Bernardo ate an early dinner with Mamma.
She served pasta with tomato sauce, then pork. Later she would bring cheese. Bernardo consumed his food at a steady pace, but his plate was overloaded. Age and lack of exercise had curbed his appetite. He had downed only half of the pasta, and now he struggled with the pork. She ate little, had never eaten much, and had never cooked well. She was unimaginative with what she prepared, which was the prime reason why Giulietta joined them infrequently at the table. She often had meals at Teresa’s, or went to Siderno where there was a lawyer with whom she did business. She’d eat with him twice a week, or take a sandwich to her office. He didn’t need to eat out of politeness for his wife’s efforts. If he didn’t like what she had made, he would push it away. He didn’t eat that late afternoon because a new worry had begun to nag at him.
As Giulietta had worked on her computer, two development possibilities had caught her attention – apartments and a club-house on the extreme southern sliver of land where Croatia met Serbia, and a similar site on the Bulgarian coast north-east of Varna, near to the border with Romania. He might need to invest up to five million euros, and couldn’t make such a decision without her advice. It would be good when Marcantonio came back to live with them. Then he could rest, knowing his back was protected.
The nagging worry was about protection. The decision on the priest, his long-time friend Father Demetrio, had been taken. When his mind was made up on such a matter, he did not change it. It was as if a door had closed. The method of the accident would be resolved. After the priest, who posed the next threat? Who, outside the close blood links of the family, could wound him?
He had known Stefano since his driver was a baby and he himself was ten. Stefano had been at his side as punch-bag, servant, driver and keeper of secrets. Stefano had carried the child, dead, cold and stiff, head lolling – out of the cave, into the daylight and up the hill. He had searched out a place for the grave and dug it. He had wrapped a towel around the body, than had covered it with the soil. Bernardo had been unable to watch – too difficult. The worst part was when the priest had said the prayers two days later, and they had scrambled down the hill afterwards without a backward glance. He had studied Stefano’s face, expecting to see moisture in the eyes – nothing. Months later, the money had come. It had been on the old oak table in the kitchen and it had taken most of an afternoon to count it. It had stayed that night in the bag under the big bed. The family had not looked back from the day it had been invested and the first shipment had come through.
He wondered now from which man came the greater threat: from the priest or his driver, who brought food to the house, cleared the fires, was always at the kitchen door and knew the entry mechanism for the bunker. Bernardo had killed men and had brought into Europe vast quantities of narcotics. He had bought and sold firearms, and had traded in juveniles, who went to the brothels of northern Europe or Spain. He had cheated the government, and the taxpayers of the European Union. All of this, yet it was only the child that lingered with him.
Now he considered Stefano to be a threat. Headlights flared through the front windows, pierced an open door and briefly lit the table. He heard the chugging engine of the City-Van. Bernardo could not live beside a threat.
Doors slammed. The dogs bounded to the back of the kitchen, the utility area where they slept, and scratched at the outer door. His grandson had returned. Marcantonio nodded to him, kissed his grandmother, then went to the fridge for a beer. Stefano was in the doorway, calm and impassive. He might be a threat. Bernardo was alone. He doubted he had a friend in the world.
It had been a huge decision. Father Demetrio rarely shocked himself, but had done so that afternoon. He was at the funeral.