Once installed in the place, Astorre took Tito out with him onto the streets to look around, to familiarize himself with London. The chill here was unbelievable, the damp and the fog seemed to permeate their very bones after the dry radiant Neapolitan sun. But they were tough and they were desperate.
Soon they sussed out that there was a pocket of Italian immigrants living in Clerkenwell – so many that it was called ‘Little Italy’ by the English. That was where Astorre wanted to be, among his own kind. Already, he missed the old country, but he knew that he would never go back. There were others who possessed the same deadly patience he had displayed; no matter how many years passed, it would never be safe for him or his family back in Napoli.
What he needed right now was more cash.
And that, at least, was a problem it would be easy to solve.
Astorre and Tito spied out and targeted a few clubs in London – ‘up West’, as the Londoners called the more salubrious part of their city. These particular clubs were owned by one man, a self-made heavy plant millionaire called Fred Cheeseman. Cheeseman’s doormen were old lions, losing their teeth, unable to stand against bulky Astorre and his thuggish cub.
‘All right. You can take over security on my doors,’ Cheeseman told the Danieris. ‘But I still run the bar and the business.’
Trying to talk tough, like he actually had a choice in the matter. As he spoke, Tito was standing at his father’s shoulder, slapping a cosh rhythmically into the palm of his hand; big bulging-eyed Astorre was blocking out the light. Cheeseman, a short bald man, was terrified.
Cheeseman doled them out a contract, and hoped that would be the end of it – the fool. Within six months he’d caved in to extreme pressure and handed the clubs over. Astorre had even been so good as to pay him – a knock-down price, of course, a small salve to his wounded pride – and Cheeseman departed with his kneecaps intact.
‘You got to take what you want in this life,’ Astorre told his boys. And he did.
Soon they had money enough for their own home in London’s ‘Little Italy’. They became established and well respected in the area, running the clubs as fronts to launder the money they acquired by other means. The family worshipped together every Sunday – Mama Bella insisted – at St Peter’s church, and they attended all the big Catholic festivals; particularly, Bella loved to see the Procession della Madonna del Carmine passing through the packed streets in the summer. Still, she missed Napoli, and the old Italian songs filled the house as she remembered the old country with a nostalgic tear. But this was home now; it had to be. All that was missing, for Bella, was the daughter she longed for.
Tito was growing into a robust man now. Vittore, his mother’s little pet, was growing up fast too and showing signs of becoming a good businessman. Even Fabio, who had been a sickly sulky child – not exactly neglected but certainly not what Mama Bella wanted – was gaining strength as the Danieris surged forward, became established in their new environment.
But Bella still craved a daughter. Her sister had a girl – Serafina, who would later change her name to Sheila – but she had only sons. It broke her heart. Discreet enquiries by Astorre revealed that, as new immigrants, the Danieris would not be deemed suitable adoptive parents, and anyway they were in their forties now. They were simply too old.
‘I want a girl,’ sobbed Bella, clutching her chest when Astorre passed on the bad news.
He hated to see her pain; he still loved her, in his way.
So he decided. Bella wants a girl? She must have one.
46
Jay didn’t want to tell Vittore what he knew. He was familiar with the Danieri taste for shooting the messenger. But he had worked for the family – particularly for Vittore – for a lot of years, and if the crap really started flying and it was discovered he’d said nothing, then he’d be even deeper in the shit. So he had to speak up.
They were in the room over the club that had been Tito’s favourite – under Tito’s reign this room had been opulent, all chandeliers, deeply padded couches, gold leaf and tarts on tap, playfully inviting you to suck chocolate buttons off their nipples. Now it was called Vito’s and Vittore held sway. Things were plainer, less flamboyant, reflecting Vittore’s own sober nature. The whole tone of the club had changed since Tito had got himself rubbed out. Everything was more low-key. All greys and browns. Fucking dull, really. Whatever Tito’s faults – and they’d been many – at least he’d had a certain exuberant charm. Vittore had none. With Vittore, everything was business, everything was cost.
‘So what’s the problem, Jay?’ Vittore asked him, sitting down on one of the functional stone-coloured marl Habitat sofas and indicating that his employee should sit too.
Jay sat down. He was a tall man for an Italian, fortyish, his face deeply scarred purple down the left cheek by a knife attack back in his twenties. He was a good worker. Diligent. Dedicated to the family that had kept him in sharp suits and cannelloni for a long time.
‘It’s Fab,’ said Jay.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been doing some moonlighting, working on his own.’
‘So?’ This wasn’t news. Vittore had always been aware that Fab had deals cooking outside the normal run of things. The normal run of things was the clubs, through which the family washed clean all the money that came in from other sources, criminal sources. It made him uneasy, but that was Fabio. He was crazy. You just had to accept that.
‘Bank jobs, drug stuff, you know,’ said Jay. ‘Other things too. More serious things.’
‘Such as?’
Jay looked uncomfortable.
‘Go on,’ Vittore prompted.
‘A guy I know had a shipment of coke snatched. He’s a straight man, sound. He asked Fab and his boys to get the cargo back for him.’
‘And did they?’ Vittore was frowning, wondering where all this was leading. Fabio should never have acted on any of this without first discussing it with him, gaining his permission – and where was his fucking cut of the proceeds? The boss always took a cut, and he was boss now, had the cheeky little cunt forgotten that?
‘They did, but Fabio stiffed him, boss. Took him for sixty per cent of the value of the entire load. Guy says he’s seriously out of pocket. He was going to pay them, pay them well, but he’s saying around town Fabio screwed him over royally.’
Vittore was silent, thinking. This was bad. If word of this spread and they got a reputation among the other firms for sharp practice, tempers would flare.
‘Maybe you could talk to him,’ suggested Jay. ‘I think he may be offloading the stuff around the clubs.’
‘Yeah. Maybe I will,’ said Vittore. ‘Meanwhile, keep an eye on him, will you? And report back to me.’
Vittore was thinking that his brother was a pain in the arse. He had enough on his plate already, what with Miller to sort out. He’d started on that, only a little thing, but every little thing felt good. He wouldn’t take just one big bite out of that cake, he would nibble at it, savour it.
I’ll tear the heart out of each and every one of you, he thought. And he would. He’d do it. Slowly. Inch by inch.