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“Where are your spectacles?”
“I don’t have any.” The lawyer blinked, confused. “My vision is perfect.”
“Then you can see it’s foolhardy to leave your carriage.”
Suddenly the door on the other side of the carriage opened, and a second passenger walked around to meet Franco. It was Niall, Baron Zito’s horse trainer.
“Niall.” Franco gritted his teeth. “Get out of here. There’s no auction today.”
“I’m here for Arabo.”
“You’re not taking him.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to.” Niall pulled a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Arabo, tied to a rail with the other horses.
Franco reacted lightning-fast, swinging the footstool at Niall’s hand. The gun fired into the sky. Niall lost his balance, falling backward.
Franco hit him with the footstool, exploding in rage. He felt himself losing control but didn’t stop. He hit Niall with the footstool again and again, until blood spurted from his skull in a gruesome fan.
“Franco, no!” Roberto grabbed his shoulder and Franco dropped the footstool, coming out of his fit of rage.
Niall lay motionless in the dirt, bleeding from the head. His eyes gazed sightlessly into the bright sun. Blood spattered his fine cravat and suitcoat.
The auctioneer came scurrying from the villa. “My God! You killed him!”
Franco picked up Niall’s pistol, composing himself. “This is his gun. He tried to shoot me. It was self-defense. I had no choice.”
Roberto nodded. “Absolutely right. I saw everything. He fired at you. You defended yourself. It’s a miracle you’re alive.”
Sebastiano, Ezio, and Roberto’s men chimed in that it was self-defense.
The auctioneer’s hands flew to his cheeks. “What do I do now?”
“Sell me a house,” Franco answered, pocketing the gun.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Gaetano ran into Carmine in the Vucciria market, and the lawyers decided to have a bite together. The market was bustling, and the shade of its stalls provided a break from the sun. The market sold every kind of fruit, produce, fish, and meat, and the air was filled with irresistible aromas of frying fish,sfincione, or Sicilian pizza, andpanelle, or fried chickpeas. He and Carmine sat down at a table with a plate ofpanelle, cut into sweet and savory squares.
“Carmine, it’s good to see you.” Gaetano had missed Carmine since he’d left the Beati Paoli.
“You as well. I’m sorry about what happened at the last meeting.”
“Not at all. I hope you understand why I left.” Gaetano took a bite ofpanelle, which tasted deliciously nutty and crunchy.
“I do. How’s your investigation going?”
Gaetano gave him the tally. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with the second kidnapping. I don’t know if it’s related.”
“We have too few facts.”
“It’s true. I don’t know the age of the second boy, so I can’t start over with another set of baptismal records.”
“What a task!” Carmine frowned. “I’m worried about you, and the others were, too. After you left, they regretted what they’d said.”
“I don’t blame them.” Gaetano wanted to unburden himself. “Carmine, Maria didn’t leave me in anger. She left to give me time to do the investigation.”
“Oh, how generous of her.”
