Murder at Vigna D'Oro E-Book

Camilla Trinchieri

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Tuscan Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 486

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

The follow-up to Murder in Chianti finds ex-NYPD detective Nico Doyle recruited by Italian authorities to investigate the murder of a prominent wine critic. One year after moving to his late wife's Tuscan hometown of Gravigna, ex-NYPD detective Nico Doyle has fully settled into Italian country life, helping to serve and test recipes at his in-laws' restaurant. But the town is shaken by the arrival of wine critic Michele Mantelli in his flashy Jaguar. Mantelli holds his influential culinary magazine and blog over Gravigna's vintners and restaurateurs. Some of Gravigna's residents are impressed by his reputation, while others are enraged-especially Nico's landlord, whose vineyards Mantelli seems intent of ruining. Needless to say, Mantelli's lavish, larger-than-life, and often vindictive personality has made him many enemies, and when he is poisoned, the local maresciallo, Perillo, has a headache of a high-profile murder on his hands-and once again turns to Nico for help. First published as The Bitter Taste of Murder.

Leseprobe

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MURDER AT VIGNA D’ORO

Camilla Trinchieri

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CONTENTS

TITLE PAGECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENACKNOWLEDGMENTSABOUT THE AUTHORBY CAMILLA TRINCHIERICOPYRIGHT4

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GRAVIGNA, A SMALL TOWN IN THE CHIANTI HILLS OF TUSCANY

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CHAPTER ONE

A Tuesday in June, 7.50 a.m.

Ex-homicide detective Nico Doyle parked his red Fiat 500 under a cloudless sky that promised another hot day and followed his dog across the deserted main piazza. It was too early in the day for tourists. The tables and chairs outside Trattoria da Gino wouldn’t be set up for another two hours. The benches where the four pensioners sat daily to exchange their news were empty. In the far corner, Bar All’Angolo, open since 6 a.m., would offer him breakfast.

OneWag rushed into the café through the open door, nose immediately canvassing the floor. Nico followed, scanning the tables. There were only a few customers. Last week at this hour, he had found the place full of students chattering with mouths full of cornetti, their colourful backpacks getting in everyone’s way. School had since ended, and they were now having breakfast at home. The few locals who didn’t have to travel far for work were standing at the bar 8counter with espresso cups in their hands, talking among themselves.

Sandro, one of the café’s two owners, was manning the cash register as always. He looked up.

‘Ciao, Nico.’

Some locals turned to nod their hellos.

‘Salve,’ Nico replied to all. He walked to the cash register. ‘How goes it?’

‘So far the morning is good,’ Sandro replied with a smile. He was a good-looking, lanky man somewhere in his mid-forties with a small gold stud shining in one ear. ‘It’s still cool enough, but get your fan out. We’re going to fry today.’

‘I’ve been trying to convince him to air-condition the place,’ his husband Jimmy said. Jimmy’s job was to work the huge, very hot stainless-steel espresso machine at the far end of the bar and the oven that baked the most delicious cornetti this side of Florence.

Sandro shook his head. ‘Costs too much. Besides, it’s bad for you. Freezes your guts like that ice water Americans like.’

Jimmy shrugged and turned to start Nico’s Americano. There was no need to order, as Nico always had the same thing. While Nico paid Sandro, OneWag’s nails clicked back and forth over the tiles, his snout a periscope sweeping left and right. The café floor was usually scattered with sugar-laced crumbs. After two rounds across the room, the dog sat and barked a protest.

‘Sorry, Rocco,’ Sandro said. ‘I swept. I didn’t want those floppy ears of yours to get dirty.’ The Italians called Nico’s dog Rocco. They claimed OneWag was too hard to pronounce and that an Italian dog should have an Italian name. The dog wisely answered to both with his signature 9one wag, which usually brought good things. In this case, a day-old cornetto tossed by Sandro and caught on the fly.

‘Bravo!’ Sandro clapped.

‘No more, please,’ Nico said. The morning the small stray had led him to a murdered man, he’d been a skinny, dirty runt. Nine months later, his long white and orange coat was clean and fluffy, and his stomach looked as if it held a full litter.

Nico walked over to his usual table by the open French doors and sat down, as he had nearly every day since he’d moved to his late wife Rita’s hometown of Gravigna a year ago. In that time, he had slowly made new friends. Gogol was the first, a man who lived in a reality all his own. A good man with an incredible memory. Gogol’s ability to quote every stanza of Dante’s Divine Comedy was what had first attracted Nico to him. Having breakfast with him became another part of this morning routine.

The old man stood by the door, wrapped in his strong cologne and the overcoat he wore in winter and summer. It had first earnt him the nickname of Gogol, after the Russian writer whose most famous story was titled ‘The Overcoat.’ His face was a maze of wrinkles, his long hair clean and brushed. The old-age home where he lived took good care of him. His coat had been recently mended. ‘Another day to live through, amico,’ he said to Nico.

‘Let’s live it well, Gogol.’ Nico stood up and held out a chair. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

Gogol shuffled to the table and took the chair closest to the open door, minimizing the effect of his cologne. He held up the two crostini he’d got from the butcher around the corner. ‘Our friend made them for me especially. A man 10with a noble heart.’ Gogol placed the two squares of bread carefully at the centre of the table. ‘“It pleases me, whatever pleases you.”’

‘Paradiso.’

Gogol coughed a laugh. ‘Inferno, amico.’

Trying to guess which section of the Divina Commedia the quotes came from was a new game Gogol had suggested, hoping Nico would study the poetry. Back in the Bronx, Nico had once had his ears filled with Dante by his wife, who also loved quoting the Tuscan poet. He found old Italian too difficult; it reminded him of struggling through Chaucer in high school. Modern Italian he could handle pretty well, thanks to Rita’s lessons and Berlitz.

Nico took the salame crostino, knowing Gogol liked the lard best. He rarely guessed the quote. ‘It sounded too nice for Inferno.’

Gogol bit into his lard crostino, swallowed quickly and said, ‘I begin to abandon hope of you ever climbing the slope. Also from Inferno. My adaptation for this occasion.’

‘Why abandon hope on such a beautiful day?’ asked a voice with a Neapolitan accent.

Nico turned around. Maresciallo Salvatore Perillo stood outside the open French doors, chatting with a group of cyclists about to take off for the steep hills of Chianti. Perillo had been one of them until last year, having even won a few races. He was a short, stocky man with shiny black hair beginning to grey at the temples, a chiselled handsome face with large, dark liquid eyes, thick lips and an aquiline nose. He was out of uniform as usual, wearing jeans, a perfectly pressed blue linen shirt and, despite the heat, his beloved leather jacket flung over his shoulder.11

Nico smiled, glad to see the man who had become a good friend since involving Nico in a murder investigation last September. They hadn’t seen each other or talked in the last week. The maresciallo’s carabinieri station was in Greve, nineteen kilometres away.

