by Jessie Keane
Astorre’s family had come through the war relatively unscathed. He had managed to avoid being drafted into the army, and he’d kept Tito, who was now a strapping twenty-one-year-old, out of it, too, though it had taken all his remaining influence and that of any contacts still breathing to achieve this. But with the partisans in control his position was dangerously vulnerable, even though he’d had the sense to withdraw from the deposed Fascist Party.
At any moment Astorre expected a heavy knock at the door, to be marched outside and shot, then deposited in a shallow grave. His only defence was to move his family out of their home in town to a hovel in the country, scraping a living off the soil as best he could, skulking around the port looking for work or contraband, keeping his profile and that of his family as low as possible. Fear was their constant companion.
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.
‘Yeah? You didn’t ask me
about that,’ said Kit.
‘You weren’t in a fit state to ask.’
‘So you went ahead and did it.’
Rob shrugged again. You need me more right now than Ruby does, he thought, but didn’t say it. Kit was notorious for being Mr Self-sufficiency. The slightest hint that he was showing weakness and he’d kick off like a madman.
Kit let out a heavy sigh and sat down on the bed. He felt weak.
Too much drink.
His head ached and he was tired and he wanted . . .
You want the bottle, right? You want to forget all this reality shit and hide away with your old pal Jack Daniels.
He shook his head, tried to concentrate.
‘Did Michael ever keep . . . I dunno . . . maybe a diary? Anything like that?’ he asked.
Rob looked at him. ‘You kidding? Write stuff down for one of the straight filth to pick up on?’
Kit was aware that he’d said something stupid, made himself look a cunt. He took a sharp breath. Come on.
‘What about his personal effects? His wallet, cufflinks, comb, that sort of shit?’
‘Ruby cleared out this flat, so I guess she’s got them.’
‘She still got her key then?’
‘Must have.’
Kit surveyed the room. This was too much, he couldn’t do this. He closed his eyes, rubbed a weary hand over them and wished for a drink. At any moment he expected Michael to walk in the door, but that wasn’t going to happen. He had started to feel, that was where it had all gone wrong. In the kids’ homes, he had grown a hard shell of indifference over his heart. It was the only way; when you care for nothing and no one, not a damned thing in the world can hurt you.
But then he’d fallen for Gilda, and he’d grown close to Michael. Between the two of them they’d smashed Kit’s shell wide open, laid bare his innermost soul, opened it wide to anguish, to loss, to grief. He was tormented by memories of Gilda’s laugh, the feel of her skin against his. And Michael’s sudden warm grin, the pressure of his hand on Kit’s shoulder.
‘You done good, son,’ he would say, and Kit would feel like he’d won gold in the Olympics, the feeling was that bloody good.
He was never going to have that feeling again. It killed him to think it, but there was no getting away from the truth.
‘What about the filth?’ he asked Rob. ‘We got quite a few in there on the take, right? What are they saying about what happened to Michael?’
‘I’ve spoken to them. Word is it’s been sidelined.’
Now Kit was paying attention. ‘Sidelined?’
‘Shunted into a dark place at the back of a filing cabinet,’ said Rob. ‘You think the Old Bill give a shit about Michael’s death? Think again.’
‘But there must be something,’ said Kit. ‘Crime scene forensics. Something.’
‘There is, for sure.’
‘Then I want it.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Don’t see. Fucking well do it, OK?’
Rob’s face stiffened. ‘Fine. It’s done. Look—’
‘What?’ Kit snapped, coming irritably to his feet. To his shame, he staggered slightly. And then felt a twat, because he knew Rob could see his unsteadiness and was about to mention it.
‘Mate, you’re not up to any of this. Not right now.’
Consumed with fury, Kit hurled himself across the room and grabbed the front of Rob’s shirt and rammed him against the door.
‘You what?’ he shouted in Rob’s face.
‘Mate—’ said Rob.
‘I ain’t your mate. I’m your boss. You wouldn’t speak to Michael Ward like that, you don’t speak to me like that either.’
‘Truth hurts, yeah?’ asked Rob, panting a little because Kit was pressing on his windpipe. But he didn’t raise a hand to defend himself. Not even when Kit’s face twisted with rage and he raised a fist.
‘Go on then,’ gasped Rob. ‘If it makes you feel any better, do it. But you know I’m right. You’re a fucking mess.’
Kit stood there frozen for long moments. Then he let Rob go, literally flung him to one side. They were both gasping, like fighters after a bout. Kit felt sick that he had nearly punched his best mate’s lights out. He knew Rob wouldn’t have fought back. Rob was better than that. He was so loyal that he would have let Kit kick all kinds of crap out of him without raising a finger to defend himself.
And what does that make me? wondered Kit. Right now he couldn’t even look Rob in the eye.
