The Incident at Montebello (31 page)

“I can't let him go alone,” Isolina said, her eyebrows scrunched together in worry.

“He might be able to slip away more easily if he does,” he said. “Everyone is used to seeing him drive off every day. It wouldn't attract any notice.” He saw the look of pain on Isolina's face, so he added, “You can catch up with him in Spain or France before sailing for America. But in any case, you'll need documents too. I'll speak to Faustino and see what he can come up with. Tell Rodi to come see me tonight.”

Isolina grabbed his hand and jerked it up and down. “Thank you,
signore
. You're a good man. I'll never forget what you've done for us.”

“I haven't done anything yet,” he said with a smile.

Lucia had her turn, sliding her fingers into and out of his grasp. “We're grateful for your help.”

They walked in silence through the last doorway. Beyond a wide shelf of land, the mountain dropped away, revealing a startling panorama of the town and Vesuvio. As he stepped back against the sheltering walls of the fort, a gust of wind tugged on Isolina's hat. In a second, it sailed off her head and bobbed over some bushes, tossed by the wind. With a cry, she strode after it. He couldn't believe his good fortune and turned to Lucia. Out of the blackness of her clothes, her face and her long tapered hands seemed all the more expressive. Her eyes, shining with an intensity as fierce as fire, made his mouth go dry. She spoke quickly. “Thank you for protecting my boy.”

He frowned. “For whatever it's worth. I just found out that Prefetto Balbi is still digging around, trying to link Charlie with me and the anti-Fascists. He thinks I coerced Charlie into working for them.”

“Does it never end?” Lucia cried, her eyes flaring with anger.

Sardolini shook his head. “Do you know the priest is behind this? He works with Prefetto Balbi.”

“Yes. And Prefetto Balbi told my husband about my present to you.”

Dismayed, he pointed to her face. “And was that your husband's reaction?” When she nodded, he said, “I'm so sorry,
signora.
”

She murmured, “Don't be sorry. It was inevitable.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a letter and handed it to him.

Astonished, he studied his handwriting on the envelope. “But how did you get this? I put it right into Rodi's hands.”

“Donato must have taken it when he and Rodi were in the car together yesterday. I found it in his pocket.”

For a moment, he stared at her and then he said, “He threatened me this morning. He warned me to stay away from you, but I can't.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she wiped them away with her hand. Her sorrow deeply moved him. He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her, but he had no right. And so, he said nothing, his hands hanging uselessly by his sides. Struggling for right words, he only managed a pitiful— “I care for you and your son. I want to do whatever I can.”

“But you hardly know us.”

“It doesn't feel that way. When I talk to you, I feel like I've known you forever.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Shh,” she warned, pressing her fingertips against his lips. “Don't say anything more. Nothing good will come of it.”

He grasped her fingers, stiff from the cold. “Please,
signora
.” He paused, biting back his words, but they lingered on his tongue because he couldn't ignore the truth reverberating in every muscle, every nerve. It made him shiver with dread and hope. This woman, this beauty was the piece of his heart he thought he'd never find again. He wanted to hold her in his arms, he wanted to bury his face in her hair. He wanted to kiss her lips. But more than that, he wanted to make the world safe for her. He opened his mouth to try again, but Lucia jerked her hand out of his grasp. Isolina was walking towards them, the wayward hat in her hands.

“You misunderstand me,
signore,
” Lucia said.

“I don't think so. When I look into your eyes, I see the truth.”

“Please,
signore.
We've said enough.”

A moment later, he was standing alone in the deserted fort, but his mind and heart were fixed on Lucia.

In the evening, he pried up the loose board near his bed and pulled out a cloth bag where he stored a report for his brother Sam, still unfinished. He had titled it—The Incident at Montebello— and it opened with this sentence—
Many people in the area suspect the truth of what happened that day in September 1932, but few people have the courage to speak about it.

He had been writing for a few minutes when someone tapped on the door. In a few brisk motions, he jumped up, slid the papers under his mattress, and replaced the board. Swinging the door open, he gestured for Rodi to step inside. He studied the beautiful young man, whose unguarded eyes reflected his misery. “I'm sorry about your friend,” Sardolini said. Rodi nodded, his lips trembling. As he struggled to rein in his sorrow, Sardolini patted him on the back. He felt pity for the boy, but had no time for handholding. He told him, “You must brace yourself for more bad news. Do you remember the letter I slipped into your hands a few days ago? It ended up in Donato Buonomano's pocket.”

Astonished, Rodi stared at him. “But how did he get it?”

“From your mailbag—most likely. Did you leave him alone with it?”

Rodi was still shaking his head when he cried out, “That sneaky bastard. We stopped to eat and afterwards I fell asleep. I was only out for a few minutes.”

“That was all the time he needed. Apparently, he's working for Prefetto Balbi.”

The color ebbed from Rodi's face. “What was in the letter,
signore
? Anything incriminating?”

“If he reads between the lines.” Sardolini frowned. Apparently, Donato had done exactly that—which explained why he wanted Sardolini's blood. His heart thumped painfully.

Miserable, Rodi slid his fingers through his curls. “But he's got nothing on Isolina. She's safe, isn't she,
signore
?”

“Who knows?”

“Maybe he'll leave me alone too. He can't pin anything on me, really. And the priest got the police to back off.”

“For how long? Surely, you can see that you're both in a very dangerous situation. The
fascisti
won't be content with just one death. You should get out of here while you can. What documents do you have?”

“A passport.”