Nico pushed back a chair. ‘Join us.’

Perillo stepped into the café, looked at Gogol hunched over the table and hesitated. ‘Gogol, am I welcome?’

Gogol grinned, showing his brown teeth. ‘You were Nico’s Virgil through last year’s journey into hell, or perhaps he was yours. Whichever it is, friends of Nico are welcome today. Tomorrow perhaps not.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ Perillo sat down next to Nico. Gogol made him uncomfortable. His overpowering cologne didn’t help. The man was crazy, mentally disabled or putting on an act to get attention. Perillo eased his discomfort by bending down to pet Rocco, who was sniffing his suede ankle boots.

Sandro brought over two Americani and two whole wheat cornetti straight out of the oven, a Bar All’Angolo specialty. ‘Espresso for you, Salvatore?’

Perillo raised two fingers, then a thumb for his double espresso to be corrected with grappa. The inclusion of grappa meant things weren’t going well with the maresciallo.

‘That bad?’ Nico asked before biting into his cornetto. The salame crostino, he pushed Gogol’s way. The old man always ended up eating both.

‘I will happily tell you.’ Perillo looked in Jimmy’s direction, eager for his espresso. ‘No murders, may God be praised.’

Sandro hurried over with the double espresso. Perillo 12thanked him and emptied the cup with one swallow. ‘Yesterday, Signor Michele Mantelli drove into Greve, found that the parking spots in Piazza Matteoti were occupied, parked his Jaguar in the middle of piazza, locked it and went off to lunch. In the centre of the town! Can you believe it? There’s perfectly good parking nearby. Of course, one of my men called the car removal service. What followed was Mantelli stomping into the station preceded by a hailstorm of insults directed at me. It was clear I had no brains, I didn’t know who he was, headquarters in Florence would hear about this, I would be demoted and so on. You would not believe the fury of the man.’

‘Who is he?’ Nico asked.

‘A ball breaker. Michele Mantelli is considered a famous critic of Italian wines, said to have the power to make or ruin a new vintage. He runs a very successful biannual magazine called Vino Veritas, written in Italian and English and distributed globally. Also a blog, which he posts to monthly for thousands of readers. The pied piper and his rats, I say. If they only knew he was the head rat.’

‘I’m sorry he’s got to you. Where’s he from?’

‘Milan, but he has an old villa in Montefioralle.’

‘Words aren’t necessary,’ Gogol said. ‘The face shows the colour of the heart.’

‘Well said, Gogol. My wife considers him very handsome.’ Perillo sniffed. ‘I suspect he’s also a smooth talker when not shouting insults.’

‘I haven’t seen Ivana since last year’s barbecue. How is she?’ Nico asked.

‘She’s fine. She was in the piazza getting bread.’

Gogol chuckled to himself. ‘“The eyes of Ivana were all 13intent on him.” A very bad adaptation of Paradiso, canto one. Amusing nonetheless.’

Perillo didn’t look amused. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

‘Refreshed?’ Nico asked after a minute of silence had gone by.

‘It’s a drug,’ said Perillo.

‘The grappa or the coffee?’

‘Love is a drug,’ Gogol announced. Clasping his hands on the rim of the table, he slowly stood. ‘The only woman I love is my mother. “Watching her, I changed inside.” No point in guessing. Tomorrow, if I live.’ Gogol’s mother had died when he was just a boy.

Nico stood up. ‘Tomorrow. I’m counting on it.’

Gogol stepped through the open French doors, his powerful scent leaving with him.

‘That was abrupt,’ Perillo said.

‘I think Gogol knows he annoyed you with that quote about your wife.’

‘He didn’t, though.’ Perillo had mostly been annoyed at his wife’s comment about Mantelli. ‘That man is very pleasant to look at, don’t you think?’ she’d asked with a smile on her face. He’d answered her with a long kiss. Ah, yes, that reminded him of why he’d come to the café.

‘How are Aldo and Cinzia?’ Perillo asked.

Aldo Ferri, who owned the Ferriello vineyard, rented the small run-down stone farmhouse at the edge of his olive grove to Nico. ‘Fine. They invited me over for dinner last week. Spaghetti all’arrabbiata. Just as good as Cinzia’s carbonara.’ Nico bunched his fingers to his lips and released them with a kiss. ‘I convinced her to give me the recipe.’14

‘You can get a recipe for that from any cookbook.’

‘Maybe, but I’d use hers.’

‘Has there been any tension between Cinzia and Aldo?’ Gogol’s comment – Love is a drug – brought back the scene he had witnessed last night. Luckily, he hadn’t been seen. Perillo felt a sudden pang of remorse. Should he tell Nico? But maybe there was an explanation for what had happened. It would only be spreading malicious gossip.

‘Not that I’ve seen.’ Nico watched Perillo’s expression carefully. ‘Why are you asking about them?’

A couple walked in and ordered from Sandro in French-tinted Italian. Perillo heard laughter and turned to look at them. They were hugging, mussing up each other’s hair.

‘No reason. Just that I haven’t seen them around in some time.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the station. Say hello to Tilde and Enzo for me. Tell them not to work you too hard at the restaurant. Be well.’

Nico stood too. ‘I’m not working Thursday night. Any chance of dinner?’ It was clear his friend was holding something back. Maybe he was having problems with his wife? Getting out of the house for an evening might help. Besides, he missed Perillo’s company.

‘Maybe. If no one does anything stupid or cruel. I’ll let you know.’ Perillo walked over to the counter and paid Sandro for his corrected double espresso.

Nico waved goodbye to Sandro and Jimmy and, with OneWag running ahead, went to his car. Tuesday was laundry day, part of the routine he had set up for himself when he first moved to Gravigna. Back in the Bronx, he had made fun of Rita’s need to follow a routine that wavered only when she fell sick. At the beginning of his new Italian 15life, he’d found that maintaining a routine helped him find his footing. Now that he was fully settled, it was possible he kept it up out of laziness.

There was no need for OneWag to join Nico in the car. The dog had his routine down pat. Nico would find him waiting in the heart of the medieval part of town, at the aptly named laundromat ‘Sta A Te’, which meant, ‘It’s up to you.’