When Rob spoke, his voice was low: ‘Listen. Take a couple of days away, yeah? Sort yourself out. I’ll see what I can do here, look into it, and then you can come back and we’ll figure this out properly. But first, take some time. You need it. You know you do. You’re no fucking good like this. You’re embarrassing yourself.’
Rob was right. Kit hated it, but he knew Rob was right.
‘You’d better go,’ he said.
‘Yeah. But think about what I’ve said, OK?’
And then Rob was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
Shit, I was going to deck him. I really was. Rob, of all people.
In the stillness of the flat, Kit looked around him. Michael wasn’t here any more.
If I was, I’d knock your stupid block off came into Kit’s brain, and he was able to raise a painful smile.
Yeah, that was the truth. Michael would hate to see him like this. His eyes went over to the drinks trolley, still loaded with whisky, wine, gin – everything you needed to get thoroughly, hopelessly smashed. Ruby’d missed a trick there.
He turned away from it, sickened with himself. Quietly, he left the flat, locked it behind him, and went downstairs. Rob was right. He needed a break. Then maybe he’d start to think more clearly.
27
Kit went back to his house, threw a few things into an overnight bag. Then he came downstairs and thought again about a drink.
You tosser, don’t you dare, came Michael’s voice, loud and clear in Kit’s head, so clearly that Kit actually looked around, certain he’d see Michael standing there. But he wasn’t. Of course not.
Kit put his bag down and went over to the drinks on the sideboard. He gathered up the bottles and strode into the hall cloakroom with them clutched to his chest. Put them in the sink. Looked at them. Thought of how close he’d come to punching Rob in the head.
How long before he turned that stupid drunken anger of his on Daisy, or Ruby? If he did that, he’d never be able to live with himself. He didn’t beat on women: never had, never would. But his temper when he was in the drink was so unstable, it was like sweating gelignite.
Carefully, deliberately, he unscrewed the cap of each bottle and let the contents run away down the drain. The smell of the alcohol came to him, warm as a caress, rising to swirl around him.
No. You’re done with that, right?
With all the bottles emptied, he picked up his overnight bag, switched off the lights and went out, locking the door behind him. He made his way down the front steps, to where the Bentley was parked. In the yellowish gloom of the street lights, he could see something had happened to the car. Cautiously he moved closer.
All down the driver’s side, someone had taken a key or a knife and gouged a long line in the paintwork. He looked down. The tyres had been slashed. He walked around the car. The other side was the same – the paintwork savaged, the tyres in ribbons.
Kit’s heart was thudding hard in his chest, he could feel the steady beat of a headache restarting over his right eye.
Just a little taster, right, Vittore? he thought.
He wasn’t going anywhere in the Bentley tonight. He would phone Rob later, get him to sort it. He walked further along the road to the junction, expecting to be jumped at any moment, wondering would he be sorry or relieved if that should happen? But it didn’t.
Not this time.
He saw a black cab coming, its golden light aglow. He flagged it down, and got in.
28
Three w
eeks into learning how the store worked from the ground up, and Daisy was still stacking shelves and serving customers and smiling very sweetly while her co-workers abused her.
‘And how is her ladyship this mawning?’ asked Tessa as Daisy loaded up with stock in the stores, counting packs.
Shit.
Daisy didn’t answer. She just kept loading the products into her hand basket.
‘Ooh, she’s not talking to us,’ said Julie, mouth turning down in mock offence. ‘Thinks she’s above us, I suppose.’
She was so sick of these horrible cows.
‘Well, she is. The heir-apparent to this whole shebang, that’s what her ladyship is. Far too good to parse the time of day with the likes of us.’
Daisy stopped loading her basket and turned to them.
‘A dog in the street’s too good for that,’ she said.
Tessa’s mouth dropped open. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard,’ said Daisy, and swept past her tormentors.
Or at least she started to. One of them – she thought later that it must have been Julie – stuck out a foot, and Daisy went sprawling to the concrete floor. The basket handles came off her arm, spraying the contents over the floor. One of the packs burst open, and purple bubble bath splashed out in a glutinous arc, spattering the nearby pallets.
Searing pain lanced through Daisy’s knee and her elbow. Wincing, she lay there, winded. Then she looked up. Tessa and Julie were smirking down at her. At that instant, something snapped in Daisy’s head. She lunged to her feet, hardly feeling the pain. She ran at them, grabbed them both by the hair, slammed their heads back against the partition wall. Saw two pairs of eyes open wide with shock in the instant before she took a firmer grip and banged their heads together in fury.
Both girls squawked then, and Tessa started yelling that she couldn’t do this.
‘No? Bloody well watch me,’ hissed Daisy.
‘What’s going on?’ asked someone nearby.
Daisy, panting, turned her head. Doris Blanchard was standing right beside her.