Viper - Michael Morley [141]
Valsi looked bored. He checked his watch and yawned.
The Capo stood up and slowly shook the creases out of his trousers and slid his jacket on.
‘She’d been tortured to death. Electrocuted and burned…’
‘We have no further comment to make.’ Mazerelli had to push his client towards the door, otherwise he’d have stood there all day patting his mouth in mockery.
Valsi checked his watch again and bit back a smile. By his reckoning, the Don and the Dog should both already be dead. Murdered at exactly the time he had the world’s best cast-iron alibi, courtesy of the carabinieri.
And any moment, many more of his problems would be solved.
98
Pompeii
Just as Franco Castellani’s life had been a terrible fuck up, so too was his death.
Blood and brain spattered the features of Pompeii’s famous ashen fugitives.
The two cousins lay in a heap. Arms around each other.
But for the smell of muzzle blast and burned flesh, you could have been forgiven for thinking they were wrestling. A boisterous play fight that had ended in deadlock. Dead lock.
Feelings of hopelessness and a hardening addiction to heroin were what had driven Franco Castellani to the brink of despair. The point where suicide seemed a sweeter option than survival.
Paolo Falconi had been too late to stop Franco’s finger from pulling the trigger. And he’d been too quick for his own good. The desperate last-minute lunge had been just enough to knock his cousin’s gun away and divert the fatal bullet into his own head.
Paolo was dead.
Franco lay on his back. His cousin’s brains were all over his face. His blood ran off him and formed dusty balls in the dirt of the Pompeii ruins.
Franco struggled to move Paolo off him. When he was free, he knelt there, crying and cradling his cousin’s corpse. Gradually people crowded around. Strangers’ eyes locked on the two youths and the gun in the dirt. They were uncertain whether to help, or to run.
Franco spotted them. And helped them decide.
He picked up the weapon and pointed it towards them. ‘Get away! Get the fuck away, or I’ll kill you all!’
Most ran. Some stayed frozen to the spot. Franco fired a shot that tore into brick above their heads. Now they screamed. Now they ran.
The Garden of the Fugitives was empty again. Except for the dead. The old dead. And the new dead.
Franco Castellani hugged his cousin and kissed his bloodied head.
And then he put the pistol into his mouth.
And fired.
Capaccio Scalo, La Baia di Napoli
Salvatore Giacomo parked up west of Vesuvius at the junction of the SS18 and SP277. From here he was only minutes away from most of the major routes in and out of Naples. Black coffee in the cup-holder on the dashboard, croissant crumbs on his lap, he dialled the numbers again. First the Don. Then Armando. Next Mazerelli. No replies. Even Valsi was unobtainable. Something was wrong.
Sal guessed it had started. War had broken out. He cursed himself. He should have killed Valsi long ago, killed him first. That son of a bitch would be at the centre of it. The Don had asked him to bide his time, wait until he was ready, and he’d done as he’d been asked. He’d always done as he was asked. And now they were paying the price. He should have followed his instincts, not the old man’s orders.
Gina!
Was she dead too? His big fingers fumbled and misdialled. He tried again.
‘Pronto.’
The air whooshed out of him in relief.
‘Gina, it’s Sal, Uncle Sal. Are you okay?’
She could hear the tension in his voice. ‘Sure, what’s wrong?’
He didn’t want to alarm her. ‘Nothing. Where are you?’
‘I’m in my car. On my way to work.’ Music played from the radio.
‘I’ve been trying to call your father and I can’t reach him. Armando’s not picking up either.’
Gina turned down the tunes. ‘Don’t worry. They’re probably in the doctor’s. He had to go for a check-up this morning and was running late.’
Sal ignored the reassurance. ‘Where’s Enzo?’
There was an edge in his voice that began to worry her. ‘Sal, what’s wrong?’
‘Where’s Enzo?’ he repeated, more urgently.
‘At the house.