“You'll need the travel permit. Hopefully, Faustino can pull some strings and get it to you very soon.”

“But what about Isolina? I can't leave her behind.”

Sardolini was losing patience. “We already talked about it. She'll do whatever is best for you. She can meet up with you in Sicily or Spain or America. But you need to leave as soon as you can. If you don't, I guarantee you'll die regretting it.”

Rodi mumbled, “How much blood do they want? They already have Manfredo's.”

Sardolini grasped Rodi's shoulders. “This isn't easy for any of us, but you don't want to end up like Manfredo, do you? Now go before someone finds you here.”

As Rodi lifted the mail sack, he paused and said, “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a telegram.

Sardolini ripped it open, scanned the message from his brother Sam in Boston, and grinned. “Do you know what this means?” he cried, waving the telegram at Rodi. “The Americans know the truth. They know Il Duce was the driver.”

“How,
signore
?” Rodi said.

“I have no idea. It doesn't matter. You need to send a message. I want you to commit it to memory. We can't take any chances. And it's very important that you send it tonight. Will you do it?”

Rodi nodded. “All right,” he said, but a look of adolescent sullenness lingered on his face.

“You're going to wire Carlo Tresca in New York City. He edits the anti-Fascist newspaper
Il Martello
. The message reads—
THE ITALIAN RESISTANCE CONFIRMS REPORT OF MUSSOLINI HIT AND RUN MURDER IN SEPTEMBER 1932 IN MONTEBELLO ITALY. SOFIA BUONOMANO AGE 4 DAUGHTER OF DONATO AND LUCIA KILLED
—Do you have that?”

“Of course,
signore
.”

“Good. Now go.”

When Lucia was busy ironing and the children were doing homework, Donato circled back to the dress shop. Raising the lantern, he swept the light over the floor and walls, passing over the pictures of the movie stars.
Oca
! She hadn't taken them down. In fact, she had added more, including ones of Signora Mussolini and her children.

In the flickering lantern light, shadows towered around him. When he bumped against Lucia's chair, something swayed and hit his shoulder before crashing to the floor. He jumped back in fright and raised the lantern, convinced for a moment that it was Isolina, but to his relief and embarrassment, it was just the mannequin.

Feeling foolish, he took a deep breath and kept moving towards the safe, partially concealed under a fringed cloth and potted plant. Squatting in front of the dials, he twisted them to the left, right, and left and swung the door open. Lifting out the cash box, he flipped open the lid and stared at the pile of bills, his heart pounding. He nearly held his breath as he counted. Six hundred thousand
lire
. Where the hell did she get it? Then again, who cared how she got it? Being she had so much, she wouldn't notice if he took some. Besides, it was only right she share the profits with him. After all, his father had started the business, he had expanded it, and Lucia had worked for him while he was away in America. In fact, if it weren't for him, she'd have no shop at all.

He slipped a few bills into his pocket, returned the rest to the cash box, and locked the safe. It killed him to send Iggy the money, but he had no choice. Perhaps that lazy bastard was telling him the truth or maybe he was trying to squeeze every penny out of him, but, in any event, he had to make sure Iggy didn't go to the police. That left him with one option—to pay up. He'd send half—and Iggy had better be happy with it.

He was in luck. A light was still flickering in the telegraph office, but Bombolini wasn't sitting behind the desk as he had hoped. Instead, Rodi was hunched over the telegraph keys in the tiny office with two desks, a trashcan, a stove, a wall calendar, and not much else. “Shit
,
” he muttered. He didn't want the boy to know his business, but he couldn't delay any longer.

When he strode through the door, Rodi was transmitting a message. One dash. One dot. One dash. It had been years since Donato used the code, but he had never forgotten it. It was as plain to him as music. One dash. One dot. One dash. K. Two dots. I. One dot. One dash. Two dots. L. One dot. One dash. Two dots. L. One dot. E. One dash. Two dots. D.

Killed.

Suspicious, Donato jingled the change in his pockets as Rodi signed off, stretched, and cracked his knuckles. “Where's Bombolini?” Donato asked, feigning casualness.

“At home sleeping. I'm helping him out tonight. Bombolini told me he's going to teach Charlie the code so we can both work for him. He said he's going to talk to you about it.”

Pleased, Donato nodded. “Charlie's quick. He'll learn fast. But he's not going to work for nothing.”

Rodi laughed. “Why not? I do.” A moment later, his smile faded. “I'm sorry about taking a swing at you the other day.”

“Well, we all make mistakes,” Donato said, feeling generous. “Now's your chance to make it up to me. I need to wire some money to my cousin in Boston. The poor bastard can't pay his rent.”

“Sure, uncle. It's nice of you to help him out.”

He shrugged. “Blood is blood, you know.”

Rodi ripped off the top page of his ledger, crumpled it up, and started a new entry. “What's your message?”

As Donato told him, he leaned over Rodi's desk, his hands covering the wad of paper. Tightening his fingers, he closed his fist around it. On his way out the door, he stuffed the note into his pocket. After Lucia and the children fell asleep, he smoothed out the paper at the kitchen table and rubbed a pencil over it. Soon, the imprint of the handwritten message emerged from the crumpled paper. His hands shook when he realized the telegram was addressed to Carlo Tresca in New York City.
Oca
! That socialist rabble-rouser and rabid anti-Fascist was a thorn in Mussolini's side, and his too—thanks to Rodi—that wolf in lamb's clothing.

He slammed his hat on his head and dashed out the door.