Lawless

by Jessie Keane

  Bianca squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Sorry. Traffic. Got held up.’

  ‘Have you seen Fabio?’

  ‘He’s just arrived, we saw him as we came in. He’s . . .’ Out there, unloading the coffin.

  Bianca couldn’t bring herself to say the words. They choked her, cut off her breath. All the way here, she had felt sick with horror. Traffic slowing the cars down, holding her up, had been yet another twist to the torment, prolonging this when she just wanted it to be over.

  She thought then, very briefly, of the man’s face, the one in the car going in the other direction. Dark skin, blue eyes, something autocratic in his bearing . . .

  ‘Fabio’s a good boy,’ said Bella.

  Bianca came back to the here and now. Her mother was still talking about Fabio. ‘Good’, in her opinion, was pushing it. Fab had a certain laddish charm, but he couldn’t pass a mirror without kissing it. ‘Good’ wasn’t a word she would ever associate with him. He’d bullied her all her life, hated her on sight. He wasn’t ‘good’ at all. But Mama Bella was nodding, affirming her opinion of her youngest son to herself.

  She looks exhausted, Bianca thought, feeling the emotion of the day rise up and almost stifle her. She was glad of the thick black veil she now wore pulled down over her face, identical to her mother’s. It hid the tears that spilled over and slid down her cheeks. She bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood.

  Bianca glanced behind her, seeing the mourners shuffling inside. Among them she saw a tall dark-skinned woman moving near the rear of the church, her eyes downcast.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ asked Bianca, gulping back her tears.

  Bella looked up, saw who Bianca was staring at, said nothing.

  ‘Isn’t that Ruby Darke?’ said Bianca. ‘The woman who runs the department stores? Did she know Tito? Oh wait – wasn’t she involved with Michael Ward . . . ?’

  Bianca fell silent. Ruby Darke was also the notorious Kit Miller’s mother, and there were rumours circulating like Chinese whispers that Tito’s death could have been a revenge killing for the death of Michael Ward. That pointed to Miller, who had been Ward’s number one man. But these were merely rumours, unfounded, unsubstantiated. There was no proof, nothing positive to suggest they could be true.

  ‘I asked her to come,’ said Bella.

  Bianca’s head whipped round. She stared at her mother. ‘You what? Why?’

  ‘I have to talk to her.’

  ‘Mama, you’ve taken leave of your senses,’ said Bianca, shaking her head. ‘You know what’s being said . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I want to talk to her.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Hush! Show some respect,’ said Bella, her tone sharpening. She looked back. ‘Ah, dear God, my boy, my poor boy . . .’

  They were bringing in the coffin. The music swelled, the priest came forward in his ceremonial robes. Bianca, Bella and Maria rose to their feet along with the rest of the congregation as the pall-bearers came up the aisle, carrying their sad burden. Bianca felt her mother sway and she grasped her arm, held her steady. She felt as if her heart was being ripped, still beating, from her chest.

  Ah, Tito . . .

  She thought of Tito cuddling her in his arms when she was small, kissing her forehead, murmuring words of comfort. He’d taught her so much, shared the ways of the Camorra with her. Her big brother, she’d loved him so. It crucified her that he had died, a man in his prime, with no wife, no children, to lament his passing.

  Bianca watched the grim procession of pall-bearers pass by with the coffin. Vittore was there, giving solid support at the front, with the slighter Fabio immediately behind him, smartened up in a black suit, his almost girlishly good-looking face and hands marred by scratches and cuts. The mahogany coffin was covered in a luxuriant mass of red hothouse roses formed into the shape of a cross. The men moved slowly, placing their burden carefully on the dais while the priest looked on.

  For Bianca the whole thing was torture. It was all she could do to watch as the coffin was sprinkled with holy water and then it was incensed. Prayers were said for Tito’s soul and the choir sang ‘On Eagle’s Wings’. Then came the funeral Mass and absolution, with candles lit around the coffin.

  And then they were all outside in the biting wind, gathered around the freshly dug grave. The elderly priest intoned his words of conclusion: ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

  At last, it was over.

