Savage Kiss

by Roberto Saviano

  From a distance he recognized his father, in front of Christian’s plaque. He’d taken the handkerchief out of his pocket and was now carefully dusting the photograph in which his brother smiled with cunning in his eyes. His step turned hesitant; he was tempted to turn back, but it was too late: just as he was putting the handkerchief back into his pocket, his father had glimpsed him.

  Nicolas greeted him by jutting his chin in the air, and his father said only: “I come here every week, it makes me feel closer to him.”

  They stood together for a couple of minutes, side by side, in silence, gazing at Christian.

  “Congratulations”—and once again it was his father who spoke—“Mena told me about the baby girl.”

  “We’ll name her Cristiana.” And even Nicolas couldn’t say why he’d had the impulse to tell him.

  “Really? That’s a nice name.” His father seemed contented, but in a sad, melancholy way. “Nico’…” he went on, turning to look at him. “Nico’, enjoy your baby, take the time to be with her, because time goes by fast, and children grow up—”

  “That’s not right,” Nicolas interrupted, with a steadily growing sense of annoyance. His father wasn’t someone who could give life lessons to anyone else, least of all him, Maraja. “There’s always time to raise your kid, it’s the time to become boss that’s running out.”

  “When you were both little, everything that I did, I did for the two of you. When I walked, I didn’t think about my own legs, I watched to see if you were steady on your legs or falling to the ground … Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Everything changes when you become a father, Nico’. You’re no longer all for yourself, you’re no longer alone.”

  Nicolas was already thinking about Cristiana, he was already protecting her, even if she was still in her mother’s belly, what did that old man think, that Nicolas wasn’t worrying about her?

  “No one’s going to lay a finger on my daughter, it won’t even be possible, it would be like … as if…” He couldn’t bring himself to express what he meant to say, and that almost never happened. He saw before his eyes again the photographs of children that had looked back at him from the headstones and then Christian; who could say if Christian would ever be able to forgive him from on high. “It would be as if someone laid their hands on the Son of God, there would be flames and thunderbolts.”

  His father looked at him in surprise: “Nico’, then you haven’t understood a single thing. When they put their hands on His son, the Lord forgave them.”

  Those words caught him off guard.

  “Forgiveness is for weaklings like you, who can’t even buy themselves a house,” he said at last, almost shouting, but the answer had sprung belatedly to his lips. The other man was no longer even there to hear it.

  The two pieces of news reached him simultaneously. He devoted barely a second to the first one, because ’o Selvaggio behind bars in Poggioreale Prison was the last of his problems. But the second report, on the other hand, was one that he had to read and reread repeatedly. Trying to fathom why Drago’s death should cause him such profound pain.

  GENGHIS KHAN

  “Signora, forgive intrusion. In there, new boys arrived. Come and see?”

  Viola wasn’t even paying attention to her. For the past hour, she’d been surfing Chiara Ferragni’s website, because it was the day when she expected to see the new shots of her creations.

  “Signora?”

  At last, Viola turned to look at her, but she really didn’t seem to see her at all. “I sent her the handbags a week ago. She needs to post the damn things!!!”

  The Filipina took a second to understand that that hadn’t been an answer to her question. As always. That woman never listened, but she knew how to catch her attention. The one thing that Viola Faella, née Striano, was obsessed with now was five-star chefs, and the house had become a crossroads of bags and packages, deliveries that Viola insisted on always supervising personally. I’ll take care of the groceries myself, she always said.

  “Signora, groceries here. I take care?”

  Now Viola had finally focused on her. She slammed the lid of her laptop shut with a thump and shot to her feet: “Rosa, how many times do I have to tell you that in this house, I take care of the groceries, I and I alone!”

  * * *

  Waiting for her in the kitchen were Susamiello, Pachi, and Risvoltino. Micione’s men had already searched them, but under the spotless aprons, they’d turned out to be clean. They’d set down the bags on the marble countertop of the kitchen’s island and they greeted the mistress of the house in chorus: “Buongiorno, signo’.” Viola looked them up and down, from head to foot. She didn’t think she’d ever seen these three before, but then these kids nowadays all did their hair in the Genny Savastano style, from Gomorrah. They all look alike, they’re worse than the Chinese, she thought.

