by Jessie Keane
Rob hauled Big Mouth’s partner in crime to his feet and followed. The two girls jumped up and started shouting as they trailed after their two ejected escorts.
Outside, Kit threw Big Mouth onto the pavement. Rob dumped the other one down beside him.
‘Watchoo doin’?’ shrieked one of the girls.
‘Yeah, what the hell?’ demanded the other one.
Big Mouth was hugging his groin. He yelled as Kit dragged him back to his feet. Rob took hold of the other one, and they yanked them both around the corner, out of sight of the main street.
‘You don’t come near this place, ever again, understood?’ Kit told Big Mouth.
‘There’s no need for this,’ shouted the other lad, sounding scared. Suddenly, this wasn’t such a big laugh any more.
‘There’s every need,’ said Rob, and punched him in the head.
When Kit and the boys left at ten to nine, the Bartons waved away all offers of payment, gave them bottles of wine and almond cakes wrapped in napkins, and thanked them for their time and trouble.
‘No trouble,’ said Kit. ‘You need any help, you call us, OK?’
The boys drifted off to their cars, Rob and Kit to the Bentley.
‘You drive. Drop me off at Gino’s,’ said Kit.
74
Vittore said nothing to Maria about what he’d heard from Jay, about the club drugs stroke Fabio had tried to pull on him, or about her and Fabio meeting up in a backstreet hotel for sex. It had happened several times, Jay said, and it made Vittore sick to think that he could have been screwing his wife after Fabio had been there.
Not that he screwed her much, not any more. Like the whores in the club, he despised her. Now he knew that Mama had been right all along: these women were filth, not to be trusted. Look at the way she had been taking those contraceptive pills, and keeping him in ignorance. He should have known, then and there, that she was a dirty putta.
Well, he would see to Fabio later. But first, he would sort out Maria.
He waited for the dust to settle. Maria was treading very carefully around him, and he just bet that Fabio had told her that he was on to them. He also bet that Fabio had ditched her straight away. Fabio had good looks and a swaggering way about him, but he was no one’s idea of a knight in shining armour. If it came down to his skin or a woman’s, then the woman would catch it, every time.
Well, let the bitch sweat it out. Let her think that she might have got away with it.
‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said to his wife after supper one evening. She’d cooked rigatoni pomodoro, it was good; she wasn’t a bad cook. Not in Mama’s class, of course. He’d got one of his favourite reds from the cellar to wash it down with.
Maria had cleaned away the dishes and returned to the dining room, where Vittore was still swigging back the wine.
He’s drinking a lot, she thought with a little niggle of fear.
Ever since Fabio’s phone call, she had been on tenter-hooks. But perhaps . . . perhaps Fabio had been mistaken, because Vittore was acting normally, like everything was fine. And slowly, inch by inch, she had begun to relax. Tonight, she thought that he would want to make love. He might knock her around a bit first – this was Vittore, after all – but she was used to that. Then he would screw her, and fall into a disgusting drunken sleep, after which she could do what she usually did and go off to the spare bedroom to sleep in peace instead of having to listen to him snoring.
She’d wake tomorrow with a few bruises, but all would be well, all would be the same, with Mama hollering at her to help out in the kitchen, and Vittore being his usual cold self, and maybe . . . maybe Fabio hadn’t meant what he’d said, maybe he’d just been scared that night. And so perhaps soon they could resume their love-making, and be a bit more careful, of course, a bit more cautious, so that Vittore would never suspect again . . .
Vittore had drained his glass and was now looking at the empty bottle of wine.
‘Go down and get me another bottle of this,’ he said to Maria.
Anything to keep you happy, you pig, she thought, and she went through to their small kitchen – nowhere near as grand as Mama’s – and opened the cellar door. It was then that she heard movement behind her, and started to turn as she stood at the top of the cellar steps, her hand reaching for the light switch. Below her, darkness yawned like the mouth of hell. She hated the cellar, it gave her the creeps.
