NICOLA ROCCA
DEATH
BRINGS GOLD
Translated from Italian by M.N. Dee
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- Nicola Rocca
Cover Illustration Copyright: © Alessandro Gardenti (Thorny Editing).
Cover design by: © Nicola Rocca and Alessandro Gardenti
Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Literary and artistic rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
2015
For Daniel,
to give him courage
and to tell him that I am here
whenever he needs me!
⦠And that tomorrow will always be a better day!
Mankind invented the atomic bomb,
but no mouse would ever construct
a mousetrap.
Albert Einstein
(1879-1955)
Serendipity is looking in a
haystack for a needle
and discovering a farmerâs
daughter.
Julius H. Cooe
(1911-1984)
PROLOGUE
A deep breath. The man wakes up.
Something is not right. He feels week, numb. His head is spinning, as if waking from a massive hangover.
Actually, it hurts. At the back, right above his neck.
By instinct he tries to lift one hand to reach the tender spot, in an effort to massage it. But he canât, his hand is locked. A metallic sound reaches his ears. He pulls harder.
What on earth�
His eyes widen in fear. Sweat begins covering his forehead.
He is sitting on the floor of his living room. He recognizes his home, his furniture, and his curtains. He looks around, trying to forget that his hands are handcuffed to the heater.
He gives another tug, but all he gets is the clinking of a chain and a sharp pain in his wrists.
His sweat now leads to anguish.
Before his mouth lets out a cry, a voice materializes.
âWelcome back, Alberto.â
These words are followed by the sound of muffled footsteps.
âWhat the fuckâ¦â
His curse dies on his lips as he sees a man standing before him. He has never seen this thickly bearded face before.
âFinally youâre with us,â the man says.
His voice is kind and polite - almost caring - and this is what churns Albertoâs gut with terror.
A choked sound emanates from the prisonerâs mouth. He gives another tug with his arms trying to set himself free, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain.
âItâs no use,â the man calmly points out, caressing his beard. âThose chains canât be broken.â
Alberto tries to shout, but his voice comes out like a hoarse whisper.
âWho are you?â he asks.
The man narrows his eyes, as if boring into the soul of the one before him.
âIt doesnât matter who I am. But what I am doing here.â
Alberto knows that he canât dictate the rules of this encounter, but he tries to hide his desperation.
âListen, friend⦠I donât know what you want from me. Youâve got the wrong person.â
The man answers with an amused grin.
âQuite the contraryâ the man with the beard says. His tone of voice is now cold as ice. âYou are exactly who I was looking for. You really donât remember me? Donât worry, youâll get your memory back. Soon.â
âI donât give a fuck who you are. Or what youâre doing here,â the prisoner gasps, still straining against the chains. Another dizzy spell forces him to close his eyes. Exhausted, he leans back against his prison.
Ignoring the words, the other man moves one step closer and stares right into the eyes of his prey.
âIâll give you a little clue â¦â he says.
And finally â the words that had waited silently for decades in his heart âwere spoken.
âMorning brings goldâ¦â
The phrase remained there, hanging in the air. Then, like a sharp blade, it plunges into the captive manâs mind, telling him that in this game he is the victim; the other man executioner.
He pretends not to understand. With difficulty he opens his eyes and his voice, now accompanied by tears, has become a wheezeâ¦
âI donât know what the stupid phrase means.â
The killer unfastens, one by one, the buttons of his raincoat, takes it off and places it neatly on the back of a chair.
The victim recognizes the suit the man is wearing. And he feels the fear growing inside him.
âThere must be some mistake,â he says, whimpering. âYou really have the wrong person â¦â
The killer doesnât pay any attention to the pathetic plea.
He strokes his beard and takes a step towards the victim.
âThey say that revenge is a dish best served cold,â he declares. âWell, Iâve never believed it â¦â he pauses, hesitant, â⦠but I had no other choice than to wait. And with each passing year, my anger, instead of disappearing, increased. It is now time to unleash it.â
The victim feels his heart tightening up.
âI have nothing to do with it,â he moans, his cheeks damp with terror and desperation.
The killer takes another step towards the broken man. He stands there observing him, like a scientist would do with a laboratory animal.
The victim recognizes in those eyes a look he has seen before âolder now, but identical to the one he had seen many years before. He would like to ask for mercy and forgiveness, but the words stick in his throat with fear.
The killer speaks again.
âYouâre a dead man.â He smiles, his face lined with fine wrinkles. The kind that pain carves into your face while youâre still young and vulnerable. âJust a stupid dead man.â
The words seem to float around the room indefinitely.
The killer moves closer still, ignoring the prisonerâs groans. Barely breathing, he reaches into his pocket and slowly slips out the weapon that will kill him.
CHAPTER 1
Umberto Visconti stood there and stared