Page 52
Shit.
"Marcelo!"
I gritted my teeth, pushed myself up, grabbed my coat, and chased into the alley depths in my heels.
Around two dead-end corners, the path narrowed sharply. The damp air reeked of burnt motor oil.
The motorcycle lay on its side in a puddle, front wheel jammed between overturned metal trash bins, still spinning and howling.
The thief slumped against a brick wall, his plastic helmet cracked in two beside him. His left leg bent outward at a grotesque angle, mouth choking up red foam, body convulsing sporadically on the ground.
Marcelo stood with his back to the alley entrance.
His black cashmere sleeves were rolled past his elbows, his muscled forearms covered in sprawling black snake tattoos. His right hand hung at his side, palm to fingertips completely coated in thick, dark red liquid, dripping steadily between his knuckles onto the filthy cement.
Even along his right jaw, a few crimson droplets spattered.
He looked down at the man on the ground, not a wrinkle on his face, his chiseled features like a granite statue fresh from a slaughterhouse.
My feet froze. I shuddered violently.
Hearing me, Marcelo turned his head slightly.
Those gray-green pupils swept over, pupils contracted to pinpoints in the dim alley, glinting with unspent cold fury.
But it lasted only half a second. That savagery receded like a tide draining from his eyes.
He turned fully, kicked aside broken bricks with his boot, bent down, and picked up the black tote bag lying by the puddle's edge.
He walked toward me.
His soles crushed glass shards, sharp sounds echoing.
He stopped three steps away, holding out the bag. "Zipper's intact. Check it."
My fingers shook too hard to grip the strap. I looked down, unzipping the compartment. My sketchbook sat neatly in the inner pocket, the soft-core pencils tucked between pages—not one broken.
"It's all here." My voice came out hoarse, eyes locked on the blood dripping from his right hand. "Mr. Moretti... that blood... should we call the police?"
"No need." He shoved the bag into my arms, voice utterly flat. "He'll live."
Two figures slipped silently into the alley entrance.
Two men in black woven leather jackets stopped fifteen feet away, built like tanks, transparent earpieces tucked behind their ears. They moved quickly to Marcelo's side, heads bowed, rapid-fire guttural Italian dialect spilling from their mouths.
Marcelo listened expressionlessly, then spat out two short, crisp words.
The two men stepped forward without a word, pulling black tape from their pockets to seal the man's mouth, each hooking a shoulder, dragging the bloody mess into the shadows behind an iron door like discarded furniture. Even the motorcycle got hauled off together. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.
The metallic stench in the air was thick enough to gag on.
Marcelo pulled a silk handkerchief from his inner pocket, wiping the blood off his palm and from under his nails. He picked up the gray coat draped over a barrel lid, clamped his hand around my wrist, and led me back the way we came.
I followed half a step behind, watching his coat tail swing with his stride.
Emerging from the secluded alley, bright sunlight and tourists' laughter poured down, severing that one-sided beating cleanly in the shadows.
He led me through three streets, stopping at a small park behind Sacré-Cœur Basilica.