The crashing blow on the back of her head was so hard that it was a sheer sickening impact, she felt barely any pain at all. She teetered forward, her feet slipping from underneath her, and went hurtling end over end down the steps, crying out just once, very briefly; then she was silent.
The poker still in his hand, Vittore flicked the switch. Light flooded the cellar, showing the neat rows of bottles stored down there – and Maria, crumpled in a heap at the base of the steps. Vittore descended the stairs slowly. When he got to the bottom he bent over Maria. Her eyes were wide open but they didn’t see him. Where he’d struck her, there was no blood; nothing at all. He reached down, felt her neck which was bent at an extreme angle. Not a pulse, no sign of life.
‘Basta!’ he cursed her, and just to make sure he hit her head once more, as hard as he could, with the poker, hearing the crunch as her skull split open.
Then, panting, he made his way back up the stairs, flicking off the light behind him, closing the cellar door. He went through to the lounge, put the poker down on the hearth; then he phoned Jay, and told him what he wanted done.
75
Gino’s was a small Italian place not on Kit’s manor and not on the Danieris’ patch either. He took a table near the door so he could keep an eye out for Bianca in case she showed. He thought that maybe she wouldn’t; that he’d blown all his chances with her, and maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing. But . . . he couldn’t wait to see her again. Stupid, self-destructive though that might be, it was the truth.
When she came in through the door he felt that same dry-mouthed, heart-thumping excitement he’d felt the very first time he’d seen her. She was dressed in white, taking off her thin summer coat to reveal a crocheted white minidress. It had some sort of flesh-coloured lining, so that you could almost think she was naked underneath, but she wasn’t.
He stood up and she turned, her eyes meeting his. Her expression was very serious, her face paler than ever. Carrying a small clutch bag, she came over to where he sat. Kit kissed her on the mouth. The waiter hurried to hold out her seat.
‘Thank you,’ she said, sitting down.
‘You OK?’ asked Kit. She looked washed out, as if she’d been crying.
‘Bad day,’ she said with a little twist of a smile.
‘Well, let’s have a good evening, take the sting out of it,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ she said, her eyes holding his. ‘Let’s.’
The waiter came, brought bread and water, took their drinks order, gave them menus.
‘Actually, I don’t think I’m very hungry,’ said Bianca, perusing the appetizing treats on offer. She felt that if she ate a single morsel, she would throw it straight back up. Sitting across the table from him seemed surreal. She could still hardly believe it. This was not Tony. This was him. The evil creature who might have stolen Tito’s life away. The one who had insulted their entire family. The one who had wounded Vittore.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ Kit frowned at her. She looked sickly, as if she was coming down with something. Jesus, she could be pregnant for all he knew. Carrying his baby. The thought of it was so sweet and at the same time so painful, given that he knew such a thing could never be.
‘I’m fine. As I said, bad day.’
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘Might help.’
‘Trust me. It won’t.’ She went back to studying the menu. ‘I’ll have the carbonara,’ she said, putting it aside. She wouldn’t eat it. She couldn’t. She felt sick to her stomach just bein
g here, just looking at him, just breathing the same air. She couldn’t believe she’d been weak enough to sleep with him again, even when she knew who and what he was; she hated herself for it.
‘Me too.’ Kit put his menu on top of hers. The waiter came back, took their order. Kit was watching her. She didn’t look him in the eye.
‘Bianca? We have to discuss this.’
‘I can’t. Not right now,’ she said, and sat there in stony silence until their meals arrived. At which point she said: ‘I can’t eat this.’
Kit hadn’t even picked up his knife and fork.
‘Were you ever planning to tell me you’re not Tony Mobley?’ she asked. ‘If I hadn’t seen you at Vito’s, would you ever have told me the truth?’
Kit felt his guts turn over as she spoke the words.
Ah shit, he thought. ‘I didn’t know you were part of that family.’
‘My brothers think you could be the one who killed Tito.’ Now her voice shook with stifled emotion. ‘I loved Tito. When I was a girl, I could always turn to him. I adored him.’
‘Jesus . . .’
A tear escaped, spilled over and ran down her cheek. She stared at him, eyes red-raw with pain. ‘I loved him so much!’
