Free The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) by Michele Giuttari

why the killing was carried out on their property. A word of advice: look into the past of that family and leave the Black Rose alone. It will never die.
 
    Farewell!
 
    Leonardo Berghoff
 
    It will never die
.
    Had the lodge been hindering him from behind the scenes? If so, why?
    Having killed Leonardo Berghoff, had the Black Rose really decided to eliminate his godfather, Enrico Costanza, to punish him for allowing his face to be seen by Madalena and putting them all in danger?
    Suddenly he remembered the words of Angelo Duranti, who had been the Commissioner when he first came to Florence, and with whom he had struck up a close friendship:
Be careful, Chief Superintendent. In this city, if you put your finger in shit, you’ll usually end up with your hands full of it
.
    And he had not been mistaken.
    Florence was a city with two faces, as he had discovered to his cost. A city where hidden powers, deviant lodges, worked secretly. As this letter seemed to prove.
    As he sat at his desk, the question that had been nagging away at him for several hours came back: Could he and his men have prevented this double murder? His answer was a decisive one: No!
    Recovering from his wound far from Florence, in Germany, had prevented him from carrying out the necessary investigations in person. But Rizzo had done so in his place. They had talked about it that very morning in front of Costanza’s villa.
    He knew he would have to inform the Prosecutor about the letter, although he wasn’t sure how. For the moment, he told himself, he had to concentrate on its contents. Somewhere in those lines, he might be able to find a motive for the murder of Enrico Costanza. Then, and only then, would he decide how to inform the Prosecutor’s Department.
    The letter, written by Berghoff shortly before he died, could be a genuine piece of evidence, the key to everything. It was of primary importance to look into the victim’s life to discover its secrets, its hidden aspects.
    They would also need to clarify the exact role of Inspector Sergi, known as Serpico, who was one of Ferrara’s best men, a man who had even saved his life.
    He remembered the raid a few years earlier on a small house in Montecatini Alto used by a dangerous gang of Albanian drug traffickers. With a shove in the back, Sergi had thrown him to the floor and the shot fired by the leader of the gang had grazed the officer behind him. The criminal had then been killed by a perfectly timed burst of submachine gunfire by Serpico.
    Could he really be a mole in the service of the Black Rose? A traitor? A corrupt cop? Could he, Ferrara, who prided himself on knowing his colleagues, have been wrong about him all these years?
    It suddenly occurred to him that Sergi hadn’t called him once during the day. That was strange, not like him at all.
    Where had he gone for his leave?
    He got up from the desk and went back to bed, taking care not to disturb Petra’s sleep.
    It was now 3.32 a.m. by the clock on the bedside table.
     
    He couldn’t move.
 
    He was defenceless, watching the figure approach him from the distance. Gradually, as the figure came closer, its features became more and more distinct. It was wearing men’s clothes and towered above him. When it was just a few steps away, he was able to make out its face. It was anonymous. No distinguishing features. Nothing. Suddenly it burst into loud laughter.
 
    Then the figure came even closer and opened one of its hands, revealing a long, sharp knife. Terrified, he watched the knife glimmer in the light of the lamp on the bedside table. Then he saw it come down towards him and into his eyes
…
 
    His cry woke Petra.
    ‘
Schatzi
, darling…’ she said, shaking him gently.
    Tossing and turning in the bed, he struggled to return to reality. At last, still terrified, he opened his eyes.
    Petra’s voice had inserted itself into a lake of blood.
    He saw her.
    ‘What happened?’ he asked her.
    ‘Nothing, Michele,’ she replied,