A cobbled square with pigeons. A fountain casts shadows in the sunlight and there are shuttered buildings, silent in the heat of the afternoon. A boy in black trousers and a clean white shirt plays the violin in the shade of an archway. I think that these moments are incredibly beautiful. A car drives noisily into the piazza and stops. Mint green with a red stripe. I relax because a killer won’t be seen in a Fiat Cinquecento. The engine stops, and calm is restored. The boy plays something sorrowful as though he knows what comes next. The driver’s window slides down. A .22 revolver, black, shiny, and pointing at me. Bang! Bang! Bang! Blackness. But I can still hear the violinist – Corelli – Violin Sonata in D minor, Opus 5 – No. 12 La Folia.

I open an eye and see a light bulb on the ceiling. I open the other and see that the ceiling is dirty yellow. I can hear people talking. “He was supposed to die,” somebody says. “He probably will,” says another, “but we shall do our best.” I know that they are referring to me, and I’m frightened because I’m not dead, and that would have been the better option. My chest hurts, and so does my leg. I’m in excruciating pain but nobody seems to care. Perhaps they think I am a lost cause.

The door opens and a man with blue eyes stands over me. He shows concern but when he sees that I am conscious he relaxes. “He is still alive.” I try to tell him that I might be better off dead, but I can barely raise a whisper and the man doesn’t understand. I’m tired and must sleep, but I can hear someone singing. Raffaella Cara appears at my feet. “Rumore, Rumore.” She laughs and I try to give a thumbs up, but more blackness descends. 

When I wake, there are three people in the room. 

To the right of the bed is Mateo Pincerna, who wears a dark suit and sunglasses. “Rest,” he says, “I swear that I will get whoever did this to you.” I want to tell him that I’m exhausted, and that the killings have achieved nothing. We will always be at war, and I want to walk away from it. I also want to tell him that he is looking old and frail. My throat is bone dry and I say nothing.

I see mama sitting at the end of the bed, and I want to crawl into her lap like I did when I was a small boy. She would stroke my hair and tell me stories and I remember liking ‘The man who only came out at night’. Mama is dead, and she is weeping like the day that papa got killed in Scampia. She reaches out and says a prayer, and I want to confess that I’m lost to the church.

Pasolini is to my left. “I know what it is like to die a horrible death,” he says. “But you must not die because I need you to tell everyone that they got it wrong. They would not give me Salò back, and that was why I was killed.” He looks like he did in photographs, but in the fog, I realise he must be over one hundred years old. “He knows the truth!” he shouts, pointing accusingly at Mateo Pincerna who cannot see or hear him. “You must tell the truth!” 

The door opens, and the child whose face I never wanted to see again, is holding the hand of his grandfather. The boy is four and has the face of an angel. His grandfather whispers something and the boy looks at me. I know what the old man has said. “This is the man who shot you. This is the man who murdered you.” I need to apologise and say that it was a mistake, but I cannot speak. The shot was intended for Federico but I aimed badly and killed the small boy instead. Mama clutches her rosary beads that I thought were in a small box at the bottom of my wardrobe. Pasolini shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Who are you looking at?” Mateo Pincerna asks. His eyes search the room but there is nobody there. “You are delirious,” he says.

This should not have happened. I never wanted to be a bad person but needed to feel that I belonged. I’ve committed crimes that I wasn’t destined to commit. And now, in these last moments, I wish I’d stayed with my books and music and been like mama wanted me to be. But it is too late now.

It is getting dark, and my eyes heavier, but I try to keep them open because I know that when I close them, it will mean it is the end.

“I am here,” says a young man, who stands behind mama and gently puts his hand on her shoulder. “I have come for your son.”  Mama looks up at him and her face softens. “What is your name?” “I am Michele,” he says. “God bless you,” mama gasps. “I am grateful that you are so understanding.” I try to tell Michele that he is handsome and that I’m sorry he died young, but he holds up a hand and stops me. “It is time to go.” 

I shut my eyes and the pain subsides. I hear Mateo Pincerna splutter something. “An eye for an eye.” I submit, and sink deep into the mattress, but something happens… there is light, the brightest light I’ve ever seen, and Michele holds my hand, one that belongs to an assassin, and he speaks beautifully. “Come with me,” he says, “Your mama and papa are waiting.”