Two hours later, his freshly cleaned clothes neatly folded in the back seat of his car, Nico started his work for Tilde and Enzo. His first duty was to pick up the restaurant’s daily supply of bread from the grocer, Enrico. With the bread, Enrico gave him one of his coveted olive loaves and a ham bone. ‘The loaf is for you, the bone is for the little one. It’s too hot to use it for soup. Where is he?’

‘Thanks. He’s gone to visit Nelli at her studio. She spoils him.’ Nico reached for his wallet.

Enrico raised his hand in protest. He was a small man with a pale face and thinning hair. ‘Friends pay for two loaves – one, no. Bring Rocco the next time. He’s a good dog.’

‘He loves you.’

Enrico chuckled. ‘He loves my prosciutto. The best in the area, if I do say so myself.’

‘Agreed. See you later.’ Nico lifted the large paper sack and turned to go.

‘Watch out on the street. Some maniac zoomed past here a few minutes ago in his fancy car. Almost ran down one of my customers.’

‘I’ll be careful.’ Nico looked down the slope. Only a few people and a struggling cyclist were working their way up the steep hill.16

Hugging the bag of bread, Nico climbed the rest of the way. At the top, diagonal to the Santa Agnese church, stood Sotto Il Fico. A white Jaguar was parked in front, fully blocking the entrance.

Nico squeezed through the narrow space the car had left and called out, ‘Buongiorno.’

‘Nothing good about it,’ the restaurant’s owner grumbled. Elvira fanned herself with a large black lace fan she claimed was a gift from a Spanish admirer. The truth, according to Tilde, was that she’d bought it at the monthly flea market in Panzano.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Nico dropped the bread bag on one of the five indoor tables. He was used to her bad moods by now. ‘Is your arthritis acting up?’

She answered with a snort. A sixty-three-year-old widow with pitch-black dyed hair, a wrinkled face, a small pointed nose and pale blue eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, Elvira oversaw the goings-on of her restaurant from an old gilded armchair in the front room. Today she was wearing a blue and green housedress, which meant it was Tuesday. She had seven, one for each day of the week.

‘Where’s Enzo?’ Her son was in charge of managing the bar and the cash register and cutting the bread. Tilde, Enzo’s wife and Rita’s cousin, cooked the meals.

‘He’s on the terrace with that fraud who calls himself the world’s best wine critic!’

‘Michele Mantelli is here?’

‘Yes, he marched in not ten minutes ago. If he doesn’t remove his car in the next ten, I’m calling the carabinieri.’

‘He’s already had a run-in with them.’

‘Good. He can have another.’17

Nico leant towards the open door that led to the terrace. Mantelli was sitting in the shade of the huge fig tree that gave the restaurant its name and fame. All he could see was a crumpled white linen suit that matched a full head of long white hair. The man’s face was hidden by Enzo, who was hovering over him.

‘That man insisted on seeing our full wine list,’ Elvira said. ‘Enzo was just making me another espresso.’

‘I can make that for you, if you want,’ Nico offered. Enzo had taught him how to use the espresso machine behind the bar.

‘No, I’ll wait. Americans don’t have the touch. That fraud claims he can teach us which wines to sell. “I offer my expertise for free. I will mention you in my blog.” Enzo was beaming like a child being offered a yo-yo, showering him with thanks. Even offered him a free lunch!’

Tilde popped her head out of the kitchen. ‘A yo-yo won’t get you anywhere with a kid these days. You need an iPhone.’ Tilde liked to correct her mother-in-law whenever she could. Elvira, possessive of her son, was often unkind to her. ‘Mantelli is a revered wine critic and will give Enzo some good suggestions,’ Tilde went on.

‘Pfui. Enzo knows perfectly well what wines to offer. We taste each new vintage together and decide according to the price our clients can afford.’

This meant, Nico knew, that Elvira decided. He pulled out a chair and sat next to her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with hearing him out, is there?’ She was at times unpleasant, but he couldn’t help admiring her toughness. ‘And being mentioned in his blog has to be good for business, don’t you think?’18

Another snort in response. Elvira picked up the magazine on her lap and slipped on the glasses that hung from a chain on her neck. ‘I read from Vino Veritas: “The 2015 ColleVerde Riserva offers hints of fruit, spices, scorched earth, espresso beans and herbs.”’ She threw the magazine on the floor. ‘Scorched earth indeed! Who wants to taste spices or rosemary in their wine? Nonsense is what it is.’

Nico picked up the magazine.

‘Nico,’ Tilde called out. ‘You’re needed in the kitchen.’

‘Throw that in the trash,’ Elvira commanded as he made his way to the kitchen.

‘Coming.’ Nico took the magazine with him and, once out of sight, slipped it into his pocket.

Tilde was bent over the scarred marble counter, quickly shaping golf-ball-sized ground pork, egg, Parmigiano and ricotta meatballs in her hands. A long white apron covered her flowered dress. Her usual red cotton scarf enveloped thick chestnut brown hair.

Nico kissed one cheek. In Italy, it was usually both cheeks, but her other one was out of reach. ‘What can I do?’

‘Take over for Enzo. Mantelli has him in his grips, and I need Alba back here.’

Nico turned. Alba was wiping mushrooms clean at the other end of the counter. A sliced mushroom salad with apples and walnuts was one of the restaurants signature dishes. ‘Ciao, I didn’t see you there.’

‘I’ll kiss you later.’ Alba laughed. A pretty, round-faced woman in her early forties, she had never told Tilde her real name. She was Albanian, and so she said Alba was a logical choice. She also liked that the word meant ‘dawn’ in Italian. Coming here was for her the start of a new life. 19She’d fled the violence in Kosovo against ethnic Albanians and found her way to Gravigna. Her story was now a happy one. A good Italian man fell in love with her, and she with him. They married, and now she worked full-time at the restaurant, taking Stella, Tilde and Enzo’s daughter’s, place. She told everyone she met how blessed she felt.

Alba peered out the small window that looked out onto the terrace. ‘He’s very handsome.’

‘And arrogant.’ Tilde rolled the meatballs with light fingers on a plate filled with flour, then dropped them gently in a hot sauté pan coated with oil. Once they achieved a nice brown crust, they would end up cooking in tomato sauce for thirty minutes. Eaten on their own or surrounded by buttered farro, they were heavenly. ‘Please, Nico, go out there and set the tables. Listen to what Mantelli is saying. I don’t trust that man.’

‘You know him?’

‘Just met him. Let’s just say he gives me an odd feeling.’

‘Makes your nose itch?’

‘Something like that.’