  Having kept a tight grip on her mother throughout, Bianca could feel Bella trembling, shuddering with sobs. To bury one’s own child must be agony. The crowds of mourners began to disperse, leaving only close family by the graveside. Then Bianca saw Ruby Darke again, standing alone some distance away from their silent little group.

  ‘What the fuck’s she doing here?’ asked Fabio.

  Bella stepped forward and slapped her youngest son’s face. ‘Shut up! You are in a place of worship, standing at your brother’s grave,’ she snapped.

  Maria’s eyes met Bianca’s. Maria was mouse-like in the presence of her forceful mother-in-law. Bianca felt almost sorry for her sometimes, when she wasn’t feeling scornful over Maria’s lack of backbone. Bianca loved Mama, but she knew she could be manipulative, and Vittore was a sucker for her machinations. Maria, who was not bright, was no match for Bella. In Maria’s place, Bianca would have given Bella a hell of a fight.

  ‘Go now, all of you,’ said Bella imperiously. ‘I wish to talk to her alone.’

  ‘Mama—’ started Bianca.

  ‘Go home. Go back to the house, Bianca. Make sure everything’s ready for our guests.’

  13

  Seeing that Bella was now alone at the graveside, Ruby summoned her nerve and approached the older woman.

  ‘Mrs Danieri?’ she said hesitantly.

  Bella nodded.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Yes. I did. Thank you for coming, Miss Darke.’

  Ruby was wishing she hadn’t. She hated this – standing in a damp, cold graveyard among strangers. She’d been glared at by Bella’s children, and she was still wondering anxiously what this strange request, that peculiar telephone call, was all about.

  Blood will flow.

  She shivered anew to think of those words. Her eyes skimmed over the woman wearing the thick black veil, the shapeless clothes, then down at the coffin, lying there in the unfilled grave, the brass plate sullied by the first sprinklings of dirt.

  ‘There have been rumours, Miss Darke,’ said Bella.

  Ruby wished that Bella Danieri would lift her veil, that she could see her face, judge her mood more clearly. In business and in life, she liked to know exactly what she was dealing with. Here, she felt she was flying blind.

  ‘What rumours?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Rumours that your son Kit could have been the one who killed my boy Tito.’

  Ruby said nothing. Her heart was beating very fast: she wondered if she was about to be sick.

  ‘And you know what I think?’ Bella went on, then paused.

  She’s about to tell me that they’re going to kill Kit, thought Ruby in horror.

  But Bella’s next words surprised her.

  ‘I think enough. We – you and I – we’re the matriarchs of our families. That’s the word, isn’t it? Matriarchs?’

  Ruby had to swallow hard so that she could speak.

  ‘Yes. That’s the right word.’

  But Ruby was thinking that she wasn’t much of a matriarch. She had built a new relationship with her daughter – but barely any relationship at all with her son. To imagine that she could influence Kit in any way was madness. Just a few weeks ago, he had told her that Michael Ward, who had been like a father to him, had wanted him to try and patch things up with Ruby, to forgive her. That had been almost Michael’s last wish on earth. So Kit had said he would try.

  But he hadn’t.

  Kit was still
cool to her, still as remote as ever.

  She could hardly see Bella’s eyes through the veil, but she could feel them, watching her face keenly. ‘We have the power to stop this here,’ said Bella. ‘You and I.’

  ‘I thought all Italian families cared about was revenge,’ said Ruby.

  ‘I’m too tired for revenge,’ said Bella, and she sounded tired, too: old and exhausted.

  ‘Do you believe these rumours?’

  ‘Did I say I believed them?’ Bella shrugged. ‘Tito had many enemies, you know.’

  Ruby said nothing, but she was chillingly aware of Bella’s eyes on her, gauging her reaction. She was aware of what the Danieri family was. Michael had told her about the Camorra in Naples and how it had now come onto the streets of London. It was a brotherhood, a society, older than the Mafia which had its roots in Sicily. She didn’t think for a minute that Bella was simply a sweet, doddering old woman. Like the rest of her kin, she could be lethal.

  ‘You were close to Michael Ward,’ said Bella.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruby. ‘I was.’

