by Diane Capri
Enzo nodded, but said nothing.
Marek cleared his throat. He seemed tense, tired. There were dark bags under his eyes. He had not slept well, probably for many nights. Good. Fatigue made him a weaker adversary. “I don’t quite know how to begin.”
He halted again, drained his espresso, set the cup down on its saucer. He placed both hands on the table in a gesture of trust. He was holding no weapon.
Enzo watched, but kept both hands under the table in his lap. He’d touched nothing except the small white porcelain cup.
Marek flinched when church bells rang in the distance, pealing through the quiet morning, followed by a rumble of thunder. He grinned a bit, embarrassed.
The Italian prodded. “What did you want to see me about, Marek?”
Marek’s hand shook when he lifted his cup to his lips. He seemed chagrined to realize it was empty, and set it back down. He took a deep breath and said softly, “You and I, we have only a few open projects just now. All are at the stage to be easily completed. The money we’ve received has been deposited to your Swiss accounts.”
After a pause, Marek continued, “I must quit, you see.”
“Oh?” Enzo conveyed mild surprise he did not feel.
“You know my second son was born last month.” Marek gestured with his head toward the ceiling because his family lived upstairs, above the club. “He has a brother, like you now. He needs a respectable father with a business he can inherit. Like you have in Tuscany. A legitimate enterprise,” he whispered as a man with dry mouth does.
In the quiet, following the muffled sound of thunder, Enzo understood. The wife had made Marek do this. Women stupidly protected their children, failing to appreciate the consequences, and men followed their wives even into disaster.
“I see.”
Marek loosened the top button of his gray flannel shirt and rubbed his neck with his left hand. “I know what we agreed. With this kind of work, a lifelong commitment is required. And you know I will always be loyal to you. Completely. But…” He swallowed. “But I must stop. We’ve had many successful projects together. I’ve bought this club. It’s paid for. All mine now. And I have a home. Here. To raise my sons. Be a husband. Build my own family. You understand, Enzo my friend,” he paused a beat. “Yes?”
The Italian drained the last drops from his cup. He smiled sorrowfully at his oldest friend. “Of course. I want you to be happy. Family is important. I love children. You know that. You must have a large family, and a wonderful life. Like I do. Naturally.” He laughed, as if anything else would be too absurd to contemplate.
Marek laughed along, shakily. He pulled out his wallet and displayed pictures of his new son, his three-year-old boy, and beautiful wife.
“They know nothing of my work for you,” Marek volunteered.
Which meant that he’d told his wife everything.
Enzo’s anger grew hotter. Marek had jeopardized not only his own family, but the entire business.
He took a deep breath, and they talked of earlier times. They shared stories. Enzo asked about Marek’s plans for the future. Eventually the Italian glanced at his watch. “I must go. My train departs soon. My own family waits. But I will miss you, old friend.”
His words flowed easily, though he never allowed himself such sentiments. Not even with his own brother.
The two men stood. Enzo reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the capsule, hiding it in his left palm. They moved closer to hug again, Marek foolishly relaxed.
The Italian quickly turned and grabbed Marek by the forehead from behind, cruelly twisting his neck and pulling him against his shoulder.
Marek gasped, and in that instant, Enzo forced the capsule into his open mouth and pressed Marek’s jaw closed using the butt of his other hand.
Brief comprehension registered in Marek’s eyes as the capsule broke and cyanide drained into his mouth. He wrestled and fought, but like in their younger years, he lost. He tried to breathe through his nose. His arms flailed, beating on Enzo’s chest.
“I’m sorry, old friend, that you have chosen to betray me,” Enzo said, holding Marek’s chin shut lest any of the poison seep out.
Marek blinked his eyelids one last time. The poison had done its job as it always did. He slumped to the floor, eyes open, staring at his friend until gravity dragged his eyelids down.
Enzo knelt, felt Marek’s carotid artery for a pulse and found none. He waited ten minutes to be sure Marek was dead and that no one had heard the encounter.
He had one more task. Enzo stood, glanced around briefly. Where would Marek hide his electronic equipment? He searched behind the bar with no luck.
A loud thump followed by a crying baby sounded from the apartment above.
How could that be? Marek’s family was upstairs?
