Road to Rome

As soon as the car drove out of the gate of the monastery, the strange man sitting next to him apologized quietly, claiming that he had to blindfold Marco because of "safety requirements".Although the man is polite and seems genuinely sorry, the gun strapped to his waist suggests that Marco has no other options.For the next two hours or so, all he could hear was the sound of rain and the noise of the engine.The car bumped occasionally, seldom turned, and stopped somewhere for a while on the way.Ma Ke reached his destination and raised his hand to untie the cloth strip, but the other hand immediately stopped the movement, "Sorry, Mr. Costa, we haven't arrived yet. Do you need anything, water? Biscuits? Maybe go to the bathroom ?”

He shook his head and refused.Leaning on the leather seat, raising his head, trying to make the most of the darkness in front of him, listening carefully to the sounds around him.The rain did not know when it stopped, the driver's door was opened but not closed, the breeze blowing in from the outside had a smell of pine resin mixed with wet soil.So they're still in the suburbs, and the destination is clearly not Manhattan.

The driver came back and they were back on the road.The second part of the journey is shorter, and Marco estimates it to be between 10 minutes and 10 minutes.The wheels rolled over the gravel, rattled, turned a gentle bend, and stopped.The black cloth was pulled away, and Marco got out of the car, squinting his eyes in the sunlight.Five lush apple trees slowed the impact of the light, and the tree with the best light had already bloomed small white flowers early.The house with the A-shaped roof is half in the shade of the trees and half in the sun, with a warm creamy yellow exterior.Father Clement motioned for Marco to go in first and held the door for him.

In the living room, there was a faint warm aroma of roasted poutchita, and this strange house suddenly smelled like home.A woman wrapped in a woolen cardigan stood up from the sofa, stared at Marco, her face was pale, and she began to wipe her eyes before she could speak.Marco strode over, hugged his mother, patted her on the back, and told her everything was fine.

"Mother," he whispered, in Italian, hoping secretly that Father Clement didn't understand, "they didn't threaten you, did they? Are you hurt?"

"No, no, Paula and the kids have gone to Canada, as we agreed. Rubio is staying in New York to take care of the business. Your father... Come on, come and see your father."

"Mrs. Costa, I don't want to appear rude." Father Clement interjected, also in Italian, with the same rounded and standard pronunciation of every vowel, and also without a discernible accent, "I'm afraid we only have about five minutes." time. The agents are waiting to speak to your son, after which, I promise, Marco can stay with Mr. Costa as long as he wants."

"Okay, Father, five minutes."

"10 minutes." Marco bargained.To my mother, the clergy are all shining saints, and a stupid sentence from any priest is an unquestionable order. He doesn't think so, "I will come out when the time is up, and don't come in to disturb."

"Two and 10 minutes, as a proof of goodwill." The white fox replied gently.Marco was both surprised and annoyed, none of the sharp responses that he had planned were needed, and the smile on the other party's face became more obvious, "We will wait for you in the room at the end of the corridor, and the supply of coffee and wine is plentiful. I'll see you at dinner time, ma'am." He nodded to Marco's mother and walked away, not at all looking like a man over sixty in his gait.

-

Marco didn't use up the 10 minutes in the end.The way Dad lay motionless on the hospital bed made him restless.My father has indeed shown signs of aging in recent years, especially since he was in prison, but he has never been so close to death as he is now: the skin is taut on his forehead and cheekbones, and the tone and texture look unhealthy, like Waxed, bloody shadows under closed eyes.Marco tentatively let go of his father's curled fingers, and held his hand. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It felt weird, as if the person lying on the bed was a replica with precise proportions, and the real father didn't know. The end.He withdrew his hand, folded his arms, and exhaled. Mom put her hand on his shoulder and said nothing.The nurse sitting by the window reading a magazine glanced at them, lowered her head, and turned a page.

The whole thing had gone from an ordinary entrustment to a personal vendetta, Marco realized.He must make Bruch and his idiot "navigators" pay the price, otherwise the Costa family's shipping business is not far from the day when it will collapse completely.However, any form of revenge is in the hands of the church, giving them the opportunity to continue to manipulate Marko.He doesn't want to be a weapon that others use at will, and the only option left may be to escape, go to Canada, change his name, and start again in the lonely port of New Brunswick.Marco never felt that there was something disgraceful about escaping, and escaping was also a way to solve problems.

But not today, he glanced at his father again, not this time.Marco kissed his mother on the cheek, patted the back of her hand comfortingly, stood up, and left the room that smelled of sweat and urine.

The “room” at the end of the corridor was really a living room, rectangular and roomy enough for a bookshelf and five armchairs, with polished hardwood floors, white carpet, and pale green wallpaper with apple blossom patterns.Father Clement and two strange men were sitting on a sofa in front of the fireplace, which was not lit.The window was opened a crack to let in the warm, moist breeze from outside.As promised, there are not only coffee pots and spirit bottles of different heights on the coffee table, but also ice buckets and lemon slices.But there were only two wine glasses, one was in the hands of Father Clement, and the other was obviously for Marco.A whiskey glass with a wide mouth and a thick bottom that, with proper force, should be able to smash through a skull.Not counting the old priest, he had to deal with two grown men with guns, who were probably well-trained, and the risks far outweighed the benefits.Marco sat down, weighed the glass, and chose the bottle of whiskey with the least amount left.

