Page 77 of Marcello

So I lied.

Or tried to, anyway.

“No – ”

“YES!” she yelled. “Ever since the day we saw that Camorra shrine, you’ve been fucking obsessed with them!”

“I have not – ”

“STOP LYING TO ME! Pasquale told me you asked him the night you met about the Camorra selling drugs in front of Sotto Napoli – and the very next thing, you started bugging him for a job! He didn’t think anything of it at the time – not until you followed one of those assholes and didn’t show up to work! So tell me, Marcello – what the fuck is going on?!”

I couldn’t tell her the truth –

So I went on the attack.

“Why do you fucking hate the Camorra so much?”

“Why do I…” she started, then laughed like it was a ridiculous question. “You mean, besides them being murderers? Besides them being criminals? Besides them being fucking parasites that destroy everything they touch?!”

After meeting Cesare Caproni, I could attest that she was 100% correct.

But there were three people whose lives depended on me, so I stayed on the attack.

“Pasquale doesn’t hate them nearly as much as you do,” I protested. “So why are you so obsessed?”

“Do you really want to know why I hate them so much?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Because they killed my fucking uncle.”

I stood there in shock.

I was even more shocked when she burst into tears.

Federica was tough as nails. She never took shit off of anybody.

I’d never seen her cry…

Until now.

I was so stunned that all I could do was stand there and listen.

“He was in a motorcycle crash when he was 20 that messed up his back really bad, and he got addicted to painkillers,” she said miserably. “Weeks after the funeral, we found out the doctors had stopped giving him pills, so he started getting them on the street. He was on disability, but that didn’t pay for his habit, so he started dealing drugs for the Camorra.

“He hid it well, though. Nobody knew anything was wrong, or that he was mixed up in anything dangerous. That’s why my mother trusted him to look after me when she worked night shifts at the hospital. My dad ran off when I was a baby, so my uncle would watch me. We were the only ones home when the Camorra came looking for him. I was five years old.

“When the banging on the door started, he hid me in a closet behind a bunch of coats and told me, ‘You can’t make a sound, Fede. Whatever you hear – whatever happens – don’t make a sound. And don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.’

“So I stayed real quiet. I can still remember how dark it was… pitch black… how the jackets pressed against me… how I could hardly breathe…”

Federica was trembling like a frightened animal.

Now I understood why she hadn’t wanted to go to Sotto Napoli when Pasquale offered.

Her claustrophobia – it might’ve even started the night she was describing.

“I heard him answer the door. There were at least two other men. I could hear them arguing. They accused my uncle of stealing from them – and then they shot him. I heard the gun go off, and then his body hit the ground.