Nico went back to the front room and filled a tray with plates, silverware and the clean cloth napkins Elvira folded every morning. She was now absorbed in a crossword puzzle in the Settimana Enigmistica. ‘Don’t let Enzo make that man any promises,’ she muttered as he passed by.

‘Of course,’ Nico said.

Mantelli was now sitting with Enzo at a corner table. Behind him under an overcast sky was the beautiful view of rows of vines spreading towards the horizon. In front of him was a half-empty glass of red wine and an open bottle. Enzo’s own glass was empty.20

Nico started setting the first table when he noticed a woman at the far end of the terrace fanning herself with a menu. He was struck by her beauty. She was dressed in tight white slacks and a spaghetti strap white top that hugged her torso. Long blonde hair in a thick ponytail hung over one tanned shoulder. Huge sunglasses crowned her head. She looked very young, twenty at most.

Mantelli noticed Nico staring and waved him over. ‘Never mind Loredana.’ His voice was surprisingly high and thin. ‘Come taste this excellent wine. Luca Verdini started his vineyard only ten years ago. Makes him a novice, but his 2015 and 2016 Riservas are jewels, and his regular wines are excellent. Verdini is getting a lot of attention these days, thanks to me. I spotted him first two years ago and wrote him up in my blog and Vino Veritas. You know it?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Nico said.

‘Ah, you’re American. Well, the Robert Parker people rated him a ninety-three. I give him a ninety-five. You must help me convince Enzo to stock it.’

Mantelli poured two fingers’ worth of the Riserva into Enzo’s empty glass.

Enzo took a sip, swished the wine in his mouth and swallowed. ‘It is excellent,’ Enzo said, ‘but his wines are too expensive. We’re not a three-Michelin-star restaurant. We serve simple food.’

‘Great wines will turn simple food into manna,’ Mantelli said. ‘Drinking great wines helps to better understand the land and its people. Besides, Verdini is eager to spread the word about his wines. I’m sure he’d be willing to give you a discount.’ The wine critic added a splash of wine to another glass on the table and held it out to Nico. ‘Please, try.’21

Nico took the glass and slowly rolled a sip around his tongue as he’d seen Enzo do. He felt like an idiot, but he didn’t want to look like a country bumpkin in front of this man. He swallowed. The wine burnt the back of his throat. Scorched earth indeed, not that he knew what that tasted like. ‘Excellent, thank you.’ He put the glass back down on the table. ‘I have to get back to work.’ Enzo shot him a glance. ‘I’ll need your help too,’ Nico said, guessing Enzo had had enough of being lectured to.

Mantelli stood up, shook down his trousers and readjusted his jacket. Underneath, he wore a blue and white striped T-shirt, the kind Venetian gondoliers favoured. A tanned hand brushed back thick wavy white hair that fell below his ears. He was tall, with wide shoulders and slender hips. A swimmer’s body. A face soaked by sun. A strong broad jaw, the straight nose Roman statues were known for, full lips, heavy black eyebrows that looked dyed, and black eyes to match. He was somewhere in his fifties, Nico thought. And yes, noticeably handsome.

‘I have work to do too,’ Mantelli said. ‘I think I’ve given you enough guidance for now. Thank you for your offer of lunch. I’ll take a rain check and leave the bottle, so you can enjoy the rest of the wine. You’ll get hooked and buy, I know you will. And I’ll see what I can do about a discount. Verdini owes me.’ He shook hands with Enzo. ‘Come, Loredana,’ Mantelli ordered without so much as a glance at her. He offered his hand to Nico, who shook it reluctantly.

‘Not a nice man,’ Nico said as Mantelli and Loredana disappeared into the front room.

‘Nice or not,’ Enzo said, ‘I’ll have to order at least two 22cases.’ He filled his glass with the expensive wine and took a long sip.

‘Because of his blog?’

‘He can give our restaurant a big boost.’

‘Doesn’t that feel a little like going along with blackmail?’

Enzo shrugged. ‘It’s business. He probably gets a cut from Verdini and some of the others he praises in his magazine. I’ll tell you one—’

Elvira’s voice interrupted Enzo. She was giving Mantelli a piece of her mind about the car.

‘You are correct, Signora,’ Mantelli answered in his high-pitched voice. ‘I am incorrigible, but please consider me a friend. Arrivederci.’

If Elvira replied, Nico and Enzo didn’t hear it.

Nico walked over to another table and set down the sheets of butcher paper the restaurant used for mats. ‘You were telling me something.’

Enzo finished his glass and slapped the cork back in the bottle. ‘Your landlord, Aldo, I guess he doesn’t play the game. Mantelli had some nasty things to say about Ferriello wines. “Totally overrated.” “Should be selling at half the price, if at all.” He said I should take Aldo’s wines off my list.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I trusted his judgment.’

Nico looked up in surprise. ‘Ferriello wines are very good.’

‘I agree. Don’t worry; I have no intention of dropping a single one of Aldo’s wines from my list.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘Give me the tray, Nico. I’ll finish setting the tables. I’m sure Tilde can use your help.’23

Nico handed over the tray and the mats. ‘Thanks. I have a food idea she might like.’

‘As long as it doesn’t cost too much.’

‘Bread covered with scamorza and pancetta, then broiled. Sound good?’

‘Yes, but Tilde’s the judge.’

‘It will keep people drinking.’

24

CHAPTER TWO

OneWag was busy smelling each of the flower pots Luciana displayed in front of her shop in the main piazza. Nico let him be, no longer worried that the dog would raise a leg.

A damp Luciana stood behind her work table and fanned her chest with the top of her dress. A small fan on the table blew hot air in her face. ‘We’ve reached thirty-seven degrees today. What is it in your temperature?’

‘Ninety-eight, according to my phone.’

‘My flowers are wilting. If this keeps up, my fat will melt.’ Luciana laughed. A large woman with smiling hazel eyes, she pushed back thick hennaed curls that reminded Nico of chrysanthemums.

‘What darlings of mine will you take from me today? The truck brought in some lovelies this morning. Most of them are in the refrigerator.’ She moved aside to let him see. ‘You always pick the ones I love best, but for Rita, they are yours.’25

‘I appreciate it.’

‘She was a wonderful woman.’ Luciana had befriended Rita during their visits back to Gravigna, visits they had made whenever they could afford them.

Nico scanned the offerings. So many flowers: roses, daisies, poppies. Most he couldn’t name. He found it difficult to choose flowers for Rita’s grave. He felt ashamed that when she was alive, he’d only bought her flowers on her birthday and their wedding anniversary. She had bought her own almost weekly, inexpensive ones from the nearby deli. He had taken little notice of them then. He wanted to please her now.