  “Are you new?” she asked, but then didn’t even give them a chance to answer: sticking up out of one of the bags of groceries was a white truffle pâté. She’d been waiting for it for the past week, and was dying to use it in a recipe that she’d seen Cannavacciuolo make on MasterChef Italia. Antonino Cannavacciuolo was really too sexy for his toque, she thought to herself with a smile.

  The three of them exchanged a glance. What was this lady laughing at? Was there any chance she suspected them? Susamiello gathered his nerve and took a step forward, a heavy package in his hand. “Signo’, this is the lion’s lunch … we just wanted to ask”—and here he shot a glance at the two others—“could we feed Genghis? Please, signo’?”

  They really are all just the same, thought Viola, they’re just big kids. She rummaged through the bags in search of the cold cuts. “Hold on a sec,” she said, sowing uneasiness among the three once again. But she did nothing that was especially worrisome: she pulled back the aluminum foil of the package of prosciutto and checked to make sure it was as fat-free as she always insisted. “To perfection! Good job, guaglioni!” And then, turning to the housekeeper, she mumbled: “Rosa, show them downstairs.”

  Rosa turned around and only then, once she was safely out of Viola’s line of sight, did she allow herself to roll her eyes, now she had to be a tour guide for the zoo. Right behind her tagged Susamiello and Risvoltino with the expression of someone who already has the lion on a leash. Pachi, bringing up the rear and, as always, the most suspicious of the three, was focusing on a careful study of every last detail of Micione’s house. Getting that far had been no small challenge—studying the comings and goings of the official delivery boys for three long days, beating them up, locking them in the back of the supermarket, and taking their aprons, persuading Micione’s men with the right set of answers that they were legitimate substitute delivery boys, and finally setting foot inside the fortress—but now they had to make sure not to lower their guard. If he could have, he would gladly have searched under Rosa’s lace headpiece.

  They rode the freight elevator down to the garage, and before Rosa had a chance to open the scissor-grate doors, Susamiello grabbed her from behind while Risvoltino put a hand firmly over her mouth. Pachi pulled out a cloth handkerchief and rolled it up, then stuffed it in her mouth and sealed it with duct tape. With the same sturdy tape, they secured her to the freight elevator, after removing the bunch of keys from the pocket of her apron. Rosa behaved with perfect obedience in her new role as victim, maintaining the aplomb that was the first requirement of employment in the Faella household; truth be told, she just hoped they would kill him, that mangy overgrown housecat.

  “Ua’,” said Susamiello, “what a handsome boy you are, aren’t you, Genghis? Oh, look at your fine mane!”

  The two others stepped closer to the cage, wrapping their hands around the bars, wonder winning out over fear. Genghis sniffed at the smell of lunch in the air, and, with the creaky movements of his old paws, he got up off the straw pallet he slept on. A fine lazy yawn, and just as he was opening his eyes, he lunged against the bars. The three of them lea
ped backwards in fright, then exchanged a glance and burst out laughing. Once again, Rosa rolled her eyes.

  With the magnetic card that was clipped to the key ring, Susamiello opened the metal roller gate that led from the garage out onto the street, then hastily opened Genghis’s cage, while Pachi waved the big slab of steak in front of his nose. They’d drawn lots for that job, and he’d drawn the short straw—his usual rotten luck. He was practically wetting his pants now. He stepped hastily backward while Genghis went straight at him, jaws wide, displaying his few remaining teeth. Few they might be, but they were still lion teeth.

  Susamiello took a selfie with the now-empty cage behind him to send immediately to Maraja: it was proof that the plan had been put into operation. He hit SEND and ran to catch up with Risvoltino, while Pachi kept the lion busy: “Ja’, look at the gazelle … so delicious, yum!” And then, in a calm voice, to avoid upsetting the big cat, but still plenty angry, he called out to Susamiello and Risvoltino to wait for him, threatening them: “Hey, this isn’t what we agreed on! Wait up for me or I’ll throw the meat right on top of you and we can give Genghis a three-course meal!”