“Idiot!” he swore. Marek had been told that there should be no one else present. He couldn’t follow directions anymore. Another good reason to have eliminated him.
Enzo hurried now, completed his search of the entire club, finding nothing. He could not leave without Marek’s computer and cell phones. There must be no trace of his connection to the Italian’s business. He had no choice. He must search upstairs.
Damn Marek.
Quickly, he pulled on his gloves, walked back to his coat and pulled a .22-caliber Smith & Wesson and suppressor from deep pockets. He reached for the extra magazine, dropping it into his trouser pocket. He assembled the suppressor as he hurried from behind the bar, into the kitchen, and then climbed the stairs to Marek’s apartment.
Halfway up he heard a woman’s voice, “Marek? Is that you?”
Enzo hustled up the remaining stairs and entered the living room, startled to find Marek’s wife seated directly across from the archway, looking straight at him, nursing the new baby.
Enzo had not seen the woman in the flesh before. Marek had thought her plain features, and horsey face, beautiful. Another mistake.
Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but recognition. She knew what Enzo looked like.
He scanned the room. The apartment was empty but for the wife, the infant, and Marek’s toddler seated beside her on the couch, sleeping with its thumb in its mouth.
Now, all options were canceled. She’d seen him, and would know that her husband had not committed suicide. She would identify him to the authorities. Not an insurmountable problem, but an unnecessary one. Easier to stop her now.
The moment Marek had revealed them both, her husband had signed her death warrant. What followed now was blissfully not the Italian’s choice, but white-hot anger fueled him nonetheless.
“Damn Marek!” Enzo spoke aloud.
He raised his pistol. She gasped. He shot twice. The forehead. Small holes. Her head bounced backward against the sofa. A bit of blood pushed out from the two bullet wounds. Her heart still pumped, she wasn’t quite dead. He waited for the message of her demise to reach her heart.
Despite the gun’s noise, the toddler still slept. If he didn’t awaken, he would live. The infant, too. He lay in the cradle of her arms, resting on a sturdy pillow, nursing, unaware of the mother’s death. He had seen his own infants feed and he knew how intent they could be on the nipple. He was curious as to how long the mother’s milk might flow, but he had no time to watch. He still had to search the apartment.
Enzo glanced at his watch. Four minutes had elapsed since he’d climbed the stairs. His own breathing was normal. Very little exertion in the project so far. He strode through the four-room apartment, checked the closets quickly. There was no one else. No more witnesses to eliminate.
He considered where Marek might have kept his electronics. Since Marek’s wife knew about his work, he probably had a small desk in the apartment somewhere. He went quickly from room to room until he located Marek’s desk in the back hallway. The laptop was turned on, connected to the Internet. Marek’s cell phones were also on the desk.
He pulled the cables from the laptop, folded it closed, tucked it under his le
ft arm, and slipped the phones into his trouser pockets. It took only a few moments. He considered whether Marek might have hidden anything that would incriminate either of them here. If so, he knew he couldn’t find it quickly.
He’d have to take that chance and the lack of choice Marek left him further confirmed his actions. No, he didn’t regret the kills. He regretted only that Marek had been such a fool in the end.
Enzo turned and hurried back down the stairs. Despite his gloves, he wiped the gun using the tail of his silk shirt, knelt and placed the gun in Marek’s hand, making sure to imprint it properly. Then he shot a round into the baseboard of the wooden bar by pulling Marek’s finger on the trigger to assure there would be gunshot residue on his hand. He dug the bullet from the wood and dropped it into his pocket.
The Italian surveyed the scene, recalling his movements, making sure he’d left no evidence that might cause suspicion or lead back to him.
The scene was perfect.
He picked up the coffee cup and saucer he’d used and, to be cautious, the extra spoon.
He was satisfied he’d touched nothing else. No fingerprints nor DNA was left behind. The scene accurately depicted an insane, sleep-deprived father who killed his family and then himself on a cold and depressing Sunday morning.
The Italian donned his long coat, turned up the collar and set the fedora on his head. He flipped the small button on the door handle that would lock it again when he closed the door behind him.
He retraced his route through sleet-slicked streets, the cup and saucer still warm in his pocket.
* * *
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