For All the Gold in the World Read Free Page A

encounters between people looking for a meeting place both absolutely confidential and on neutral ground.
    I awaited my potential new client while sipping a grappa cut with Elixir di China, comfortably seated in one of the light-brown velvet-upholstered armchairs, the only lighter note in a room dominated by dark wood furniture.
    I heard the sound of a car braking on the pea gravel, followed by that of three car doors slamming.
    â€œThat’s a lot of people,” I thought to myself, my curiosity piqued.
    When I found myself face-to-face with the three guys, I realized that this was a gang or, at the very least, a delegation made up of a gang’s most important members. The boss was the first one to introduce himself. “Nicola Spezzafumo,” he said, extending his hand.
    In the underworld he was known as Nick the Goldsmith because he specialized in heists and burglaries from jewelery stores and jewelers’ workshops. I knew that he’d taken several years in prison like a man, a mark of his character that made him worthy of respect in my eyes.
    He must have recently turned fifty and he’d put on a jacket and tie to come to this meeting. The other two were younger. Not much over thirty. Giacomo and Denis. Elaborate hairstyles from a small-town barber, tattoos on their necks and the backs of their hands.
    A round of hard liquor and cigarettes to give the new arrivals a chance to size me up properly. The case had to be a sensitive one. I considered their indecision rather offensive, but curiosity kept me in my seat. After an exchange of glances, Spezzafumo made up his mind to speak.
    â€œOn November 27th, two years ago, three armed, masked men broke into a country villa outside of Piove di Sacco immediately after dinner, murdering the owner of the house and his housekeeper. His wife and daughter survived because they’d just left to attend a dance recital at the parish church.”
    I nodded. I remembered the case. It had been on the front pages of the local papers for months because of the savagery of the murders. This kind of thing had happened before. The intruders knew that there was a safe in the place and they needed the combination to get it open. The victims were uncooperative, and that then unleashed a burst of senseless violence.
    The housekeeper, a woman in her early forties originally from Pordenone, had taken the brunt just because she was a woman. The bastards had had their fun with and then pitilessly tortured her until the gunshot to the head came as a genuine act of mercy, putting an end to the poor woman’s suffering.
    Then it had been the man’s turn. A businessman, forty-seven, he and his wife had set up a small atelier to produce cashmere garments. He’d refused to talk as long as he could simply because he knew they’d never leave him alive anyway. The autopsy had revealed the presence of deep burns over much of his body and a bullet hole in his skull.
    The subsequent investigation, though meticulous, hadn’t produced any definitive results, as the detectives like to say at press conferences when they’ve come up empty-handed. An anonymous letter, probably written by a neighbor, had reported the presence of three men dressed in black, their faces concealed by ski masks, seen leaving the house dragging three wheeled suitcases. After a short distance, they’d vanished down a country lane where they’d most likely concealed their car.
    â€œI don’t understand what this has to do with your business,” I said. “Was the owner of the villa a friend of yours?”
    â€œHis name was Gastone Oddo and he was one of us,” Nick the Goldsmith replied, watching for my reaction. I didn’t bat an eye, and he decided to go on. “He hid our ‘merchandise’ and our weapons, laundered our money, and invested our profits for us.”
    I glanced at his confederates. Denis’s eyes were glistening. The other man lit a