‘Bianca, wait—’
‘No! I think you knew who I was, right from the start.
And then – what? – I suppose you thought you’d have a game with me? Not content with wrecking my family, you thought you’d have even more revenge on us? You weren’t finished there. You thought, I know, I’ll fuck the brains out of the sister too, I’ll make her believe I love her and shag her senseless – is that how it was?’
‘No,’ said Kit. ‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know you were a Danieri. I didn’t.’
‘Then why the lie about your name? Come on. I would really like to understand.’
‘Bianca! I had no idea who you were when I first met you. None at all. It was never about revenge, it was never about Tito – although I honestly believed that he killed Michael, the man who was like a father to me. It was never about that with you and me. I saw you and I wanted you. Straight away. It was like a fucking thunderbolt or something. That’s never happened to me before.’
‘It’s never happened to me, either. Before.’ She grabbed a tissue out of her bag, mopped irritably at her face.
‘I never meant to hurt you,’ said Kit. ‘You’ve got to believe that.’
‘Why should I believe a word you say? You lied to me, didn’t even tell me your real name.’
Kit was shaking his head. ‘I made up a name because that’s what men do when they’re out shagging around, Bianca.’
‘Oh, thanks for that,’ she said, her mouth dropping open in outrage.
‘Listen. When men want casual sex, they don’t give their real names, they’d be a cunt to do that. And that’s what I was doing, until I met you. And you know what? The minute I said that stupid name I wished I hadn’t. I wanted to be honest with you, because – for fuck’s sake! – it was something special with you. It meant a lot. Ever since then, it’s been killing me. When you told me that you’re Tito’s and Vittore’s and Fabio’s sister, I knew you were going to hate me. I just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon, that’s all. That we’d have more time.’
‘Well, time’s up,’ snapped Bianca, picking up her bag and jumping to her feet.
She ran towards the door, snatching her coat from the hook. Kit threw some money onto the table and rushed after her.
‘Bianca, wait. Maybe we can work this out. Come on. We have to,’ said Kit as she went out the door and started off along the windblown street.
Bianca kept walking.
‘We don’t have to do anything,’ she flung back at him, walking fast, head down, pulling on her coat, hurrying away from him.
The street was quiet, dark but for the pale yellowish wash from the sodium lights. Cabs passed by now and then, a couple of people were out walking their dogs. It was starting to rain. Kit caught her arm. She was shivering with cold or despair, he couldn’t tell which.
‘Look, we have to get over this. Somehow,’ he said. They were near a pub, and music was seeping out. The juke in there was playing ‘Laughter in the Rain’ by Neil Sedaka. He could hear it. It was horribly ironic.
‘Get over it?’ she echoed. In the dim light her eyes looked almost demented with fury. She was fumbling in her bag again, searching for a hankie. She lunged at him, and he saw hatred, real cold hatred, on her face. It staggered him, made him step back.
‘You’ve destroyed me, you’ve lied to me, you’ve betrayed me,’ she spat at him. ‘You think we can get over any of that? You’re crazy.’
And then he saw it. The glint of metal in her hand.
‘Oh no. Honey, don’t—’ he said, half-turning away from her.
Bianca’s hand was shaking as she pointed the gun at him. She hadn’t been looking for a tissue, she’d been trying to find that.
‘Don’t do this,’ he said, ‘don’t—’
He hadn’t even finished what he was saying when Bianca let out a hopeless cry and shot him in the chest.
76
Kit discovered that being shot isn’t like in the movies. In the movies, the hero takes a bullet and crawls on, defeats the baddie, gets the girl. In real life, he found it was a little different.
Those celluloid heroes don’t scream and collapse with pain when a piece of metal is fired at high velocity into their flesh. Kit did. And they don’t lie there helpless and trembling afterwards, either; Kit did. His body went instantly into shock; suddenly he was shaking and disorientated, his chest heaving. Every cell had flown into panic mode, screaming What the hell was that? What’s happened?