  ‘He was married to my niece Serafina up until the time she died. She grew up here, and changed her name to Sheila. She wanted to “fit in”, you see.’

  ‘I know all that.’

  ‘Then you came along. And I think he was happy with you.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘But then he died too. Violently. Perhaps your boy Kit believed that Tito gave the order to kill Michael. That Vittore or Fabio carried out that order. And for that, for the death of the man who meant so much to him, perhaps your Kit sought revenge.’

  Ruby said nothing. She was too frightened to speak. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, landing Kit in the shit. If what Bella said was right, then this wouldn’t stop here.

  Blood will flow.

  Not Kit’s, she thought. Please not Kit’s.

  ‘But you know the funny thing?’ asked Bella.

  Ruby shook her head dumbly.

  ‘No, not funny. That’s the wrong word. Sad is the right one, I think. My boys didn’t do it. They didn’t kill Michael.’

  Ruby stared at the woman. Clearly, she was making excuses for Tito, Vittore and Fabio.

  ‘You think I am fooling myself,’ said Bella.

  Ruby shook her head. ‘I think you’re protecting your sons.’

  ‘I am not making a feeble attempt to cover their backs.’ Bella pushed the veil back from her face, and Ruby felt shock at the sight of the poor woman’s pudgy and wrinkled face, but Bella’s eyes were hard as two black stones and they crackled with authority and intelligence. ‘Tito thought he might give the word to Vittore and Fabio, but first they came to me. Tito wanted to do it, he said, but this was my late niece’s husband, this was blood. So first he wanted to get my blessing. But I told him no. Under no circumstances. Miss Darke, none of my sons would go against their mama’s wishes.’

  ‘But . . .’ Ruby floundered, searching for words. Her brain was spinning. She had believed the rumours, as much as anyone. She had believed that Tito killed Michael. She knew that Kit believed that too, and although it was never spoken about, she was quietly convinced that he had taken Tito’s life in retaliation. But now . . .

  Bella was saying that the rumours were wrong.

  That Kit was wrong.

  That he had, in fact, killed the wrong man.

  So who was responsible? Who had taken Michael Ward, snatched the great love of her life, away from her?

  She could feel Bella’s eyes boring into hers. Ruby gulped hard; her mouth was very dry. ‘So you’re saying . . .’ she started, then faltered to a halt.

  ‘I am telling you, none of my sons killed Michael Ward,’ said Bella with conviction. ‘Not Tito, not Fabio, not Vittore. None of them did it.’

  14

  Naples, 1926

  Baby Tito was nearly a year old when the volcano erupted with a staggering, ground-shaking roar. What followed that first hideous crackling boom was a strange day, overcast and brooding – like the end of the world. Astorre was out walking the streets, going to see his friend Gilberto, watching the ash spew out of Vesuvius in huge belching clouds. It drifted over, fogging the streets of the city with fine grey powder.

  Astorre covered his mouth and thought with a prickle of dread of long-buried Pompeii and Herculaneum. He prayed that the volcano, forever smouldering on the edge of the city, should fall silent again soon. That was when he saw Gilberto rushing toward him through the drifting smog. Gilberto was panting, dishevelled, bathed in sweat and a film of gritty soot.

  ‘Your father!’ he gasped out, eyes wild, choking as he inhaled ash, clutching at Astorre.

  Astorre’s heart nearly stopped. ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s been shot! Shot and killed.’

  In dawning horror Astorre ran with his friend to the carabinieri station, and there he was, his beloved papa: laid out dead and mangled, torn horrifically apart by a hail of bullets. Astorre collapsed onto his father’s chest, sobbing with grief. Gilberto stayed with him, tried to comfort him. But it was impossible.

  ‘This is Corvetto,’ Astorre said in between his tears. His father’s blood was staining Astorre’s hands, his face, his clothes.

  ‘How can—’ asked Gilberto.

  ‘I know!’

