Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

like Capone Doors, those secret entrances and exits hidden by the Outfit all over Chicago. Even more important, it would be concealed in such a way that a Rispoli, and only a Rispoli, could find it. The key to unearthing that crucial nugget, I now believed, was spread throughout the notebook, scattered like golden puzzle pieces among its chapters and verse. I could never decode Buondiavolese on my own, but I was sure there were vital clues concealed in the pages, between the words, that would help me do it. I turned back to
“Volta”
and yawned, fighting to keep my eyes open as my chin touched my chest and consciousness receded.
    Seconds later, I opened an eye to a puff of cool outside air.
    It grazed my face like baby’s breath.
    I opened the other eye as a scratch of footsteps moved across the floor.
    The creatures had come for me, I was sure of it, and I leaped to my feet wildly, swinging the flashlight as the squeal of tiny voices filled the air and the ground moved in an undulating mass. I stood against the wall and looked down at hundreds of Great-Grandpa Nunzio’s rats, those loyal descendants of Antonio and Cleopatra, blanketing the floor. To other people with other sensibilities, a flash mob of rodents would be terrifying and repulsive; to me they were welcome family friends. Sensing a Rispoli in need of aid and comfort, they’d converged on the mausoleum to form a protective snuffling circle—but how, and from where? The limestone tomb was sealed tight to keep out moisture and nature, but here was nature in full bloom, with worm tails and glowing eyes. And then I felt the wind again, chilled and musty, and followed it across the room. The rats parted, and I stopped at a heavy marble panel on the far wall inscribed with a Latin phrase—
    S ILEO IN P ACIS
    —which translates as “Rest in Peace.” I traced a finger down the cool rock, stopped at the raised C in
pacis,
and gave it a push. It was slightly ajar from the rats, and now it opened fully, revealing a flight of stairs dropping into darkness. The reason for a Capone Door in the family crypt was easy to understand; it would’ve been a great place to hide booze during Prohibition or for a counselor-at-large to conduct a sit-down. The irony was that my great-grandparents and grandparents had an escape hatch at their fingertips but they weren’t going anywhere, ever. My instinct was to investigate what lurked beyond, wondering always if the next secret passageway would bring me closer to my family. I moved toward it, ready to descend, when the rats squeaked insistently, drawing my attention to their snuffling circle around the blanket. Like concerned relatives, they were urging me to rest. Flushed with weariness, I knew that what lay beyond the stairs would have to wait until another day; exhaustion and unexplored dark tunnels were a lethal combination. I shut the door tightly against the possibility of anyone or anything opening it from the other side, comforted by my newfound willingness to use the .45.
    I sighed, crossed the room, and lay down, allowing myself to be surrounded by hundreds of warm, breathing bodies.
    I came to the mausoleum to be near loved ones, and they’d found me.

3
    MY Cs LOOK LIKE CROOKED Gs.
    Most of the Ts seem like rejected Fs.
    My own name is so poorly written that it reads like some kind of disgusting special of the day on an Olive Garden menu.
    This is the long way of saying that after writing in my Fep Prep journal this morning (one of the bleariest Sundays ever), it’s impossible to ignore that my right hand jumps like a Richter scale needle all over the page. I held it out, comparing it to the other, which trembled even worse—not a good thing for a boxer who depends on her left hook. My eyes involuntarily wink and twitch, and a rumbling nausea with the threat of projectile puking made it impossible to eat. Also, if my fingernails could feel fear, mine lived in constant terror of my tense, gnawing teeth. After my