One Step to You (The Rome Novels #1)(3)

The other motorcycles joined formation, occupying the whole street, indifferent to the occasional car that ran up fast next to them, overtaking and honking loudly. Schello stood up on his beat-up oversized Vespa. Laughing, they all downshifted, practically in unison. Slamming on brakes, fishtailing across the asphalt, they all turned a sharp left. One or two popping wheelies as they went, all of them ignoring the red light. Then they roared up the Via Cassia at top speed.

*



At the sound of the buzzer downstairs, Roberta, euphoric for her eighteenth birthday and for the party that was going perfectly, ran to the intercom.

“You’re here to see Francesca who?” Roberta asked the male voice over the speaker.

“Giacomini, that blonde. I’m her brother, and I have to give her some keys.”

Roberta pushed the button inside the intercom once and then, to make sure she’d opened the door, pushed it again. She went into the kitchen and pulled two big Coca-Colas from the freezer. They were cold enough, so she shut the freezer door with her right foot and turned to go back to the living room. There she crossed paths with a blond girl who was talking to a boy with his hair slicked back with gel.

“Francesca, your brother is coming upstairs. He’s bringing you your keys.”

“Ah…” was all that Francesca managed to reply. “Thanks.” The boy with the slicked-back hair lost a little bit of his stiffness and allowed himself a faint sound of amusement.

“France, is something wrong?” Roberta asked.

“No, nothing’s wrong, aside from the fact that I’m an only child.”

The Sicilian and Hook were the first to read the nameplate on the fifth-floor doorbell. “Here it is. This is the place. Micchi, right?”

Schello reached the doorbell and pressed the button. The door swung open almost immediately.

Roberta stood in the doorway and looked out at the group of young men, muscular and unkempt. They’re certainly dressed rather casually struck her as a good thing to think. “Can I help you?”

Schello stepped forward. “I was looking for Francesca. I’m her brother.”

As if by magic, Francesca appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the boy with the slicked-back hair.

“Ah, there you are. It’s your brother.” Roberta turned and walked away.

Francesca gave the group a worried look. “Which of you is supposed to be my brother?”

“Me!” Lucone put his hand up.

Pollo raised his hand too. “So am I. We’re twins, just like in that Schwarzenegger movie. He’s the dumb one.” They all laughed.

Francesca took Schello aside. “What on earth were you thinking when you invited all these people, huh?”

“This party strikes me as a morgue. At least we can liven it up a little bit. Come on, France, don’t get pissed off.”

“Who’s pissed off? I just want you all to leave.”

“Excuse me, coming through, pardon me…” Inexorably, one after the other, they all went through, Hook, Lucone, Pollo, Bunny, Step, and the others.

Francesca tried to stop them. “No, Schello, come on. You can’t go in.”

“Come on, France, don’t be like that. You’ll see, nothing bad will happen.” Schello locked arms with her. “In any case, you’re not at fault here. It’s all your brother’s fault, for letting all these people tag along.” Then, as if he were worried about letting in another group of party crashers, he shut the door politely behind him.

Almost immediately, Lucone and the others mingled with the real guests, or at least tried to. They spread out in the living room.

There are certainly some strange folks at this party. That was the most common thought but also the most secretly kept one. In fact, it passed through many heads but passed not a single pair of lips.

*



Expensive electric appliances had been arranged at the corners of a modern kitchen. The refrigerator door hung open.

“Remember to close the door after getting something out of the fridge…” That’s what Signora Micchi would always say, scolding her children when they loitered too long in front of the open refrigerator at snack time. If, however, Signora Micchi were to come face-to-face with the owner of these Adidas and his friends, sitting there with their feet up on the table and her daughter’s eighteenth-birthday cake before them, she probably wouldn’t have the nerve to say a word to either of them.

“No, I want to blow out the candles,” Hook said.

“What the hell right do you have?” the Sicilian asked. “I was the one who found the cake.”

“True, but I lit the birthday candles.” Hook proudly brandished his Zippo.

The Sicilian looked at him and then smiled. “But there’s one thing you haven’t considered.”

“And what’s that?”

“The fact that it’s going to be my birthday soon.” He blew hard on the cake, extinguishing all the candles. Admittedly, this wasn’t his actual birthday, and that was certainly not the appropriate number of candles. The Sicilian looked a far sight older than eighteen, but still a happy smile wreathed his face.

Hook flipped open his Zippo and almost simultaneously gave the flint wheel a sharp spin with his thumb. Then he ran the big flame over the top of each birthday candle, leaving a smaller flame flickering on the various wicks.