Page 33 of Marcello

Pasquale said it in the offhand manner of somebody talking about what they had for breakfast that morning –

But the same sirens that had gone off at the Camorra shrine were now screaming inside my head.

“Really?” I asked, trying to hide my excitement.

“Yeah.” Pasquale laughed. “And if you haven’t noticed yet, Federica’s not the kind of person who looks the other way when she sees an injustice.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, even though currently her good qualities were a pain in my ass. “I’d love to take a tour on Monday if you can still sneak me in.”

“Sure. Is Fede coming?”

“Probably not.”

Pasquale laughed nervously. “This isn’t going to blow back on me, is it?”

“No, absolutely not.”

Although I honestly had no idea.

But I figured if anyone was going to catch hell for it, it’d be me.

“Okay, cool,” Pasquale said, and gave me his phone number, the address of Sotto Napoli, and instructions to show up five minutes before the hour so he could sneak me in.

I thanked him and went back to Federica.

I didn’t mention the tour.

I definitely didn’t mention the Camorra drug dealer Pasquale had talked about.

Shortly thereafter, she wanted to leave the party.

When we got home, it was another night of her smoking pot and no sex.

Which, honestly, was fine by me.

12

Monday morning rolled around.

As I was getting out of bed, I told Federica I was going on Pasquale’s tour and asked if she wanted to come.

“No, I’m going to paint,” she said grumpily.

I got ready to go and grabbed an apple for a quick breakfast. She was still in bed.

“Have a good time painting,” I said.

She didn’t answer, so I left.

Things had been pretty icy between us since that night at the party. I didn’t like the situation, but I didn’t want to start some big conversation that would make me miss the tour.

If she wanted to be cranky, that was on her.

I was on a mission.

The entrance to the tour was odd. It was in a centuries-old building, and the covered walkway out front had crumbling columns and arches holding up the roof. Inside the walkway was an incredibly eclectic mix of businesses: a barebones grocery mart with pictures of saints over the vegetables, a laundromat, a hole-in-the-wall bar, and a second-hand clothing shop. And there was graffiti everywhere.

I scanned the dimly lit walkway and wondered if this was the spot that Pasquale had been talking about – the place where the Camorra drug dealer hung out.