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“And you’re… friends with them,” I said carefully, not wanting to alienate the new ally I’d made.
Dario gave me a slight smile. “A business associate.”
I didn’t believe for a second that he was just a ‘business associate.’ Everyone in the yard had been too frightened or too deferential for him to be a bit player.
But if he had reasons to hide his true affiliations, well… I had reasons to not tell him about my past, too.
But I did want to know one thing.
“Why did the Camorra want you dead?” I asked.
“Probably to send a message to my friends in the Cosa Nostra.”
“Why didn’t the guards step in earlier?”
It was bewildering. Guard towers lined the prison walls, and the men inside them had rifles. At any point they could have fired their guns. A single shot probably would have stopped the fighting since people would have been afraid the next bullet would be aimed at them.
Dario smiled grimly. “Because the Camorra paid the guards to stay out of it.”
I stared at him. “Seriously?”
“It’s the only explanation. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the corruption here in San Vittore.”
I thought of the jail door I’d heard open in the middle of the night… and the dead man I’d seen dragged out the next morning.
“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Now you know. When the attempt on my life didn’t go as planned, and the rest of the men realized that the guards were not going to intervene, they took the opportunity to settle some scores. The guards only showed up to prevent it from becoming absolute chaos.”
I shook my head in amazement. “It’s like a fucking sewer full of alligators in here.”
“You’re not wrong. San Vittore is a dangerous place.”
“I’m starting to realize that.”
“You know… I could use a man like you,” Dario said. After a second’s pause he added, “As an ally.”
I tried to be as diplomatic as possible. “I’d like that, but… I don’t want to get involved in a mafia war.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, my friend, but you’re in the thick of it now, whether you like it or not. By intervening in the attempt on my life, you made an enemy of the Camorra.”
“Great,” I muttered.
He smiled in amusement. “How long are you in for?”
“Five years.”
“And you don’t speak Italian?”
“No.”
“How long did you think you would last in here before you stepped on the wrong toes? Not five years, I can assure you of that.”
He had me there.
“Look at this way,” Dario continued. “I have powerful friends on the outside, plus I know all the players in here. I know who’s dangerous, who’s all talk, and who can be trusted. You – well, you’re excellent in a fight. I need someone to watch my back like you did just a few minutes ago – and you could use a guide in here. Like Virgil showing Dante around hell.”
I recognized the reference to Dante – the Italian poet who wrote the Inferno – but I wasn’t sure about Virgil. I didn’t want to look stupid, though, so I didn’t ask.
