Viper - Michael Morley [7]
Creed snatched the mapped papers and returned them to the plastic wallet. His face was red with anger. ‘I have come all the way to New York to ask for your help.’ He nodded in the direction of Jack’s hand and the list of names. ‘Those women are dead. I know they are dead. And if you turn your back on me now, then more will die and both you and I will feel like we have blood on our hands. Of that I promise you.’
5
Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano
Ten thousand euros’ worth of fireworks exploded across the Bay of Naples. Italy’s hottest boy band sang their own special version of ‘Happy Birthday’. Under patio heaters beside a shimmering pool, crowds laughed and cheered as streamers and balloons filled the night sky. But none of this made six-year-old Enzo Valsi crack a smile. Most kids would have thought they were in heaven, but the only moment light came to the youngster’s eyes was when a waiter slipped while carrying a tray of white wine. The birthday boy’s life, young and tender as it still was, had already been corrupted and bled of its innocence. He lived in a world where the bogeymen were real. So real that it was inevitable that one day they’d turn up, spilling out of cars with smiles on their faces and machine pistols in their hands.
Another volley of fireworks exploded in the pitch-black sky, illuminating the jumble of multicoloured houses that climbed up the hillside of Positano. The boy band signed napkins and made eyes at waitresses. Across the pool, Bruno Valsi ruffled his son’s hair and kissed him goodnight. His wife Gina, the boy’s nanny and an armed bodyguard the size of a garage took him away. His father didn’t even look back as he joined the other men filtering into the brightly lit hotel.
The private dining room of the eighteenth-century palazzo had been electronically swept and declared clean of any listening devices. Armed Camorristi stood at every doorway. More sat in cars on the driveway and approach roads, pistols and sandwiches on their laps.
Inside the elegant dining room, gang boss Fredo Finelli chimed a spoon against a crystal champagne glass. The table had been laid for fourteen people, the most trusted and highly rewarded of the Finelli Family. To Don Fredo’s right sat Salvatore ‘The Snake’ Giacomo, a strongly built, grey-faced man in his late forties. A man who for more than two decades had been Fredo’s Luogotenente, his fixer and personal bodyguard. No one was quite sure whether his nickname had come from his association with the clan and its distinctive viper tattoo, or because he once chose to slowly and sadistically strangle a victim using a length of metal chain. On Fredo’s other flank was his consigliere, his business and legal adviser, Ricardo Mazerelli. The forty-eight-year-old lawyer had been a senior official in the city’s mayoral office until he’d lost his job during a rare but successful police clampdown on local authority corruption.
‘Gentlemen, please fill your glasses,’ commanded Fredo, ‘for tonight there is much toasting and much celebrating to be done.’
Bruno Valsi sat at the opposite end of the table. He studied the faces of his fellow Camorristi, wondering how they felt about his return.
‘The first of my toasts,’ continued Fredo, ‘is to loyalty. My father once told me that friendship is like silver but loyalty is like gold, and the years have proved him right. Gentlemen, your loyalty to our Family and ours to each other is golden; please raise your glasses in honour of our collective loyalty. Salute!’
Across the white linen tabletop Valsi joined in the responding chorus and noticed Ricardo Mazerelli’s piercing blue eyes looking him over, assessing him for future reference. They both nodded amiably at each other, but neither broke their gaze until Don Fredo spoke again.
‘Five years ago, my son-in-law Bruno showed the depth of his loyalty. He made a personal sacrifice to protect me and to protect this Family. That sacrifice cost