The Camorra Connection

The sun had already begun its languid descent behind the terracotta rooftops of Rome by the time I finally dragged myself awake. I had slept for the better part of the day—a heavy, dreamless slumber that left me feeling more leaden than rested. As I sat up, the sheets felt damp against my skin. Even with the shutters drawn tight, the Roman heat had permeated the room, and I remained coated in a fine sheen of sweat—a visceral reminder of last night and the excesses that had likely seeped out of my pores while I was dead to the world.

"Enough of that," I muttered to the empty, high-ceilinged room.

I shuffled to the bathroom and took another shower, letting the water run as cold as I could endure. The chill helped snap the lingering fog from my brain. I moved through the motions of a second morning with a clinical sort of slowness. I dried off thoroughly, the towel feeling coarse against my skin, and brushed my teeth until the minty sting finally replaced the stale residue of last night's indulgence. After pulling on a fresh set of clothes that felt crisp and clean, I finally felt like a functional human being again.

An insistent, hollow ache settled in my stomach—a blunt demand for food that I couldn't ignore. I required something to ground me, yet the prospect of a decadent carbonara or a rich ragu felt entirely too taxing for my current state. I pulled up a delivery app on my phone, scrolling past dozens of local trattorias and pizzerias. My thumb hovered over a place called Great Wall Express.

"I know, I know," I whispered, glancing toward the window as if the city itself could sense my betrayal. "I’m in Rome. I should be seeking out the finest pasta in the world."

But the heart—and the hangover—demanded its own particular salvation. Italian food simply held no appeal after a night out. I needed salt, soy sauce, and the familiar, unpretentious comfort of a cardboard oyster pail. I placed the order and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang. I headed down to the street level to meet the driver. A young man on a Vespa, wearing a bright yellow thermal backpack, pulled up to the curb.

"Buonasera! Ordine per...?" he asked, checking the receipt. "Good evening! Order for...?"

"For me," I said, stepping forward.

He handed over the bag, the aroma of ginger and fried rice immediately wafting through the steam. He paused, looking at the restaurant's logo and then up at the ancient architecture surrounding us. He gave a small, amused huff.

"Cinese? A Roma?" he asked, his eyebrows arching in playful judgment. "Chinese? In Rome?"

I offered a sheepish shrug, clutching the warm bag to my chest. "I know. It's a crime, right?"

"Per me? No. Ma il mio nonno? Lui ti butterebbe nel Tevere. Buon appetito,” he said with a smile. "For me? No. But my grandfather? He would throw you in the Tiber. Enjoy your meal!"

"Grazie," I called out as he sped off into the Roman twilight.

I headed back up to my apartment, the weight of the greasy bag feeling like a hard-won victory. I sat by the window, watching the golden hour light hit the cobblestones below, and dug into the lo mein and fried rice. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite, following it up with the fried dumplings, the crisp crunch of several egg rolls, and the savory sweetness of the sesame chicken.

It wasn't Italian, but it was exactly the grounding I needed. As the salt and grease began to settle my nerves, my thoughts drifted to the reason I was here alone. I had escaped my brother, though I knew the reprieve was only temporary. He would eventually find it in himself to forgive me, but I knew that he was hurt; the sting of my departure would be sharp once Santi and Marlon broke the news that I was gone.

After cleaning up the remnants of dinner, I poured myself a large glass of water. As much as I’d enjoyed the cold sodas with the meal, they wouldn’t do much to hydrate a body that had spent the last twenty-four hours dancing, partying, and sleeping through most of the day.

I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to Sera. Landed yesterday but you already knew that. I’m safe. Tell Vic I don't need a babysitter.

Her reply arrived almost instantly, written in her typical, blunt shorthand. Safe is a reach. You have a documented history of chaos and mayhem within forty-eight hours of touchdown. Stay low. No stunts like the ones you pulled in Corfu a year ago.

I knew she just wanted me safe, especially now that I had finally left Russia and the shadow of government work behind. I laughed quietly to myself and typed out a response. Italy is different.

I know it is, she shot back. It’s your connection to the Camorra family by blood. You can’t pick them and the government, friend. It’s one or the other.

Agreed, Sera, I messaged. That’s why I’m here and why I tossed the tracker you put in my stuff. I came here quietly for that reason….I need to end my work with the government here so I can help my family.

Why are you trying to kill me? she replied. I could care less about the damn tracker but I was hoping you’d stick with the government.

No, I’m not trying to kill you, I wrote. Your heart is in your throat because you’re too close to me on this. It’s why I got rid of the tracker and why I sent Vic away. I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.

Vic can protect you while you’re there, she insisted.

Not while I’m dealing with my family. They don’t take well to outsiders.

But they could hurt you.

They won’t risk hurting me, Sera.

How do you know this?

They know who I am. They won’t risk hurting royalty….or extended members of royalty.

The response was immediate, sharp with the reality of our past. "You know better than anyone that the throne is gone, Lucia. Survival doesn't make you a princess anymore."

I’m well aware of that, I typed, staring out at the Roman twilight. Russia is in a dictatorship and Italy isn’t. Look, I need to go. I need to spend another night making some connections before I see my family tomorrow.

Ok, be safe.

Thanks, I will.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. It was time to start working on the plan. Last night hadn't just been about the partying; I had managed to copy Mario’s phone and the phones of his friends as they moved through the crowd near me. The data was already beginning to paint a map of their movements. I decided that the best way to move tonight was to blend in with the unhoused population I had passed earlier.

I chugged more water to head off a brewing headache, then went to my bedroom to get dressed. I raided my closet and found well-worn clothes that had a few rips and just enough grime to pass inspection. I stripped out of my sweats and started layering the worn clothes, pulling on the heavy boots I’d been breaking in lately. In the bathroom, I added gel to my hair and tied it back into a tight, severe low ponytail.

I grabbed my phone, my Italian passport, and my Italian driver's license. When in Italy, I’d rather be a ghost of who I really am. Sure, I was born and raised here for most of my life and connected to the Camorra family in more than one way. You could say that they were family in two different ways. I was related to Robert Mazzarella by blood and I was raised in the lifestyle.

I’m sure you’re wondering who Robert Mazzarella is and I can tell you what he’s allegedly known for but not right now.