Chapter 17: What Daniele Read

"Put it down, Daniele," Paolo said, and his hand slid under his linen jacket. "You'll hit your wife."

"I won't miss," Daniele said.

His voice was hoarse and steady, and the gun did not shake at all.

"You sat in my house and ate my grandmother's food and had me sign it."

He took a step into the warehouse.

"I never read a thing I put my name to, Lombardi. I'm reading this."

Nobody at the long table moved.

Domenico stood half a pace in front of me, and I felt the heat of his body through the air.

Paolo smiled, the warm smile, and looked at his sister.

"Cari," he said. "I'm sorry about this."

His hand came out of the jacket with a short black pistol in it, and it came up at me.

I did not have time to be afraid.

Something hit me from the side and I went down against the concrete.

The shot cracked off the tin roof, and then a second one, and then a third.

I rolled over with my ears ringing.

Daniele lay across my legs on his back.

A dark stain was spreading on the left side of his torn shirt, and his gun was still in his right hand.

He had fired once.

Across the floor Paolo was holding his own forearm, with blood running through his fingers.

His pistol lay ten feet away on the concrete.

"Get the doors," the white-mustached man shouted.

Paolo's two men ran for the back of the warehouse.

My brother looked at me across the concrete.

Then he went after them through the loading door.

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