Breathing Room

“I thought my picnic was too girly for you.”

“Hunger’s put me in touch with my feminine side. Sexual frustration, on the other hand, has put me in touch with my killer instincts. Tell me you didn’t forget the wine.”

“It’s a stakeout, you pansy, not a cocktail party. Go use those binoculars while I put out the food.”

For once he didn’t argue, and while he kept watch, she unpacked her purchases from the morning. She’d bought sandwiches with wafer-thin slices of prosciutto set between rounds of freshly baked focaccia. The salad was made of ripe tomatoes, fresh basil, and farro, a barleylike grain that frequently appeared in Tuscan cuisine. She set it all on a shady section of wall that provided a view of the farmhouse, then added a bottle of mineral water and the remaining pears.

They both seemed to realize that they couldn’t endure any more verbal foreplay, so they talked about food and books while they ate-everything but sex. Ren was intelligent, amusing, and better informed than she on a variety of subjects.

She’d just reached for one of the pears when he grabbed his binoculars. “Looks like the party’s finally started.”

She found her opera glasses and watched as the garden and olive grove gradually filled with people. Massimo and Giancarlo appeared first, along with a man she recognized as Giancarlo’s brother Bernardo, who was the local poliziotto, or policeman. Anna took her place at the top of the wall with Marta and several other middle-aged women. All of them began to direct the activity of the younger people as they arrived. Isabel recognized the pretty redhead she’d bought flowers from yesterday, the good-looking young man who worked in the Foto shop, and the butcher.

“Look who else is putting in an appearance.”

She turned her opera glasses in the direction of Ren’s binoculars and saw Vittorio enter the garden with Giulia. They joined a group that had begun taking apart the wall, stone by stone. “I shouldn’t be disappointed in them,” she said, “but I am.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Marta shooed one of the younger men away from her roses.

“I wonder what they’re looking for? And why did they have to wait until I moved in to try to find it?”

“Maybe they didn’t know it was lost until then.” He set aside the binoculars and began stuffing their trash into the bags. “I think it’s time to play a little hardball.”

“You’re not allowed to use anything with a blade or trigger.”

“Only as a last resort.”

He kept his hand on her arm to steady her as they made their way down the trail to the car. It took only a moment to toss everything inside and set off. He pushed the Panda hard. “We’re making a sneak attack,” he said as he circled Casalleone instead of taking the most direct route through town. “Everybody in Italy has a cell phone, and I don’t want anyone at the farmhouse tipped off that we’re heading back.”

They abandoned the car on a side road not far from the villa and approached through the woods. He picked a leaf from her hair as they stepped out into the olive grove and walked toward the house.

Anna was the first to spot them. She set down the water pitchers she’d been carrying. Someone turned off a radio that had been playing pop music. Gradually the buzz of conversation stopped, and the crowd shifted. Giulia stepped to Vittorio’s side and slipped her hand into his. Bernardo, dressed in his poliziotto uniform, stood beside his brother Giancarlo.

Ren stopped at the edge of the grove, surveyed the mess, then surveyed the crowd. He’d never looked more like a natural-born killer, and everyone got the message.

Isabel stepped back so he had plenty of room to work.

He took his time, letting his actor’s eyes move from one face to the next, playing the bad guy as only he knew how. When the silence grew unbearable, he finally spoke. In Italian.

She should have realized that this conversation wouldn’t be in English, but she hadn’t thought about it, and she was so frustrated she wanted to scream.

When he stopped, they all began to respond. It was like watching an army of hyperactive symphony conductors. Gestures toward the heavens, the earth, toward heads and breastbones. Loud outbursts, shrugs, eye- rolling. She hated not knowing what they were saying.

“English,” she hissed, but he was too busy sandblasting Anna to pay attention. The housekeeper moved to the front of the crowd, where she responded to him with all the drama of a diva performing a tragic aria.

He finally cut her off and said something to the crowd. When he was done, they began to disperse, muttering to one another.

“What are they saying?” she demanded.

“More nonsense about the well.”

“Find their weak point.”

“I already have.” He stepped farther into the garden. “Giulia, Vittorio, you’re not going anywhere.”

14

Vittorio and Giulia glanced uncomfortably at each other, then moved reluctantly back into the garden. Anna and Marta disappeared, leaving only the four of them. Ren bore in for the kill.

“I want to know what’s happening on my property. And don’t insult me with any more crap about water problems.”

Vittorio looked so uneasy that Isabel almost felt sorry for him. “It’s very complicated,” he said.

“Simplify it so we can understand,” Ren drawled.

Vittorio and Giulia gazed at each other. A trace of stubbornness appeared in her jaw. “We have to tell them, Vittorio.”

“No,” he said. “Go to the car.”

“You go to the car!” Giulia’s hands flew. “You and your friends haven’t been able to do this. Now it is my turn.”

“Giulia…” His voice sounded a warning note, but she ignored it.

“This-this goes back to… Paolo Baglio, Marta’s brother,” she said in a rush.

“No more!” Vittorio had the helpless expression of a man who knew he was looking at disaster but couldn’t figure out how to stop it.

Giulia pushed past him and faced Ren. “He was-he was the local… representative. For… the Family.”

“The Mafia.” Ren sat on the wall, much too comfortable with the subject of organized crime. Vittorio turned away as if his wife’s words were too painful for him to hear.

Giulia seemed to be trying to decide how much to tell them. “Paolo was… he was responsible for making sure our local businesspeople did not meet with misfortune. You know what I mean by this? That a shopkeeper’s windows were not broken at night or that the florist’s delivery truck did not disappear.”

“Protection money,” Ren said.

“Whatever name you wish to give it.” She twisted her hands in front of her. They were small and delicate, with a wedding band on one finger and smaller rings on the others. “We are only a country village, but everyone understood how this worked, and the businesspeople paid Paolo the first day of each month. Because of this, windows were not broken, the florist made his deliveries, and there was never any trouble.” She turned her wedding band. “Then Paolo had a heart attack and died.”

She bit her lip. “At first everything was fine-except for Marta, who missed him very much. But right before you arrived, Isabel, some men came to town. Not nice men. Men from Naples.” Her lips pursed, as if she’d tasted something sour. “They-they found our mayor and… it is too horrible. But when they were done, we understood that Paolo had been very foolish. He had lied to them about how much money he had collected, and then he had hidden away millions of old-fashioned lire for himself.” She pulled in a deep breath. “They have given us a month to find the money and turn it over. And if we don’t…”

Her words trailed off, and Vittorio came forward. Now that Giulia had begun, he seemed resigned to finishing the story. “Marta is certain Paolo hid the money somewhere near the house. We know he didn’t spend it, and Marta