‘What do you think, Luciana? Roses or daisies?’

She pointed at a bright bunch of round-petaled flowers. ‘Anemones for Rita. She always dressed in lots of colour.’ Luciana favoured black.

‘A big bouquet of anemones, then.’ As Nico reached for his wallet, OneWag lifted his head. Two seconds later, he took off. A car sped by. Nico rushed out the door, a yelp of pain already sounding in his imagination. His eyes caught the tail end of the car. His dog was on the other side of the road, safe in the middle of the piazza at Aldo’s feet. He waited to be acknowledged, but Aldo took no notice. He was busy talking to Michele Mantelli.

On a bench behind the two men, the usual four old men – the ‘Bench Boys,’ as Perillo called them – chatted with each other. On the left side of the piazza, Carletta, the lavender-haired waitress, was setting up tables outside Da Gino in denim shorts and a sleeveless top.

Nico stayed, watching from the shop door. Aldo with his burgundy Ferriello T-shirt holding in his big stomach, 26stood in front of Michele Mantelli, who was wearing a now very wrinkled white linen suit. He could see that his friend’s body was tense as it leant in towards the wine critic, the back of his T-shirt dark with sweat. Mantelli seemed relaxed and cool, his hands stuffed in his pant pockets, head tilted to one side. Aldo was speaking in a tight, low voice. Nico couldn’t catch the words, but understood they were angry ones. He noticed the Bench Boys had stopped chatting and were watching the two men. Carletta stood still, holding a plate against her chest like a shield, a hand over her mouth.

Should he go and say hello to Aldo to try to break the tension? But maybe what Aldo was saying needed to be said. An interruption might make things worse.

Nico stayed where he was and paid Luciana. She picked up two sheets of tissue paper to start wrapping the flowers.

‘No need. I’m going directly to the cemetery.’

Luciana gave her hennaed curls a vigorous shake and continued wrapping. ‘My clients walk out of my shop with properly wrapped bouquets.’ She tied a red bow around the tissue paper, handed the package to Nico and opened her arms to give him a hug, despite the heat.

OneWag’s bark saved him. Luciana’s giant bosom against his chest always made Nico uncomfortable. In this heat, it would have been terrible. He turned to look out on the piazza. The dog was pulling at Aldo’s pant leg. Aldo had raised his arm, his hand clenched in a fist.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Nico handed the flowers to Luciana and ran over to where Aldo was standing. ‘Hey, Aldo.’

His friend was shouting. ‘Leave my wife alone or I’ll pulp that arrogant face of yours!’27

‘Cinzia is an old friend,’ Mantelli said calmly, ‘and I do what I want with my friends and with idiots like you. Read my next blog post. You’ll see. No one will buy Ferriello wines again.’

Aldo’s fist landed on Mantelli’s jaw, throwing him back against an empty bench. Aldo lunged towards him, fist ready to hit again. Nico grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘That’s enough. You’ve made your point.’

OneWag was barking himself hoarse.

Aldo struggled against Nico’s hold, his eyes focused on Mantelli. ‘You can’t ruin me, you charlatan. You can’t tell a good wine from shit.’

‘Tell that to my thirty thousand followers.’

‘I’m warning you. Stay away from my wife!’ Aldo’s words came out wet with spit.

Mantelli leant back on the bench as if he had always meant to sit there and slowly stroked his chin. ‘That’s up to Cinzia, not you.’

Aldo’s hands curled into fists again. ‘Stay away or—’

‘Or what? You’ll kill me?’

‘Yes!’ Aldo screamed.

Mantelli just laughed.

Nico caught hold of Aldo’s shoulders before he could react and steered him away. ‘Where’s your car? I’m taking you home.’

‘No!’ Aldo tried to wrestle away from his grasp. ‘I want to see blood on that fucking bastard.’

Nico held on tighter. ‘You’ve got to calm down, Aldo. I don’t care what’s going on between the two of you. You need to get ahold of yourself.’ He pushed Aldo towards his own Fiat. If he had to, he’d lock him in until he saw reason 28return to his friend’s eyes. ‘Come on now, take some deep breaths. Just a few.’

OneWag scampered behind them, tail held high. His owner had saved the day.

‘Jesus, Nico, let go. I can walk away on my own. I’m not a child.’

Nico held on. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘Mr Ferri,’ Carlotta called out. ‘Come inside. Have a glass of wine on the house.’

‘Thanks, Carlotta. Another time,’ Aldo yelled back. He raised his arms in the air. ‘Peace, Nico. See, I’m fine now.’ His face was no longer flushed.

‘Good.’ Nico released his hold. ‘I’m still going to drive you home. I think the heat has got to you.’

Aldo kept walking. Nico stayed beside him, aware that a small group of people, including Sandro and Jimmy, were standing outside the café, having witnessed the scene.

‘My car is in front of the newspaper shop. I’ll drive myself home.’ Aldo stopped to give Nico a pat on the shoulder. ‘Thank you. I appreciate what you did. If you hadn’t stopped me, I think I really would’ve sent that bastard to the hospital.’

‘Always happy to help.’

‘The whole town will know about this by the evening.’

‘Not from me,’ Luciana said, leaning against her doorjamb and cradling Nico’s anemones in her arms.

Aldo ignored her and walked to his Audi a hundred feet down the road, Nico trailing behind.

‘If you ever need to talk,’ Nico offered as Aldo unlocked the car door, ‘I can be silent as a tomb, as you Italians say.’

‘It’s an old story, not worth revisiting. That man may 29indeed have the power to ruin me. But again, thanks. See you around.’

‘Be careful, Aldo.’

Nico watched the car drive away. If Mantelli had the power Enzo thought he did, Aldo might soon face an uphill battle to keep his vineyard open. Whatever it was, Cinzia was caught up in it. It was depressing, even terrifying, when power was in the wrong hands. Nico picked up OneWag and kissed the top of his head. ‘Thanks buddy. You’re a good cop.’

The dog gave him a lick on the chin.

Nico turned back to find Luciana walking towards him with the flowers. He took them from her. ‘Thank you.’

‘I worried you would forget after what Aldo did. Don’t be upset with him. Being American, you probably don’t understand Italian men’s jealousy. It eats away at their brains. I saw Cinzia with that man the other night in Radda. I’m not saying they’re more than friends, but Aldo wasn’t with them.’

Nico frowned. He didn’t like what he was hearing. ‘What are you implying, Luciana?’