  As soon as they were out on the little driveway that ran from the underground garage up to the street, Pachi got rid of the steak, throwing it like a Frisbee: “Come on, ja’, run and get your nice slice of gazelle!” And Genghis really did take off as if, out on the savanna, a herd of gnu had just galloped past him in all their thunderous noise. But the gnu of San Giovanni a Teduccio made only one sound: honking horns. Genghis froze in place, bewildered by the chaos that he was generating involuntarily around him—a fender bender, the terrified shouts of pedestrians, and the surprised exclamations of people looking out windows and down off balconies, leveling their smartphones to share instantly on YouTube. In the big cat’s yellow eyes flashed bemusement at a world never seen before, and an even greater fear than that of those who were now fleeing before him. He took off at a dead run, heading in the opposite direction from the steak, smashing into the door of a parked car not far away. He picked himself up off the asphalt even more perplexed than before, as the mayhem multiplied around him; he darted to one side and then kept running, disappearing in his mad gallop behind the mini–soccer field. Mission accomplished. Even before Genghis, the three young members of the paranza had vanished from sight.

  * * *

  Those videos reached Micione on WhatsApp, and even if he already knew the answer, he asked the question all the same. “Don’t we have anything to put him to sleep?”’O Pagliaccio had looked at him aghast, he’d never seen his boss cry before. It wasn’t an easy job to have to tell him that they couldn’t really go to the offices of animal control to steal a few air rifles firing anesthetic darts. In spite of himself, he was forced to deliver even more bad news to an already overwrought Micione. But there was no time even for that. Genghis had already been spotted on the hood of a Fiat Bravo, by now reduced to a tangle of sheet metal as the lion roared up at the surrounding balconies. The citizens of San Giovanni had called the police but Micione’s men had managed to get ahead of law enforcement and stall them with a promise: half an hour, and they’d take care of everything.

  Micione was roaming the streets of the neighborhood in the SUV driven by ’o Pagliaccio.

  His head was sticking up through the sunroof like a poacher looking to flush his prey. But the only thing about him that resembled a hunter was his pose; his legs were weak at the knees and his face, damp with tears, was twisted in sorrow and grief.

  They were rolling along through the deserted streets, following the signs of devastation. At one intersection where the traffic light listed askew they turned first right then left, where the frontage was scarred by the shattered plate-glass window of a toy store.

  Micione, his voice cracking, was shouting instructions to ’o Pagliaccio, who, with the steering wheel clutched tight, was carrying out those orders, swerving, braking, doing 360s, until, in a narrow space among an array of dumpsters, he spotted the lion. He’d fallen asleep and was snoring peacefully.

  Micione ordered ’o Pagliaccio to stop the SUV and got out before the vehicle had fully come to a halt. He pulled out a small-caliber Ruger revolver.

  A shot straight to the heart would be enough to kill Genghis without devastating his body. That way, his mortal remains could be given dignified burial. He tiptoed over to him, then gave up all caution. He knelt down before him, stroking his mane, uttered a short prayer, and pulled the trigger.

  STADIUM

  The stadium was one of Micione’s piazzas. It always had been. He managed to get his hands on everything. Contracts, subcontracts. Officially or unofficially, Micione was everywhere. And the more the team won, the more money he made. But he made money even when the team lost; the important thing was to make sure that the soccer match went off with good security and no surprises. To undercut Micione’s legal revenue stream would amount to inflicting a deep and lasting wound, because commercial licenses are far more reliable than the unsteady proceeds of the narcotics business. The stadium and its cash flow were the economic foundation upon which the Faella clan could rely for further investment.

