Page 93 of Marcello

The link opened to a video where a reporter stood in front of San Vittore. Behind her, smoke billowed out of broken windows.

“The riot started this morning when guards attempted to discipline a violent prisoner who was allegedly part of the Neapolitan crime syndicate known as the Camorra. Tensions were already high due to extreme temperatures this summer, and the confrontation turned into an all-out brawl that consumed the entire prison. Authorities are just now restoring order.”

That was from two hours ago.

I searched for other videos. In one of them, a news anchor mentioned fatalities.

“We’re getting reports that prison guards have put down a major riot at San Vittore, the notorious Milanese prison that houses hundreds of members of organized crime groups. Prison authorities report at least a dozen inmates were killed during the violence.”

There was no mention of Aristide specifically, but that didn’t mean I could sit on the information.

Fighting a sense of growing dread, I opened the door to the ‘gym.’

The bookie was long dead, but Cesare was still whaling away on him. When he heard me come in, he glanced over his shoulder.

“What’s with you?” he asked, his face flecked with the bookie’s blood. “You look like the time you shot that Cosa Nostra asshole.”

I held out my phone. “There’s something you should see.”

After he watched the video and threw a raging fit, Cesare made me get the prison warden on the line. We bribed the guy every month to make sure Aristide got top-tier treatment, so I had his direct number.

Cesare was holding my phone up to his ear, so I couldn’t hear what the warden said – but I could guess from Cesare’s reaction.

“WHO WAS IT?!” he screamed.

Oh shit.

I backed up and prepared myself if Cesare decided to take out his rage on me.

“FIND OUT!” Cesare screamed, then threw my phone across the room.

The screen broke as it bounced off the wall, then cracked again as it hit the concrete floor.

Cesare stood there, shoulders hunched, an expression of primordial fury on his blood-spattered face.

He looked utterly insane, and he remained silent for over half a minute.

I knew from experience that it was best to gently coax him out of his rages. Otherwise, he could explode – which is when people ended up in the hospital.

Or a shallow grave.

Since I was the only one around, I didn’t want it to be me.

“…is Don Caproni okay?” I asked quietly.

“He’s fuckin’ dead,” Cesare seethed as he stared into space –

And then he began to howl with laughter.

For the hundredth time over the last two years, I felt like I was trapped in an insane asylum with the inmates.

Cesare darted at me before I could react – Jesus, he was fast – and grabbed my suit in his bloody hands.

“DON’T YOU SEE WHAT THIS FUCKIN’ MEANS?!” he screamed joyfully.

I asked myself what could possibly make Cesare happy about his father’s death –

…oh.