Death Brings Gold. Nicola Rocca

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      He smiled again and pushed the door knocker of the house. Of his house.

      He left the door open, allowing the light from outside to illuminate the hall of his flat, so he could find the lamp that sat on the small writing desk. An opaque, almost timid light lit up that corner of the living room.

      Raffaele closed the door behind him and locked it with two turns. He took a deep breath. Finally at home.

      He caught a glimpse of something in the semi-darkness of the living room area, which made him jump, and hit the wall behind him. Suddenly his hangover seemed to have disappeared. It happened in a fraction of a second and now he felt as if he hadn’t drunk any whiskey at all.

      â€œI’ve been waiting a long time for you, Ghezzi,” said the dark figure sitting in the armchair.

      Raffaele felt like he was going to faint, his legs were shaking. He tried to overcome his terror.

      â€œWho are you?”

      He realised he’d used an “I’m-crapping-my-pants” tone of voice. Whoever that person sitting in his armchair was, he could read on Ghezzi’s face all the fear that a man can feel in that situation.

      The silhouette moved, causing a light swish. The voice seemed to reach out from the darkness.

      â€œIt doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that I’m back”.

      Raffaele didn’t know why that person was there, sitting in an armchair in his house. But one thing was clear. Certainly this person didn’t have good intentions. And had come for him.

      CHAPTER 4

      He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been such a cold day.

      After starting the car, he’d spent almost ten minutes scraping the layer of ice from the windscreen. He had done it with his bare hands, because he couldn’t remember where the hell he had put the ice scraper. It had lived in the glove box the whole summer and every time he’d opened the compartment to retrieve something, the ice scraper had always been in the way. Then one day, tired of having to toss it around from side to side, he’d removed and put it…

      Nothing, he couldn’t remember where in hell he’d stuck it.

      And now, even after driving for fifteen minutes, he was still feeling a shooting pain in his hands caused by the ice. He was driving slightly bent forward, so he could breathe on his hands as they clutched the wheel. From time to time, he tried to drive with one hand, vigorously rubbing the other hand on his trousers in an attempt to warm it.

      Giovanni Belmondo turned left and drove until he found a parking space right in front of the block of flats where his work colleague lived. He parked his Passat between two small, old cars and felt like a middle-class Italian. That thought managed to get a smile out of him, in spite of the terrible throbbing in his fingertips. He put his hands together in a prayer position. Then he began rubbing them vigorously against each other. The heat the exercise produced was minor, but enough to give him the relief he needed. He recovered his iPhone from the glove box and skimmed through his Contacts List.

      When he saw the name Raffaele Ghezzi Cell, he swiped the screen with his index finger and made the call. He waited until he heard it ring, then he hung up. As he did every time that, for one reason or another, he’d go pick his friend up to give him a lift to work or go to a pub and watch Champions League matches together.

      That morning, five minutes had already passed but Ghezzi still had not appeared.

      â€œDickhead,” he said, looking at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was 8:32 am.

      According to workplace rules, at five to nine they should all be sitting in front of their PC’s. Mazzucotelli, their boss, was very strict. He said that you can tell a good employee by their punctuality.

      Pffft… by their punctuality…

      Due to a kind of superstitious bent-, he waited the full minute until the clock showed the thirty-third minute before calling Ghezzi again.

      This time he let it ring twice, three time, four times, five, six …

      â€œYou’ve reached the voicemail of 338…”

      He hung up, grumbling.

      â€œI’ll bet this idiot is going to make us both late.”

      For a moment he regretted having offered the lift. He cursed his colleague, his car that was with the mechanic and the mechanic himself. With all the money mechanics charge for a simple vehicle inspection, he mused, the price should include the risk of being insulted without reason.

      He tried making yet another call, but after six rings, it went to voicemail again.

      â€œFuck,” he cursed, realising that his annoyance had even made him forget about his throbbing hands.

      He browsed through his Contacts again until he found his colleague’s landline number. He pressed the Call button.

      After it rang and rang endlessly, hearing at last the click of a receiver being picked up suggested to him that someone had answered.

      â€œHi…”

      He recognised the voice as belonging to that great piece of ass, Martina.

       “… you’ve reached our voice message. The Ghezzi’s are not at home at the moment. If it’s urgent, please leave a…”

      â€œFuck off,” snapped Giovanni, after he hung up.

      He felt stupid for mistaking Martina-answering machine’s voice for the flesh and blood Martina.

      For a moment he even doubted he was supposed to pick Raffaele up that day.

      He scrolled down the list of text messages until he found the conversation with the dickhead. Raffaele’s last message dated back to 9:03 pm of the day before.

      Could you pick me up tomorrow as well? Thank you. Raf

      He’d sent a reply two minutes later.

      Ok. Good night.

      He stood and gazed at the screen on his mobile phone. He hadn’t make a mistake, not at all. Raffaele himself had asked for the lift.

      â€œDickhead,” he said to a colleague that couldn’t hear him. “Probably still sleeping.”

      He was about to put the car into gear and start driving, but something inside him – something that he couldn’t explain – told him that it wasn’t the right thing to do.

      â€œDammit!” he cursed, banging the wheel with his fist.

      He stopped СКАЧАТЬ