Viper

'War games.' Valsi clapped his hands, 'Now you're talking! This is something I'm good at.'

Mazerelli drummed two fingers on the board, then swivelled it round to face his visitor. 'This is called a goban; it's made from a tree that is more than seven hundred years old. The stones are called goishi; the white ones in front of you are made from clamshells, these black ones are cut from slate.'

Valsi scratched his nose. 'What do we do?'

Mazerelli disdainfully dropped a single black stone on to a square. 'You have to surround my stone with your stones. You have to claim your territory and out-think your opponent. Do you understand?'

'Course I understand. It's like a gang war. Here you are…' Valsi pointed at the black piece, then poured a handful of his white pieces around it in a circle. 'And here I am. All over your head, your ass, your fucking heart and your weak lawyer balls. Game over!' He swept his hand across the board and sent the expensive pieces clattering noisily on to the hard floor.

Several lay chipped and broken.

Valsi didn't apologize. He didn't even look to see where they'd fallen. His eyes stayed locked, challengingly, on Mazerelli's.

The consigliere didn't blink. His face showed no trace of anger or even disappointment at what had happened. 'You're right. If crude and ugly moves like that were allowed, then yes, you'd have won hands down. But there are rules to the game.' He bent down and began gathering the goishi from near Valsi's feet.

'Not for me,' said the Capo. 'I've never played by the rules. Maybe you best remember that.'

'I'll be sure to.'

'What? You think great generals play by the rules? You think the Brits and Yanks, the Russians and your beloved fucking Japs do it all by the rule book? Don't be so fucking naive.' He glanced around the room, the argument was over for him. 'You got any water, or anything to drink?'

Mazerelli slowly finished gathering the pieces and put them away in subtle stone bowls next to the goban. He walked back into the galley kitchen, poured a tumbler of fresh water from a dispenser on the fridge and shouted, 'You want ice?'

'Yeah, plenty of it.'

The consigliere handed over the glass and wondered what Gina had ever seen in the mannerless brute. 'Your father-in-law has asked me to speak to you.'

Valsi sipped the water. 'Then speak.'

Mazerelli rubbed his hands thoughtfully. He considered how exactly to phrase things. 'Apparently, you have been indulging in some activities which are beyond your scope and beyond our territory.'

Valsi put his water down. 'Non capisco. Try again. Maybe this time use a language I might understand.'

'Okay.' The lawyer lifted an envelope off the top of a rosewood cabinet in the corner of the room. 'Take a look at these. There are no difficult words, just pictures – you might be able to keep up with the conversation now.'

Valsi fingered open the flap and shook out a set of black and white prints. He felt his pulse race as he fanned through the shots of his team of dealers, pushers and gang leaders plying their trade.

Mazerelli lifted Valsi's glass and put a bamboo coaster beneath it. 'Good, aren't they?'

'I don't know these people. Why are you showing them to me?'

'I didn't take them, a Cicerone took them. And you do know these people. They work for Ivetta, Donatello – and for you. Turn to the back and you'll see some very revealing shots of the three of you. The Fun Boy Three. Only the Don doesn't think you're that much fun.'

Valsi was shrewd enough to say nothing. He stared at Mazerelli as if he'd suddenly grown bored. 'So, why am I here? You got a message to deliver – then deliver it.'

'Ah, see – you do understand that games have rules. Good. Yes, I do have a message to give you.'

Valsi sat forward a little and scratched his back.

'You won't need that.' Mazerelli recognized the move as a cover to check a gun tucked in the back of his belt.

Valsi pulled out the pistol anyway. The conversation had taken a turn for the worse and if it got any uglier – maybe with some armed knuckleheads materializing out of nowhere – then he'd rather have the piece in his hands. 'So, get on with your message. What's the word?'

'Whatever money you made from the dealing, you give to me -'

'The fuck I will.'

'Let me finish.'

Valsi glared at him, then waved a hand. 'Go on.'

'Whatever money you made from the dealing, you give to me. All of it. Plus one hundred thousand euros. I will pass this to the Cicerone consigliere and cement a peace between us.'

'Bullshit!' Valsi stood up, shook the creases out of his trousers and tucked the pistol in his belt. 'I'm leaving.'

Mazerelli stepped to one side and waved him to the door. 'Then go. But if you do not do this, you disrespect Don Fredo. And he may not be able to give you the protection of the Family.'

Valsi slapped Mazerelli between the legs. Grabbed his balls and squeezed hard. 'Now you listen to me, you bollockless, fancy-worded fucker. You dare talk to me about disrespect and protection? Who the fuck do you think you are?' Valsi swished his leg in a fast curl behind the lawyer's knees. Dropped him to the floor with the ease of a father play-fighting a young son. 'I'm paying nothing. If the Don wants to wad-off the Cicerone Family himself, then fine, let the old man do that. If he chooses to encourage a Cicerone goon to try to whack me, then also fine. Good luck to him. Let them try. It would be good to have the war we should have had years ago. So, now I have a message for you, my dear consigliere. Tell my father-in-law not to disrespect me. Tell him that if he's got a problem, he raises it with me personally, he doesn't send his monkey.' Valsi stepped away from the lawyer, held out his hand and helped him stand. 'Oh, and tell the consigliere of the Cicerone that if they move against me, I will personally rip their Don's heart out of his body, make calzone out of it and feed it to his whores.'

Valsi brushed dust off Mazerelli's shoulders. 'Now, I'll leave you to your work. Seems like you've suddenly become a very busy messenger boy.'

55

Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio Pale pink sunlight streamed through the rain clouds, making patches of broken ground in the National Park look like rare-cooked steak. On the safe side of the crime-scene tape, Sylvia Tomms slouched against the broad trunk of an evergreen and wondered how many women's bodies had been buried in the earth that her team was now digging and sifting.

Necropolis.

Sorrentino's word rolled noisily over her thoughts, like a primed hand grenade.

Inside the cordoned-off search area, young carabinieri soldiers ignored the rain and dug hard volcanic earth. Each crack of a shovel made Sylvia wonder whether they'd hit centuries-old lava, or recently buried bone.

'Caffe! ' announced Pietro, handing over a plastic cup that was so thin Sylvia couldn't hold it.

'Che caldo, that's hot!' She hurriedly put it down, at the foot of the tree.

'It is the boiling water that makes it like that,' joked her lieutenant.

Sylvia was too tired to laugh. Every volt of her brain power, every watt of her energy, was spent on the investigation. 'You check with the overnight team? Any news? Any sign of Creed?'

'I checked. Nothing. I have two details canvassing houses near where Jack and I saw him pull off the autostrada. Local patrols are still searching for the car. It's his own, not stolen.'

'Good. I want this man sitting in a cell – as soon as possible.' Her eyes scanned the scarred, rugged parkland, settling on the soldiers as they dug for bones. 'How many, Pietro? How many bodies do you think might be out here?'

The big Italian gazed over the fluttering tape. 'Depends. Maybe we'll find only one more.'