He could see her standing over him, could see the smoking gun in her hand. Such a small gun, and it had floored him. Kit Miller, all-round tough bastard, lord of the manor. Flat out on the wet grubby pavement, unable to move a muscle.
‘Bianca,’ he tried to say, but he couldn’t get his breath.
Her hand holding the gun was trembling, but she was aiming at him again, aiming at his head this time; she was really going to do it, she was going to kill him.
He closed his eyes, make it easier for her. He wanted to hold her, one last time, but that was out of the question. He knew he deserved this. He knew he had it coming.
This was how it was for Michael, he thought. And maybe Michael was up there somewhere, waiting for him right this minute – and this was such a God-awful mess that it wouldn’t be too bad to just go now, would it?
‘Bianca,’ he tried again, but what came out of his mouth was one long bubbling groan.
One minute more, she’d pull the trigger, and that would be it. Eyes closed, his heart thundering, clammy sick sweat mingling with the hardening rain, he waited. Maybe the shot he’d already taken would be enough to do the job, anyway. Felt like enough. He could feel all his systems closing down, his strength ebbing away.
So this is what it’s like to die.
He waited. He was standing on the edge of an abyss, at the bottom of which was death, and freedom. No more torment. No more trouble.
She would fire the gun again, any second.
He waited.
Finally, when it didn’t come, he forced his eyes open. They felt tired, heavy. One last glimpse of her, maybe. That would be good.
But she wasn’t there.
She was gone.
Wendy Metcalfe and her boyfriend Sammy Spears came out of the pub. They were off home, get a Chinese on the way, and now this was all a bit inconvenient because there was this drunk lying there waiting to trip someone up. A person could break their fucking neck over the inebriated bastard.
‘Hey!’ said Sammy, poking Kit with his shoe.
‘Is he pissed?’ asked Wendy, peering impatiently at the man on the pavement.
It was raining out here and rain flattened her hair, she hated getting her hair wet, it was nightmare hair, thin and fine, her dad’s hair not her mum’s, sod her luck, and
she didn’t have an umbrella because they’d said blue skies on the forecast and of course that was bollocks, as per usual. It was also pretty dark, only the light from the street lamps and the pub windows to illuminate anything, that and the swishing intermittent lighthouse sweep of passing car headlights.
‘Of course he’s pissed,’ said Sammy in disgust.
Wendy peered closer. ‘There’s blood on his shirt. Isn’t that blood?’
Sammy had a look just to humour her. ‘Shit! Looks like it. D’you reckon he’s been in a fight, someone’s knifed him?’
‘Dunno.’ There was a lot of blood. Wendy looked at the man’s face; his eyes were closed. Maybe he was not drunk but dead, who knew? She withdrew quickly with a shudder. ‘I’m going back in, phone 999,’ she decided. At least then she wouldn’t be standing here in the rain, getting her fucking hair ruined.
77
When Bianca got home in a state of hysteria, babbling that she’d done it, she’d killed him, Bella phoned her favourite, her Vittore, who showed up an hour later with Fabio in tow.
‘She says she shot Kit Miller,’ said Bella, as Bianca sat hunched over a glass of brandy at the kitchen table.
‘Where’s the gun?’ asked Vittore.
Bella motioned to Bianca’s bag, there on the table.
Fabio took up the bag, opened it. There was the gun, a .22, a dainty little thing but deadly at close range.
‘I’ll get rid of it,’ said Fabio. ‘And the bag’s got to go too. Residue.’
Fabio left the room. Vittore and Bella sat down at the table and looked at Bianca.
‘Was he dead?’ asked Vittore.
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Bianca, and started to cry again. She’d hated him but she’d loved him too, and now he was gone. He’d deceived her, lied to her, probably snatched Tito away from her, but she loved him.
‘How did any of this happen?’ asked Vittore.
Bianca told him in halting sentences punctuated by crying fits, about Kit coming into Dante’s, calling himself Tony Mobley. She couldn’t tell Vittore all of it, of their affair, of how passionate and deep and fiery it had been, that it had been love, or at least she had thought so.