‘Don’t look at me that way. I’m not a gossip, and I’m not implying anything. I’m trying to explain how an Italian husband catching his wife chatting with another man could make him lose his reason for a few minutes.’

‘I see,’ Nico said, not totally convinced. He had worked enough cases in New York to know that jealousy could eat at the brains of American men and women too. Murders were commonplace. ‘I’d better get these to Rita.’

‘Yes, it’s late. The cemetery closes at six.’ Luciana reached out to hug him. This time, Nico didn’t mind. He had both OneWag and the flowers against his chest.30

On his way home from the cemetery, Nico stopped by the Ferriello office to check on Aldo. He parked the car and let out OneWag, who immediately ran in the opposite direction, to the welcome centre. The double doors were wide open, all the lights on. That meant a tour group was coming for a simple Tuscan meal and Ferriello’s excellent wines, followed by a talk from Aldo about winemaking. It was an idea Cinzia had come up with after a year of poor sales. It turned out to be very successful. Tonight, Nico hoped, explaining the process of winemaking to a roomful of wide-eyed tourists would distract Aldo from the afternoon’s events.

Nico walked into the large, welcoming space with its beamed ceiling, terracotta-tiled floor and wide terrace bordered by red geraniums. ‘Ciao, Nico,’ Cinzia said without looking up. Aldo’s wife, a pretty, petite woman just past forty, with short brown hair hugging her scalp like a cap, showed off her figure in tight white slacks and the company’s burgundy T-shirt with the orange Ferriello logo. ‘No reason not to please the eye as well as the palate,’ she had once said after catching a guest ogling her.

In one swift motion, she pulled out the cork of a Ferriello Riserva wine bottle, top of the line. Behind her, several Chianti Classico bottles were lined up on the counter, already open. Arben, a short, muscular Muslim man from Albania also in jeans and the Ferriello T-shirt – not quite as arresting on him – raised a hand in greeting and continued to place chairs behind two long oak tables. He had worked at the vineyard for over twenty years. As a foreigner, he had once risked his position by challenging a Tuscan fellow worker’s honesty. When he was proven right, he became 31Aldo’s right-hand man. Thanks to his curiosity, he had also been instrumental in solving a murder last year.

‘Buonasera to you both,’ Nico said, giving Cinzia a two-cheeked kiss.

‘Buying a bottle of Riserva tonight will get you dinner with eighteen Americans,’ Arben said. Eighteen was a small group; they usually had a busload of thirty or more from Florence or Siena. ‘There might even be a pretty woman in the lot. If you leave with her, the bottle’s on me.’

Nico laughed. He liked Arben and his easygoing manner. ‘Thank you, but I’ve got plenty of Ferriello wines. Tonight I’ve been relieved of restaurant duty, so I’m staying home to test out a new idea. Where’s Aldo?’

‘He’s with our Chinese distributor, who just flew in,’ Cinzia said. ‘He’s taking him to eat at Il Falco outside Castellina.’

‘I don’t know the place.’

‘All I know is, it’s aptly named. Their prices prey on your wallet.’

‘And Aldo is OK?’

Cinzia looked up with puzzled expression. ‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

So Aldo had said nothing to his wife. ‘He looked a bit tired when I saw him today.’

‘We all are.’

‘Very true. Ciao. I hope you sell lots of cases.’

‘May God hear you,’ Cinzia and Arben said in chorus.

Nico sat on his balcony with a glass of whiskey on the rocks and a late-night cigarette. He should be at peace. He’d just eaten two delicious pancetta and scamorza toasts. His 32vegetable garden was watered. OneWag, fed and walked, was curled up at his feet. The three swallows that had made his balcony roof a nesting home were asleep. All in all it had been a good day, aside from the Aldo-Mantelli incident in the piazza. Did Mantelli truly have the power to bankrupt Aldo? And why did he want to? What was Cinzia and Mantelli’s relationship? Friends, ex-lovers, current lovers? If Mantelli ruined Aldo’s business, he would ruin Cinzia too. None of it made sense, and it was none of his business, but Nico felt for Aldo.

It took him a minute to hear the car. The American tourists had come and gone by now. This had to be Aldo. He leant over the balcony to see better, to wave to him. A silly way of conveying, ‘Buck up, Aldo.’ But the car wasn’t headed home to the vineyard. Its headlights were going up the hill road, which met the main road at the top. For a second, the streetlight shone on a blue Mini Morris, turning towards town. Cinzia’s car.

Nico looked at his watch, an old work habit: 10.24 p.m. Where was she going? It could only be to pick up a husband too drunk to drive.

Nico put out his cigarette, finished the few drops left in his drink and stood up. ‘Come on, time for bed.’

OneWag beat him to it.

33

CHAPTER THREE

On Wednesday, Maresciallo Perillo walked up to his one-bedroom apartment above the station. He was looking forward to lunch. Ivana, his wife, had announced the menu at breakfast, as she did every morning – a ritual she had picked up from her mother, who had used the menu as a way to lure Ivana’s father home each night. Perillo had no desire to wander from his household, but he did like knowing what Ivana was preparing. It helped boost his spirits when work was chaotic. Today’s menu was arancini – fried rice balls stuffed with ground meat, tomato sauce and mozzarella – accompanied by sautéed escarole with capers, anchovies and olives, a Neapolitan specialty. For dessert, zabaglione with strawberries.

Perillo went to the kitchen, a large, pleasant room with its one lace-curtained window overlooking a magnolia tree at the back of the barracks. Small framed prints of flowers 34hung on one white wall. A blue tablecloth covered the square table. Ivana was lifting the arancini from the oil with a slotted spoon and draining them on a paper towel. She was a short, plump, forty-one-year-old woman with a pretty doll-like face that had instantly won over Perillo. He first saw her at the fish market in Naples, selling the catch her father had brought in that morning. He was a brigadiere then, his station not far from the market. He became a daily fish buyer until the morning Ivana accepted his invitation to go on a walk together. Their walks were followed by movies, shared ice cream, then kisses. Meetings kept hidden from her parents, who wanted better than a brigadiere of the carabinieri for their daughter. Nine years later, he became maresciallo, and Ivana’s parents bowed to the inevitable. With marriage came the joy of a shared bed. Nineteen years later, he found his passion had lowered to a comfortable simmer. He still wished they had had children, but Ivana had been adamant, having lost her mother at fourteen. She had already raised five younger siblings, three brothers and two sisters in a household that barely scraped by. What she wanted from marriage was peace.

‘Here I am,’ Perillo gave his wife a light kiss on her lips.

