Leaving my office that evening, I looked around. Right, left, and then a glance at the doorway of the old building opposite, just in case the killer sent by Macri was hiding inside, waiting for me to appear.
Then I shrugged my shoulders and started walking.
I was about ready for the psychiatric hospital, I said to myself under my breath in an attempt to downplay the situation. But I really wasn’t in a good mood. I hated that feeling of not being safe, of being vulnerable. But what could that bastard do to me anyway? He couldn’t really have me shot. Or could he? He’d kicked up a fuss because he was scared of getting into trouble. Obviously he had something to fear. And what do Mafiosi do when they have something to fear? They react, obviously.
These disjointed thoughts kept going through my head until I reached home, by which time I was bored with them. I’m lucky that way. I can get bored with anything. Even fear. What the hell, I thought, Macri and his friends could all go fuck themselves.
Anyway, the next day, whatever happened, I would call Tancredi.