Death Brings Gold. Nicola Rocca

to check if Carolina, the nurse that was looking after his mother, was still there. She wasn’t.

      His mother had lifted one arm, trying to extend it towards him and that gesture was draining her of all the energy she had left. He had welcomed her hand between his and stood there staring at her, confident that something extraordinary was going to happen.

      The woman blinked her eyes several times, trying to focus on the images in front of her. Her mouth opened in a grin and her hand started to tremble, while her breathless voice was coming through with difficulty.

      â€œDavid, m-mhy d-d-hear…”

      Distorted words were coming from her twisted lips.

      â€œâ€¦ ss-h-k-keep on sshmoukeeng, if hhhyou c-can’t do… uithout …em…”

      At that point she had had a small breakdown and a snarl of pain deformed her face.

      He had squeezed her hand, to make her feel his presence and at the same time to encourage her to continue.

      The woman’s head had fallen forward.

      â€œMum?!” he called out loud.

      His mother had raised her head again and she had started blinking her eyes again.

      Then, certain that sight had abandoned her, she had closed her eyes. Defeated.

      He stood there staring at her for what seemed an eternity. Then, the woman’s distorted voice had come back.

      â€œâ€¦ But plheashe … it’s for u hoo… art a mmly…I whuont hhee you sttleouwn …”

      â€œWhat?” he asked her.

      The woman had stuttered some more, but they seemed more like moans caused by her pain than contorted phrases.

      â€œWhat did you say, mum?” he repeated, placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her lightly, but the woman’s head was now dangling again.

      He stood there looking at the bed sheets moving slowly with the rhythm of his mother’s weak breathing.

      Then, Carolina’s silhouette had peeked into the room.

      â€œWhat’s going on?” she had asked. “I heard you shouting.”

      He didn’t think it necessary to tell her what had happened. That was the last dialogue between mother and son and, even though he hadn’t understood some words, certainly he was not going to ask advice of others. He was convinced that his mother had woken up – with the help of some kind of divine intervention – in that precise moment, because they were alone in that room. And because he was going to be the only recipient of those words.

      At that point he had brought his mother’s gaunt hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he had stood up from the bed and gone into the living room. He had taken a biro and written those last words his mother had reserved for him on a post-it note. He was convinced that they meant something important. Not so much because they were her last words, but mainly because saying them had been so extremely hard for her.

      When he came back from that memory, he realised that he was almost near the Metro station. He slowed down and felt his trousers back pocket. Touching his wallet reminded him of the treasure inside it. He felt some kind of relief and lit that cigarette, now soaked in saliva. He inhaled the smoke, kept it in his lungs for a moment and finally let it out to mix with the icy-cold air.

      When his mother was still alive not a single day would pass without her telling him to ‘stop with those damned cigarettes’. And then, on her deathbed, she had told him the exact opposite. Who knows why.

      He wondered if one day he was going to be able to decipher her last words. Since then almost five years had passed and he hadn’t succeeded yet.

      He took his last drag of “poison” then, flicking the cigarette butt with his two fingers, he tossed it away. He took the stairs leading to the Metro Red Line. When he arrived at the platform, he saw the train leaving. He stood and watched it until it was swallowed by the dark tunnel.

      He looked around and realized that he was alone. A lonely man.

      That thought provoked in him a smile, but, at the same time, a sense of emptiness. For the first time in his life he was afraid. Not for what might have happened to him. But for what he was.

      A lonely man.

      CHAPTER 3

      The man saw the girl with the apron approaching. He stood and stared at her, while he was enjoying the alcohol flowing in every nook and cranny of his brain.

      â€œYour whisky, sir,” said the waitress, placing the glass on the small table.

      Raffaele Ghezzi thanked her with the wave of a hand, but didn’t bother to waste a single word. He sat and looked at the blonde’s curvy body leaving with an empty tray in her hand.

      Then, with his gaze still fixed on her round butt, he grasped with ostentatious confidence the half-empty glass and gulped down its content.

      He gritted his teeth and grimaced instinctively for the burning sensation of the liquor in his throat.

      He wiped his mouth with his hand. He grasped the glass that had just been delivered to him and toyed with it, spinning it slowly. He liked the clinking sound of the ice cubes against the glass. It had been a while since he had allowed himself a heavy drinking session like this one.

      These recent months had been difficult ones; during which he had had to be financially responsible for the running of a house, while supporting both himself and a wife he no longer got along with. A wife that no longer loved him. And a wife who was cheating on him with another man.

      His reason for hiring that Formenti guy, a private investigator specialising in marital infidelity cases was a gnawing suspicion that he had for some time. And the bill he’d had to pay – in instalments – was filed under unforeseen expenses. Another heading of the family budget, he thought, noticing the irony of it.

      In the end it had been worth it-because exactly one week earlier -Formenti had brandished – right in his face - pictures of his wife with a mystery man. In the car, exchanging displays of affection-canoodling disgustingly like teenagers- in a park and even at both the entrance and exit of a motel parking lot.

      That was the reason why, after a long time, Raffaele was indulging in one of those hangovers that would go down in the annals of betrayed men seeking revenge.

      For some time Martina, the bitch, had been asking for a separation and was exploiting any little thing she could to blame him for their crisis.

      Him! –When the only thing he did was work hard to earn their daily bread.

      And now, with this compelling evidence obtained by Formenti, he could with certainty separate from that slut, and without owing her any kind of financial support. So long as the Italian justice system didn’t pull any fast ones, because – as it is widely known –in the case of a failed marriage, men are always the ones who pay. That was the question. Any run of the mill Martina type can come along, screw around on her husband and then ask for a separation, settlement and alimony.

      Yes, that’s how it goes in the vast majority of cases, Raffaele said to himself, savouring the intense taste of his whisky.

      But he was smarter than other men. He wasn’t going to be fooled. He had proof. He was going to nail the bitch.

      He had already given her a taste of his forthcoming triumph. A few days before Formenti had given him the pictures, he had promised her that he was going to catch her dicking around. Yes, yes, that’s exactly what he said to her “dicking around”. How he’d enjoyed saying that!

      Martina hadn’t believed him. She’d scoffed at him and gone on her way.

      â€œThe