What made it so much harder to bear was the fact that Corvetto, who called himself a communist, All for one and one for all, brother! - and what shit that was – had grown more powerful than ever. The bastard lived like a barone in his sprawling fenced-off estate with its olive groves and lemon trees, with guards on the gate and dogs roaming free. The fat turd dined on the best food and wine, nothing but the finest for him. And whenever he left his compound he was surrounded by bodyguards. But he was still just a man. He could still be killed.
Time and again Astorre went to the compound, hiding in the shrubbery as he watched Corvetto’s place, the comings and goings. And as he watched, he remembered that day when the volcano had poured out its lava, poisoning the atmosphere, and he’d run through the ash-covered streets with Gilberto, the pair of them choking and breathless, falling into the police station to see his father’s torn, ruined, blood-covered body.
Twenty long, hard years Astorre had been waiting for his revenge. Now he was afraid he might have waited too long. Corvetto was a hugely influential figure among the partisans, and if he was hit there would be hell to pay. Astorre thought of this, late into the night when Bella was asleep and he lay sleepless, staring at the ceiling in their hovel, sweating in the heat.
If – when – he hit Corvetto, he would have to take his family and run. Not just out of Napoli, but out of the country itself.
That thought broke his heart.
But he would do it.
It would be worth it, that sacrifice, to have his revenge for the death of his dear Papa. He was camorristi, after all, and to one of that ancient brotherhood, revenge was everything.
And by God, he swore he would have it.
25
Bianca often felt like a mushroom – kept in the dark and fed horseshit. From the word go, to her brothers she had always been the little one, the useless girl, the outsider who’d come in from the cold. She was deemed to have no part in the dark and dangerous world her family inhabited. Bianca knew all this. She also knew that this was the reason why, when she had started to kick against her enforced exclusion, the men of the family had gone into conference and decided that OK, they would throw her a little something to shut her up.
And so she was put in charge of a washed-up drinking club behind the old city walls in Southampton.
Near enough for Vittore to keep an eye on me, she thought. But far enough outside London to be sure I don’t try to get involved in any of the big stuff.
She knew she was being palmed off, kept quiet. But she also knew that if she made a success of Dante’s, her brothers might – just might – start to look at her in a different light. So that was what she was determined to do.
If life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, right?
Right.
So here she was, cast into the outer darkness but about to make a kick-arse success out of something the brothers were sure she was going to fail at.
She wasn’t going to fail.
No way.
It hurt that even Tito, Tito whom she had so adored, treated her dismissively, as if she was a liability, not a thinking, fully functioning human being who, given a chance, could be a useful member of the family. She knew she wasn’t a team player; she was, in fact, a natural boss – a leader, not a follower. And there were already enough bosses in the family. The Danieri boys, being bossed around by a mere female? Unthinkable. Unless her name was Mama Bella.
Having such a powerful mama figure in their lives didn’t seem to have done the boys much good. Bianca thought of Tito, who had never married. And mean, bossy Vittore with his meek little wife Maria, who was so obviously scared to death of him – and of Mama too. And Fabio, whose cruel butterfly mentality was of the fuck ’em and forget ’em variety. None of the brothers had what she would call easy relationships with women.
Bianca thought of her own romantic past. A few boyfriends, nothing serious. Of course, she had never introduced any of them to her family. God forbid. Any male coming within fifty yards of her would get a hell of a grilling from the brothers, and run a mile. Not that there were any prospects at the moment. She was too busy with the business, there was no time for relationships.
Maybe she was better on her own. Into her mind drifted the image of the man who had stared at her while she’d been stuck in London traffic en route to Tito’s funeral. The fiercely intelligent blue eyes, so startling, so full of pain and so strikingly odd in that dark-skinned face. The sensual mouth, the noble face, the close-cropped black hair…
Shit, what was wrong with her?
She was standing here pie-eyed, daydreaming about a man she had seen once, in a car, and would never see again.
Get a grip, girl, she told herself. And turned her attention back to the paperwork on her desk.
26
Kit was standing in the flat above Sheila’s restaurant. His restaurant, now that Michael was gone; he’d inherited it along with all the other restaurants, clubs, shops, stalls, properties and a thriving loan business. He hadn’t set foot in Sheila’s, or the little office at the back where Michael had worked, controlled his legitimate and his criminal empire, not since they’d found Michael shot dead in that alley. He’d…
let things slide.
Yeah. That was it. He’d let things slip away because nothing really seemed to matter any more. He’d left it to Rob and the other boys to pick up the slack, and he shouldn’t have. If Michael was here, he’d kick his arse, hard. But Michael was gone. So here Kit was, feeling hung-over, his head banging away like a brass band. He was looking around, and wondering what the fuck he was looking for.
You know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for answers.
Yeah, that was it. Answers to who killed Michael Ward.
Kit stared around the flat. It was big and tastefully furnished, decked out in neutrals – beiges and pale antiqued pinks and fine powder blues. He saw a feminine hand at work here – probably Ruby’s. He glanced at Rob, who was standing there inside the open door to the flat. From downstairs, faintly, came the sounds of pots and pans clanging in the kitchens. Savoury aromas were floating up the stairs, making Kit feel nauseous. He could hear silverware being laid out front-of-house, the waiting staff talking, laughing, polishing glasses.
Everything was as normal.
Only it wasn’t; it would never be normal again.
Kit went through the little sitting area and into the bedroom. He opened the wardrobe door: empty. He heaved a sigh. Ruby would have done this: cleared out all Michael’s clothes, his Savile Row suits and his costly handmade shoes.
He closed the wardrobe door, went to the dressing table. Same again, empty. Then he looked in the bedside tables. Nothing.
Rob had followed him through. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, watching.
‘You can go if you want,’ said Kit. ‘Fuck-all to see here, anyway. Don’t Ruby need you?’
‘I’ve put Reg on that,’ said Rob.
Kit looked at Rob. Reg was a big white-haired ex-boxer who had pulled out of the breaking game after some hernia trouble. Chauffeuring Ruby would be a doddle for him.