  They left his father’s corpse lying there, covered in blood and tears. Astorre stumbled out of the room as if he was drunk. Gilberto took Astorre’s arm to steady him as they went out onto the powdered, noise-muffled streets. And there – there – walking along the other side of the road in the softly drifting grey veil of ash, his eyes on the two men as they came out of the police station, was Corvetto, walking among a phalanx of his men, well guarded, safe enough to sneer. Astorre surged forward. Gilberto grabbed him.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ he said. ‘You want to be laid out next to your father? There are too many of them. Be sensible, Astorre. Pick your time.’

  Astorre knew Gilberto was making perfect sense. Standing there soaked in his father’s blood, sick and dizzy with horror and loss, the nightmare miasma from the volcano fogging his sight, choking his throat and filling him with dread, he acknowledged that Gilberto was right. Astorre would wait, and when he was ready, when the timing was perfect, then he would have his revenge. He looked at Corvetto. Their eyes locked. Astorre lifted his arm and flicked his thumb against the underside of his teeth. Corvetto’s smile died.

  Like you will die, thought Astorre.

  Corvetto had understood the gesture. It meant I am going to get you.

  Corvetto walked on, surrounded by his heavies. For a moment, seeing Astorre Danieri there, he’d felt a chill, someone stepping on his grave. But he was safe; his guards were many and his home was a fortress. Astorre Danieri’s father Franco had been a thorn in his side, needing removal. Now the deed was done. If necessary, he would apply the same remedy to the son, Astorre. Let him make his threats; it was Corvetto who had the power – not him.

  15

  1975

  Minutes after she had spoken to Bella at the graveside, Ruby was getting into her car, thankful that it was all over. Her mind was churning over all that Bella had said. Big solid Rob was at the wheel of the Mercedes, Rob with the toffee-coloured hair and the sexy khaki-green eyes. She knew that Daisy thought he was gorgeous, and he was.

  Her old chauffeur Ben had retired after Christmas, and Rob – the minder that Michael Ward had assigned to her months before his death – had taken over the job, with Kit’s permission. Kit was Rob’s boss now, Michael’s successor, and she supposed it was generous of her son to spare Rob – who was after all Kit Miller’s own personal attack dog, his own right hand – for this.

  Ruby sighed. Thoughts of Rob always led on to thoughts of Kit, and to the Christmas just past, a dismal Christmas without Michael. She’d received many cards from her business associates, and her old friend Vi – as usual. Also as usual, she’d got one from her long-estranged brother Joe and his wife Betsy, writ
ten as always in Betsy’s hand. A card at Christmas! That was all the contact she ever got from Joe these days, and he didn’t even write the damned thing.

  Of course she always sent one right back – she did that religiously, every year – but she sometimes wondered why she bothered, when it was clear that they were no more than strangers now. It went without saying that there had been no card from Kit – and no presents either. Not so much as a short visit to wish her well.

  He promised Michael he was going to try to forgive me.

  Didn’t look as if he was trying very hard.

  He wasn’t trying at all.

  ‘That was bloody awful,’ she told Rob as she slid into the back seat.

  Rob said nothing. Of course it was awful. It was a funeral.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Rob, straightening in his seat, looking ahead.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Ruby craned her head to see. There were lines of cars parked up in front of them, there were people moving about on the pavement. She couldn’t see anything past all that. She could see some of the Danieri family, standing beside a black limousine parked four spaces from her Mercedes.

  ‘Over there,’ said Rob, indicating the far side of the road.

  More parked cars, people milling about, everyone dressed in the heavy black of mourning, and . . .

  ‘Oh God!’ she burst out.

  Kit was walking across the road, moving toward one of the Danieri limousines. Bella’s daughter Bianca had already departed, with her youngest son Fabio. But Vittore the eldest was still there, just getting into a limo with his mother.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Rob.

  Ruby threw her door open. ‘Stop him, Rob, will you? Quick!’

  Rob was already out of the car, moving around the front of it. Ruby followed, her heart in her mouth. If Kit reached the Danieri party, there would be massive trouble. The situation was a tinderbox, ready to blow: one spark, and all Bella’s efforts to defuse it would come to nothing.

  Kit moved fast, even though he seemed to be weaving a little, unsteady. By the time Rob caught up with him, he was standing in front of the Danieri limousine.