Chapter 9 - The Blood on the Olive Press
The silence that followed was broken only by the hum of the cicadas in the cypress trees and the slow, heavy splash of a trout jumping in the shadows near the shore.
"He won't give it to you," a voice said from the stone archway behind the terrace.
Nico stood in the shade of the grapevine.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt was dark with sweat at the armpits, and his shoes were covered in grey dust—he had walked up the mountain path from the lower village, bypassing the road where Donato's two men were waiting with their rifles.
In his right hand, he was holding a double-barreled hunting shotgun that belonged to the landlord in Gandria.
Both hammers were cocked.
Donato didn't jump. He slowly lowered his arm, the yellowed piece of paper fluttering in the light mountain breeze before settling against the gravel near Ana's feet.
"Nico," Donato said softly. "You're late."
"I took the path through the olive grove," Nico said, stepping out into the sun. The light caught the blued steel of the gun barrels, turning them a pale, icy blue. "Your two boys at the bottom of the hill are sleeping in the grass near the stream. They won't be waking up until the sun goes down."
Donato's jaw tightened slightly—the only sign of emotion he had shown since he arrived.
"It's a valid debt, Nico," Donato said. "Her father gave his word."
"Her father was a thief and a coward," Nico said, stopping six feet from the old man. "And he's dead. In this house, we don't pay dead men's debts."
"She carries his blood," Donato insisted, pointing a crooked finger at Ana.
"She carries my child," Nico said.
The words fell into the hot afternoon air like heavy stones into a deep well.
Julian looked at his brother, his mouth open slightly in surprise. Ana looked down at her hands, her fingers curling tight into the fabric of her smock.
Nico raised the shotgun two inches, the twin muzzles pointed directly at the center of Donato's dark wool waistcoat.
"You have five minutes to get down the mountain, Donato," Nico said. "If you're still on this side of the border by four o'clock, I won't kill you. I'll call the police in Como and tell them where to find the body of the sergeant you buried under the olive press in Castellammare in ninety-six."
Donato stared at Nico for five long seconds.
He looked for a crack in the iron—for a hesitation, a flicker of doubt, the small soft spot that men usually developed when they moved into big stone houses on lakes and started drinking espresso out of porcelain cups.
He found nothing.
Nico Casaro was still the man who had stood in the cold kitchens of Bari at eighteen, looking into the eyes of starving women without blinking.
Donato slowly put his felt hat back on his head.
May you like
He didn't look at Ana. He didn't look at the yellowed paper lying in the gravel.
He turned around and walked down the path, his boots crunching on the stone until the sound was swallowed by the cicadas.
