Page 303 of Marcello

He had to.

Giulietta’s life depended on it.

Adriano had left the paper bag full of cash in my SUV. Once I collected from the next two stash houses, I returned to the mansion.

Lucrezia was sitting in a chair by the dining room table, which was already stacked high with piles of money.

“Finally,” she snapped as she took the three bags of cash from me.

If she suspected anything, she hid it extraordinarily well.

“Ciccio, get in here!” she yelled.

Cicciobello waddled in from the next room over and dutifully started separating the bills.

“Take one of these,” Lucrezia ordered as she handed me a plastic baggie with several white pills inside. “No more fucking naps.”

“Alright,” I grumbled.

Best to play along… not to mention I was on the edge of utter exhaustion.

But I had to keep going. I had to.

I went into the kitchen. I had never taken speed before, and I didn’t want to go overboard, so I cut one of the pills into fourths and swallowed a crumbly piece.

It tasted incredibly bitter in my mouth – not unlike my rage at Fausto, and my resentment for all the pointless horrors I’d endured over the last several months.

But I told myself all of that was a small price to pay if I could just have Giulietta.

You have to save her –

So fucking let the rest of it go.

I cleared my mind, doubled my resolve, and left the house.

The speed kicked in after a few minutes. I suddenly had a lot more physical energy, but my mind felt burnt and ragged. It was like when I was a college student and used to pound a dozen espressos during an all-night study session for exams.

Unfortunately, I was about to go through the worst test of my entire life…

And failure would mean Giulietta’s death.

I showed up at Sotto Napoli at 7:40 AM. The first tour of the day was beginning to line up outside.

Sixty seconds after I arrived, Lars exited a café across the street. He was alone, and he continually scanned his surroundings as he walked over to me.

“There’s no ambush, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” I said sardonically.

He ignored my tone of voice. “Where’s your contact?”

“Inside. Where are the Rosolinis?”

“They’ll come as soon as I’ve confirmed it’s safe.”

We headed towards Sotto Napoli’s main entrance. I walked past the line of tourists and tried the glass door. It was locked, so I rapped on it loudly.

A worker I didn’t recognize appeared on the other side of the glass. “The tour doesn’t start until eight.”

“I’m here to see Pasquale. Does he still work here?”