Ivana looked surprised. ‘You’re in a good mood.’

‘All is quiet downstairs.’ He sat down at the kitchen table.

‘No more encounters with the wine critic, then.’

‘None.’ He unfolded his napkin on his lap and poured himself half a glass of red wine. ‘Do you really think he is handsome?’

‘Very.’ She dropped two arancini on his plate and placed the bowl of escarole on the table.

‘What about me?’35

Ivana served herself and sat down. ‘You’re my husband, and I love you. You don’t need to be handsome.’

‘Well, that makes me feel just wonderful.’ Sometimes he wished his wife weren’t so honest.

Ivana leant over and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Stop being silly and eat.’

Perillo tasted his first arancino, closing his eyes to help him concentrate on the flavors. ‘Holy heaven, you have the Midas touch in the kitchen.’

‘That’s why you married me.’ During their long courtship, she would leave carefully wrapped bundles of food for him at the carabinieri station. She was cooking for the poor, she’d told her father.

‘Your cooking was only one of the reasons.’ The food bundles had made him the butt of jokes at the barracks until he began to share her wonderful food.

He blew her a kiss. As he put the rest of the rice ball in his mouth, the first notes of ‘O Sole Mio’ rang out.

Ivana didn’t bother to sigh. She was by now used to their meals being interrupted. She only hoped it would be a brief interruption. Rice balls just didn’t taste the same reheated.

Perillo swiped his finger across his phone.

At Sotto Il Fico, the terrace was full of lunch guests despite the heat. Enzo and Alba had taken over Nico’s waiter duties. Elvira greeted clients with a smile and offered menus as they passed her armchair on the way out to the terrace. Nico was happily busy in the kitchen, despite the heat from the oven. Tilde had approved his scamorza toasts idea only if he made them. Small cubes of pancetta were sizzling in a thin layer of oil beside piles of scamorza slices in a bowl. 36Nico was cutting bread when Alba popped her head in.

‘Maresciallo Perillo wants to know if you can talk to him.’

‘I can’t now. I’ll call him later.’

Orders for the toast kept coming in, and Tilde had to jump in and help. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll get Alba to prepare them in the morning,’ she said. ‘Then we can just toast them as the orders come in.’

‘I’ll be here early, then.’

‘No, Nico. Alba gets paid. You don’t.’

It was a sore point between them. This year, Tilde said there was enough money to pay him; she insisted he accept. He said no. He didn’t need it, nor did he want it. Not from them. They were family. He explained to Tilde that if she paid him, his work would become a duty. He wanted it to remain fun, and to have the freedom to take the occasional day off. Tilde and Enzo reluctantly accepted. Elvira declared him a ‘sensible man.’ Luckily, he didn’t need their money. He had his NYPD pension and the life insurance money Rita hadn’t told him about until she was dying.

‘Any news from Stella?’ he asked. Tilde and Enzo’s daughter was working as a guard at the Duomo Museum in Florence.

‘She’s coming home. They gave her the weekend off. She said she has news.’

‘What news?’

‘She won’t tell me. I suppose we’ll just have to wait.’

At 3.10, the last toast left the kitchen. Tilde took out a clean dishcloth, wet it under the faucet and wiped Nico’s face. ‘Thank you and keep the ideas coming. I promise I won’t insist you cook them all.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ Nico took off his apron and the cap 37Tilde had insisted he wear. ‘I’m off now. See you tonight.’

‘You don’t have to come.’

‘Of course I do. The place would fall apart without me.’

Tilde laughed.

After a quick espresso at the bar with Enzo, Nico walked out of the restaurant. The street was empty. Shutters were closed to protect against the heat. It was also nap time. He looked forward to a long shower. Nico whistled for OneWag, who came running down the church steps. The dog planted his front paws on Nico’s knees, reaching his maximum height.

‘Good to see you’re still in one piece.’ OneWag was still a street dog at heart. He had instantly let Nico know how he felt about being left alone at home by shredding both bed pillows and chewing a large hole in one of Nico’s newest running shoes. Nico ceded defeat, and now whenever he was working, he let the dog wander the streets of the town. OneWag had also refused the leash. However, in a bout of generosity towards the man who’d taken him in, he had accepted a collar with an ID medallion.

Nico picked the dog up and reached for his phone.

‘Sorry. I was stuck making toast until now.’

‘Have you got time to look at something?’

‘Now? I was thinking of taking a nice long shower.’

‘I think you will find this interesting.’ Perillo sounded almost smug.

Something was up. His shower would have to wait. ‘Are you at the station?’

‘No. Drive to the north end of Greve and take the road up to Montefioralle. It’ll be on your left. It’s a medieval hamlet above Greve.’38

‘I’ve been there. It’s very pretty, and supposedly the birthplace of Amerigo Vespucci.’

‘I’d emphasise “supposedly.” You’ll find me about five kilometres before the hamlet.’

Nico’s Fiat 500 struggled up the steep, narrow road with its many S curves. Almost all Chianti roads swerved either uphill or downhill. As Nico entered yet another turn, a small opening in the wall of trees that edged the road revealed what looked like a boom hovering in the air. Was he headed to a construction site?

After another curve, the left edge of the road opened up, the trees gone. Fifty meters in, a barrier shut off that side of the road. A carabiniere waved him down. ‘It’s only one way for the next two kilometres, Signore. You can go, but take it slowly. No stopping.’

Nico stuck his head out. ‘Nico Doyle.’ He knew Vince, one of Perillo’s best men. He never stopped eating, saying he needed to keep his blood pressure up. ‘Maresciallo Perillo is expecting me.’

Vince moved in closer. ‘Ah, excuse me, Signor Doyle. I didn’t recognise you. Your windshield could use a little cleaning.’

‘Very true.’ Though the dirty windshield hadn’t prevented him from seeing the crane truck with its boom lowered, the tow truck next to it and the ambulance with its back doors wide open. ‘Where should I park?’

‘Just ahead, next to the Alfa. Close to the edge, though. You’ll find the maresciallo further up. Terrible accident.’

Nico parked the car and peered at the sheer drop just inches from the edge of the road. He slid over to the passenger seat to get out, a knot forming in his stomach. Someone had 39met a bad end down there. Someone he knew. Why else would Perillo call him here?

‘Don’t go far,’ Nico said to OneWag and hurried to where Perillo was standing near the crane. He was in his usual jeans, suede boots, and a grey shirt.

‘Ah, Nico, there you are.’ Behind him, Daniele Donato, Perillo’s brigadiere, acknowledged Nico with a nod. He looked upset, either because of the heat or because, after only two years on the job, he hadn’t developed the thick skin necessary to deal with death.

