Viper - Michael Morley [28]
Valsi’s eyes lit up. The old man’s fear excited him. ‘Signor Castellani, you speak of your own family and your own respect, but in doing so, you show only disrespect to me and my Family. I am not interested in how you, or your grandsons, feel. I am a businessman, and this is purely a business matter. I will pay you fifty thousand euros. It is enough to rent an apartment – no doubt until your death – and even put some food in your mouth. In return, you will sign over all the land to me. You can take anything you want from here, I demand only the earth. Building starts in six months’ time.’ Before Antonio could react, the caravan door opened.
Franco Castellani blundered in, his voice full of youthful excitement. ‘Grandfather, I’ve finished the garbage and toilets. What do you want me –’ He stopped when he saw the three sharp-suited men in front of him.
Farina grabbed Franco by the chest and pinned him to the wall of the van.
‘Please, don’t hurt him!’ pleaded Antonio. ‘He didn’t know you were here, he didn’t mean anything –’
‘Fuck! What is this shit?’ Valsi grabbed at Franco’s chin. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve got the face of a fucking hundred-year-old.’
Antonio pushed himself between his grandson and Valsi. ‘He’s ill. He has Werner Syndrome. It makes him look old. It’s not his fault. Please, don’t hurt him.’
‘Enough!’ said Valsi. He let go of Franco and brushed his hands together, as though wiping filth from them. ‘This shit better not be catching.’
‘It’s not!’ Franco stared straight into the man’s eyes.
Valsi sized him up. ‘Fucking weirdo.’ He turned back to the grandfather. ‘Be ready to sign the documents my men bring you.’ He pushed Franco to one side. ‘Stay out of the fucking daylight, Freak Boy; it’s not Halloween for another year.’
Valsi and his laughing henchmen left. The door swung loose and banged in the wind.
Antonio ignored it and wrapped his arms around his grandson. ‘Ignore them, Franco. I love you and God loves you. Everything will be all right.’
Franco fought back his rage and nodded as his grandfather held him.
‘It will be all right, I promise,’ repeated Antonio. But they both knew that it wouldn’t be.
Everything was going to be far from all right.
20
JFK Airport, New York City
The United flight rose in slow motion above the insipid winter whites of snowbound New York, then disappeared into the dark December night.
Ten hours later, Jack King dejectedly peered through the window at rain-sodden clouds barrelling across the Bay of Naples. Dozens of container ships swayed slowly in a sludge of polluted foam beneath him. On the dockside, metal cranes bent their iron beaks and pecked poisonous cargoes of illegal drugs, counterfeit goods and smuggled immigrants. This was one of the world’s busiest ports, a crossroads of global criminality.
Thunder boomed as the plane touched down at Capodichino. Rain beat like ball bearings on the metal roof of the 737. They surfed to an air bridge on a wave of runway water.
Naples is Italy’s third largest city, the birthplace of pizza and home to more than a million people. On passing Customs, Jack thought each and every one of them had turned up at the airport for what must be National Talk as Loud and as Fast as You Can Day. He caught a cab and watched the city unfold before him. His mind soaked up the surroundings that may have shaped the psyche of a serial killer.
The journey was long and depressing. A few fields of denuded cherry trees and ranks of industrial greenhouses reminded him of Naples’ agricultural heritage. The rest looked like urban wasteland. Traffic was as bad as, if not worse than, New York, and there was a palpable anger and aggression in the way people drove. Driving was combat. Parking was territorial. Pedestrians were prey.
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