"Don't like whiskey?" he asked the two strangers in suits.

"Never in the line of duty," replied the man on the left, with a forehead so high and wide that Marco thought it was a billboard. "I'm Agent Hughes, and this is my colleague, Agent Abbott. If you Don't mind, we'd like to give you a brief overview of the current plan and your role in it."

"You guys have already assigned me a 'role', what a surprise."

"We can slightly change the 'script' later, depending on your opinion."

Can be changed, but not allowed to leave the stage.Marco thought, adding an extra finger of whiskey to the glass.He had a hunch that he would need the extra alcohol soon.

The program itself is not complicated.If executed properly, nothing will be hurt except Marco's ego. "Basically, you need to crawl to Bruch's feet—not literally, you know." Detective Hughes laughed as if it was some terrible joke, and Father Clement and Detective Abbott All the officials were expressionless, "You are going to seek peace, ask to sit down and talk with him, redefine the sphere of influence, give up part of the shipping business and so on, this is up to you, Mr. Costa. You can use any excuse, Just get Bruch interested, fish him out. Then we'll take over."

"Define 'takeover'."

"We're going to arrest him."

"In uniform, a crowd rushing past, handcuffs, reporters, cameras?"

"Wearing uniforms, not disclosing the number of people, handcuffs, not allowing reporters to come over—at least not at first, and then there should be a press conference."

"Casual clothes, and no handcuffs." Marco put down the glass. The whiskey in it hadn't been drunk much and had been diluted by the melting ice. Bruch. I'll be a street rat overnight and Bruch will be a hero. As much as the Dock Rats hate Voyagers, they hate you even more, understand?"

"Civil clothes are not unacceptable." Detective Abbott replied. This was the first time Marco heard him speak. "The handcuffs were replaced with chloroform, and then Bruch was taken away in an unmarked vehicle."

"That's a little too gangsta, don't you think?" Agent Hughes snorted.

"You're the gang," Marco interrupted. "It's just an extra nice uniform, and someone stamped you for your violence."

"Mr. Costa's suggestion is very clear." Father Clement said, stepping on the sparks in the conversation in time to prevent a quarrel from igniting, "Not wearing a uniform can avoid attracting unnecessary attention, on this point I agree Mr. Costa's opinion. Handcuffs and guns can be hidden under coats and used only when absolutely necessary. And, if you don't mind," the old priest shrugged, as if it didn't matter what he was about to say, "the Church can provide Candidate meeting locations—several candidates, actually."

There are four locations in total.By dinner time, they barely crossed out two of them.Another unknown man delivered creamy spinach soup and baked poutchita, a mother's craft.The wind from the orchard turned cold, and Agent Abbott closed the windows and drew the shades.The light yellow light shines on the long-forgotten wine glass.Just before the hands of the clock touched the number 10, Hughes and Abbott finally agreed to set a vacant seafood restaurant as the stage.A wealthy believer made a will before his death and donated all his property to the Catholic Church. This restaurant is part of the legacy and has been quietly kept in the books for more than ten years.

After the script and the stage are finalized, it's time for the actors to appear.In less than 24 hours, Marco was transported back to New York, locked in the bed of a pickup truck, like a circus animal waiting to be exhibited.He didn't go to the hotel, nor did he set foot in other properties of the family, but lived upstairs in his own bar.Nobody loves gossip more than boatmen and sailors, and Bruch could have known within an hour that Marco Costa had reappeared, not hiding his whereabouts, and having no fear of Voyager's thugs.

A sailor asked him loudly where he had been hiding all month.

"Travel." Marco replied, smiling, "But you know, people are always tired when they run for too long. Sometimes you have to admit defeat, and people as young as me are no exception."

This sentence was clear to everyone present, just like Marco's every move after returning to New York, would soon reach Bruch's ears verbatim.

"You should have asked him to the seafood restaurant, why didn't you ask him to the restaurant?" Detective Hughes demanded over the phone 72 hours later, "You didn't even get in touch with his people."

"Of course his people will contact me." Marco replied and hung up the phone.If you're lucky, it's contact. If you're unlucky, you just break into the bar and shoot.This time his luck should be mixed.On the fourth day back to New York, the phone rang early in the morning. Marco stumbled into the living room in the dim light of the morning and took off the receiver.

"He knows you want to make peace," said a hoarse voice, without revealing who "he" is, "but he also knows that you are now a small pet dog with someone on your collar and he wants to talk to your owner. .”

"I only represent the Costa family, there is no 'collar', to borrow your poetic metaphor."

"Call the church, don't waste our time." The other party growled and hung up.

Marco smashed the receiver back hard, took a deep breath, picked it up again, and asked the operator to connect to another number in Manhattan.He thought that no one would answer the call. After all, it was just past six o'clock, but the call was connected just after the first ring. After a while of noise, the receiver was handed over to Father Clement.

"'Call the Church,' is that what he said?"

"Yes." Marco sat on the floor leaning against the wall tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

"Okay." White Fox said, with a slight electric noise, "he will get his wish."