Giacomo says he won't let the vet within four meters of the box."
"Giacomo wants to use the twitch again."
"If Giacomo puts a twitch on that horse's lip, Giacomo will be working the pumps at the refinery in La Spezia by Monday morning," Cristiano said. He didn't look up from the ledger. "The animal was a gift from General Alvear. If it dies in my stable because my grooms are peasants who treat a thoroughbred like an ox, it becomes a political problem."
"We can order the specialist from Turin," Bernardo suggested. "He has the pneumatic dart."
"A three-million-euro stallion darted like a stray dog in a municipal compound," Cristiano murmured. He closed the ledger with a slow, heavy sound that filled the high-ceilinged room. "No. Tell Giacomo to keep the box dark until morning. If he hasn't drunk by six, I'll deal with him myself."
"You have the meeting with the provincial director at eight, Don Cristiano."
"Then I'll deal with him at five."
Bernardo bowed his head slightly. He didn't turn to leave immediately; he stood by the door, his hands folded behind his back, his eyes resting on the letter from Rome.
"The Stelea matter," Bernardo said softly. "They caught the girl’s brother in Salerno yesterday."
Cristiano’s fingers remained flat on the leather cover of his ledger. "Did he have the ledger?"
"No. He claimed Marco Villani gave it to his girlfriend before he went into the house in Castellammare."
"The Soto girl."
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
"The Steleas think she went to France," Bernardo said. "Her name was on a passenger list for the night ferry from Civitavecchia to Toulon three weeks ago."
"Did she take the ferry?"
"The passport was scanned at the gate," Bernardo said. "Whether she was the one holding it is another question. The Steleas have four men in Marseilles looking through the rooming houses near the docks."
Cristiano sat still for three seconds. In the green light of the desk lamp, his face looked as if it had been cut from cold grey stone—the nose straight, the mouth thin and immovably set, the eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
"Marco Villani was a small man who made large mistakes," Cristiano said. "If the girl has the ledger, she’ll try to sell it to the tribunal in Naples or use it to buy her way into a new life in South America. She isn't an idiot. But if the Steleas find her first, they’ll burn the book and dump her in the bay."
"Do you want me to send someone to Marseilles?"
"No," Cristiano said. "If she's in Marseilles, she's already dead or gone. If she isn't, she’s somewhere much closer, waiting for her paperwork to age." He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders dark against the high leather backing. "Check the regional registry offices in Emilia-Romagna. Look for women between twenty and twenty-five who applied for temporary work permits during the last six weeks. Uses a dead relative's name. Probably carries cash."
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"And if we find her?"
"We take the ledger," Cristiano said flatly. "And we see what Marco Villani told her before he died."