  Nicolas had been thinking about it for a while now, ever since they’d stolen credit for the murder of Roipnol. And now that everything was going great guns—narcotics, the piazzas, their confederation with the Longhairs, who now no longer had a leader of their own, the old clans clearly struggling—the time had come. They were taking control, which was why Micione had come after them: he was trying to win back his old power by undermining their shakedowns, by killing the paranza’s men. No, it wasn’t enough that they had killed Genghis. We’ve torn Micione’s heart from his chest, but now, thought Nicolas, we need to rip his money out of his wallet, and the money he’ll miss most is his legal money. It’s time to go after his safe.

  S.S.C. Napoli was hosting A.S. Roma. This certainly wasn’t anything on the order of the Champions League finals, but any match against Roma smacked a bit of the game of the century.

  The paranza, every last man, including the Longhairs, gathered outside the hotel that was hosting the Roma players. They’d filled their pockets with billiard balls from the clubhouse, and, when the team bus arrived with the players aboard, they started hurling the heavy balls. The vehicle lurched under that hail of blows, and, inside the bus, the team members were seeking shelter by crouching between the seats. The police who were escorting the tour bus weighed in immediately with tear gas, but before the clouds of red smoke could fill the air, the paranza had already made its escape.

  The second part of the plan would unfold at Fuorigrotta.

  The police had implemented a “channeling” tactic to separate the fans of the opposing sides to as great an extent as possible. They’d even ordered an assortment of tour buses to take the Roma fans to San Paolo Stadium. There wasn’t going to be a huge crowd of fans decked out in the iconic Roma colors of yellow and red, but all Nicolas needed was a group, even a small one, to start a brawl.

  “We’re going to fuck Micione in the ass,” Lollipop kept saying. He’d arranged to procure the ski masks and bomber jackets they were wearing. In that getup they looked exactly like a gang of Black Bloc anarchists ready to attack. Anonymity and terror, that’s what Nicolas had prescribed.

  “That’s right,” Nicolas said, “we’re going to fuck Micione right in the ass, good and hard,” and he went running straight toward a crowd of fifty or so Roma fans. They must just have arrived, their banners still rolled up on their staffs and their faces beaming with the expression of soccer ultras at an away game. Severely outnumbered, but with the element of surprise in their favor, the members of the paranza started lashing out at the fans of the opposing team, delivering slashing blows in all directions. Once their charge had lost its initial brute force, the Roma fans, the romanisti, regrouped and started fighting back, and now the battle shattered into small splinter clashes, as fans faced off. Nicolas tried to bring the paranza back into a tight formation, b
ut most of his men had been cut off in the surging fray. Pesce Moscio and Briato’ were surrounded by ten Roma fans, a solid wall of flesh that was slowly tightening around them, until Carlito’s Way broke the tension by tossing a trash can he’d ripped off its pole into the middle of the group. Thinking it might be a cluster bomb, the fans surged back. Tucano grabbed a Roma banner that someone had abandoned in the confusion and started swinging it through the air like a pennant at the Palio of Siena. Then he launched it, like a javelin, but it didn’t go far, hitting the ground without causing injury. The paranza managed to form ranks and push a few yards forward. Pesce Moscio, Briato’, and Nicolas savagely attacked three other romanisti who’d been left behind by their retreating compadres.

  There it was, the brawl Nicolas had been waiting for. Fists, feet, elbows, head butts. Nasal septa shattered, cheekbones exploding in fountains of blood. In the distance, the riot police in full gear were deploying to put down the unrest. The group of romanisti split into two phalanxes, with the forward half doing its best to pin down the members of the paranza, while the rearguard retreated, seeking shelter behind the tour bus. Nicolas had knocked two of them to the ground and he’d taken a punch to his right brow. Nothing much, just a constant throbbing and a stream of blood that was sopping into his ski mask. The others had taken some injuries, too. Briato’, in spite of his leg, was fighting like a bull and had put five of their opponents out of commission, indifferent to the cut on his shoulder.

  The blows of the riot sticks that the police were smashing against their shields were coming closer and closer and picking up their pace. Nicolas gave the signal: “Penalty kick! Get yourself a penalty kick!”