Page 31 of The Broker

Usually, when I need to run a background check on someone, I ask Valentina. But I can’t go to her this time—for obvious reasons—so I bite the bullet and Bruno Trevisani.

Trevisani is a sleaze and a dirtbag, and I hate dealing with him. But he’s a cop, so he has access to an assortment of databases.

He picks up on the first ring. “Colonna. It’s been a while. How are things?”

“Fine,” I say tersely. I’m not here to make small talk. “I need a detailed background check on someone. A Neil Smith. I don’t have his codice fiscale, but he’s a friend of Franco Roberti, who works at Studio Tardino Comi.”

“It won’t be easy,” the cop says. This is his standard answer, the opening salvo in a bargaining session.

“Two thousand euros. I need it by Saturday.”

Two thousand for a background check is generous, normally enough to ensure Trevisani’s cooperation. But not today. “I can’t do that,” he says, sounding genuinely regretful. “I think the chief of police is watching me. It’ll take me two weeks, minimum.”

Damn it. “Do what you can,” I grind out. “Call me as soon as you have something.”

While we’re headquartered in Venice, our territory extends past the island. We control a swath of Northern Italy, including Padua, Verona, and Brescia. Ever since the Russians were spotted in Bergamo, I’ve been visiting these towns, reminding the people in charge where their allegiances should lie.

Today’s meeting in Brescia is with Massimo Rinaldi. Signor Rinaldi is eighty-three and runs his city with an iron fist. He meets me in an osteria around the corner from his house. “Dante,” he booms, kissing me on both cheeks. “What brings the Broker to my town? Sit, sit. Luigi, wine. Bring the Barolo, the good bottle.” He turns to me. “At my age, you don’t save the wine. You drink it.”

“You’ll outlive us all.”

Luigi shows up with the bottle of Barolo and pours it into two glasses. I wait until Massimo takes a sip, then broach the topic at hand. “The Russians approached the padrino. They want to do business in Venice.”

“What kind of business?”

“Gun smuggling. The guns would be shipped from Croatia into Venice, then follow an overland route to France. The padrino turned them down.”

“Of course,” Massimo replies. “The boy is many things, but he’s not an idiot.”

The boy. I have to work at keeping my expression neutral. I wish Antonio were here. I would pay serious money to see the look on his face.

“I’m here to suggest that if the Russians approach you directly, you decline. They will offer you a lot of money.” I take a sip of my wine and hold his gaze. “It would be a shame if you took it.”

Massimo is no fool; he hears the threat in my voice. But it slides off his back like water off a duck. “I would not take it,” he says. “I don’t want more money, Colonna. I’m eighty-three. I like my life. My only granddaughter is getting married in the summer. I want to live to see her children. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Luigi sets a platter of crostini in front of us. Massimo considers the plate and selects one topped with mortadella. “You won’t get any trouble in Verona, Parma, and Piacenza. It’s Bergamo you need to keep an eye on.”

How does Massimo know the Russians approached Salvatore? That isn’t public knowledge; it’s a carefully guarded secret. “Salvatore Verratti?”

“No, no. Well, maybe the boy would deal with the Russians, but I was talking about the father, Federico. Federico would murder his own mother if he thought he could make a few euros from it.” He shakes his head. “The man’s a butcher. The affair with that girl. . .”

“What girl?”

“This was before your time. Thirty years ago, maybe forty? Federico cheated on his wife with their au pair, a student from England. The fool got her pregnant.” His face has an expression of distaste. “His father-in-law, Elisabetta’s father, was the padrino. Federico knew there’d be trouble if his wife found out.”

The story’s obviously troubling Massimo. He drains his glass of wine, and I refill it. “There are ways to handle these things. She wasn’t planning on making trouble, that girl. She was nineteen, for fuck’s sake. She shouldn’t have gotten involved with Federico, but at least she was smart enough to flee when she found out she was pregnant.”

“And then?” I prompt.

“It wasn’t enough for Federico that she wasn’t in the country any longer. He couldn’t take the risk that Elisabetta would find out, so he sent someone after her. Had her killed in her home, stabbed to death. Butcher.”

Ten years ago, Valentina almost lost her baby. The Carabinieri were asking questions about her attack. If I hadn’t killed Roberto, would he have gone back to the hospital to finish the job? Would he have murdered her in cold blood? He might have. Or maybe that’s what I want to believe to soothe my conscience.

“Was it before or after she gave birth? What happened to the child?”

“I don’t know,” Massimo replies. “I wouldn’t have put it past Federico Verratti to order a pregnant woman murdered, and I wouldn’t put it past him to kill a defenseless baby.” He shudders. “They told me she was stabbed eight times. It haunted my nightmares for weeks.”

This coming from the Butcher of Brescia. I make a mental note to hunt down the details. Something tells me it might be important.

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