Nico nodded back. ‘Who is it?’

‘We don’t know for sure yet. We’re having great difficulties getting the passenger out in one piece. The top of the car has smashed him in.’

Nico looked down the slope. The overturned car had plunged at least sixty feet down a slope covered in big sharp rocks, thin trees, bushes. Its descent was marked by broken branches, overturned rocks. It must have been going at an incredible speed. The drop was so steep, four men and two stretchers had needed the help of ropes latched onto the crane to lower them down.

‘How many in the car?’ Nico asked.

‘Only one, we think.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Two men were hooking the back fender of the car to the crane’s boom. A man shouted up to the crane driver, and slowly the rear of the car rose. A big car, bigger than any his friends drove. Nico felt the knot in his stomach loosen. He looked back to check on his dog. OneWag was close, sniffing the spot where the car had gone over.

‘Why did you want me here?’40

‘There’s a very strong probability it’s someone you know,’ Perillo said. ‘I thought you’d be interested.’

‘Stop playing games, Perillo,’ Nico said. Though his friend, the man could be annoyingly cagey at times.

‘You’re right, I am playing games. In my defence, I’ll say that everyone has their own way of dealing with gruesome incidents. I also forget that you’re used to American directness. I will comply. Dino, who has been down there for two hours with the emergency service and was wise enough to take his mobile phone with him, informed me he found the car’s hood ornament on his way down. A sleek metal Jaguar. Now that they’ve lifted the car, you can see its colour.’

Nico saw a strip of white metal. ‘Mantelli?’

‘He didn’t strike me as having the generosity of spirit to lend his car to someone else, so yes, I would say the person in the car is Mantelli. Unless another white Jaguar happened to be racing by and lost control. I would also say the man is dead. But until we’ve extracted him, I cannot be certain.’

‘Whoever it is, he must have been drunk,’ Daniele said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. There was no shade where they stood.

Perillo gave his brigadiere a disapproving look. Daniele quickly stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket and pulled at his shirt. Perillo’s shirt was perfectly dry. He seemed not to suffer in the heat.

‘What makes you say so?’ Nico asked to give Daniele back his moment. He’d already noticed the swerving tire tracks.

Daniele pointed to the road leading up to where the car flew off the edge. ‘Those tracks. I took photographs.’41

‘Daniele is indispensable. An expert in computers and photography,’ Perillo said.

Daniele blushed, unsure if he was being complimented or made fun of. The Daniele Bloom, as Perillo called it, happened often.

‘I meant it, Dani.’ Perillo said. The bloom intensified.

Perillo winked at Nico. ‘Anyway, whether alcohol, aneurism, stroke or heart attack, the autopsy will tell us.’

OneWag barked. Below, someone had begun shouting. The dog and the three men leant over to look. Dino raised his arm, index finger up.

‘Just one victim,’ Perillo said. ‘May the sky be praised.’ Daniele crossed himself.

The body was slowly being lifted out of the car. Nico saw legs dressed in white trousers. What came next was covered in blood. He turned away. ‘I still don’t understand why you wanted me here.’

‘Because yesterday, from what I heard, you were a good friend to Aldo. You can be the first one to give him the good news.’

‘So you were sure it was Mantelli when you called me?’

‘Yes, but as a man who upholds the law, I’m supposed to wait for concrete evidence. I have always preferred intuition and a quick assessment of the scene, which luckily has not made my superiors demand my immediate retirement.’

Nico forced himself not to show surprise. Perillo had just made an unsubtle reference to how Nico had lost his job as a homicide detective back in New York, but this wasn’t the time to ask him how he knew. ‘I saw Mantelli yesterday at Sotto Il Fico. He had a young woman with him.’ Her sad, beautiful face came back to Nico. Would 42Mantelli’s death bring more sadness or relief for her?

‘Her name?’

‘Loredana. I don’t know the last name. She’s much younger than Mantelli.’

‘He’s divorcing his wife,’ Daniele said, always happy to impart news the maresciallo might not know. ‘It’s making all the women’s magazines.’

Perillo turned to look at the young man he was quite fond of and loved to tease. ‘You read women’s magazines?’

Daniele’s cheeks reddened, as expected. ‘My mother does. I mentioned I’d met Mantelli at the station when I called her last night. She said he deserves to be locked up for good. She followed the whole story and thinks he’s a cruel monster.’

Perillo looked down at Mantelli, strapped to the gurney slowly making its way up the ravine. ‘He got what he deserved, then.’ He was being callous, but he couldn’t control the dislike he had for this man, even now that he was dead. Mantelli’s arrogance and sense of entitlement made him sick to his stomach. He was good at spotting people like this just by looking at them. They had a different way of walking, as if the air parted before them. When he’d been a kid living on the streets of Pozzuoli, his fingers would start itching as soon as he spotted them. He’d been an expert at unloading whatever was in their pockets.

Perillo turned to Nico. ‘Thanks for coming up here. Go take your shower, and don’t forget to talk to Aldo.’

‘I won’t.’ Nico started walking back to his car with OneWag at his heels.

‘I will be at your place for dinner tomorrow night,’ Perillo called out.43

Nico turned his head around. ‘Good. Bring Daniele and your wife.’

‘Thank you,’ Daniele said, hoping Nico heard him. As a child, he hadn’t been allowed to be loud, and at twenty, he still found it difficult.

‘My wife won’t give you any of her recipes.’

‘I won’t ask,’ Nico answered, laughing. ‘I just want you to stop hiding her.’

The Ferriello office was empty. Nico walked next door. Most of the space was a vast open work area where the bottles were labelled and packaged. All the wine was made below ground, left to ripen in steel casks and stored in wooden barrels for however long each wine needed.

Nico found Arben lifting a pallet of wine cases with a forklift. ‘Hi, Arben. Where is Aldo?’

‘He’s downstairs with the Chinese wine distributor, checking on the 2017 vintage.’

The Mantelli news would have to wait. ‘When you see him, please tell him I need to talk to him. I’ll be home for another hour, or he can call me at Sotto Il Fico after six.’ It would be useless to call his mobile phone. There was no reception below ground.

‘It will be done,’ Arben said with a wave.

As Nico got in the car, his phone pinged. The text read: It’s Mantelli.

‘Wait,’ Cinzia called out as Nico was turning the car around. She was coming from her and Aldo’s home, a small apricot-coloured building that dated back to the 1850s. Practically new in Italy, Nico had thought when he’d found out the date.44