I pause, long enough to create some suspicion. “They weren’t exactly friends. . . .” I say.
I widen my eyes and keep eye contact, willing Nino to read between the lines. Salvatore killed Ambrogio and attacked his wife.
“Why did he hit you? Was he jealous?” says Nino. “Were Salvatore and Ambrogio fighting over you?”
Sure, why not. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Yes.” I sob, then let my tears do the talking, sinking my head down into my hands. My shoulders heave. My breathing becomes irregular.
“Stronzo!” says Nino, leaping up from the couch. “That figlio di puttana kill your husband, Betta? Vaffanculo. Stronzo!”
I look up at Nino pacing the carpet, his steel-capped boots thumping and clunking, his knuckles dripping with silver and gold. I don’t say anything, just watch.
“I’m gonna teach that cocksucking son of a bitch a lesson. Il Professore was like a brother to me.”
I nod my head like I understand.
“A brother!”
“So what are you going to do?” I ask. I really hope he’s going to kill him.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says, growling.
Nino slams the door. The engine of the people carrier purrs as he crawls down the drive and off down the road.
Well, that was easy. Just like that. I fucking love it. Nino’s elegant and understated. A black mamba or black widow: subtle, somber, lethal as fuck. I light myself a celebratory ciggy, blow smoke up to the chandeliers. Beth would have a fit if she saw me smoking in here. She used to make Ambrogio go out on the terrace. But Beth is gone. And so is Ambrogio. Ha-ha! Guess what? Salvo’s next. I let my neck sink into the cushions, roll my head from side to side. As my coke high numbs my brain, a growing smile spreads on my lips.
◆
I’ve been here for hours, watching, waiting. I’m sitting on the terrace and staring at the road. This is my eighth cigarette. My mouth tastes like a funeral pyre, but the nicotine’s helping. A bit. At least I’m not shaking anymore. I’m glugging down a bottle of Nero d’Avola (wine’s so much nicer when it’s not out of a box) and comfort-eating torta della nonna. I shove fistful after fistful into my face. I eat and eat until I can’t eat anymore, then I eat some more until it’s all gone. I pick up the crumbs between my fingers and lick the plate until it’s clean. It’s sweet, creamy, decadent, delicious. I want some more, but there’s nothing left; I light another cig instead.
It’s starting to get dark, but I’ll wait all night if I have to. I need to see it. I need to be sure. I won’t sleep if I don’t know, so there’s just no point in going to bed. Who’d be able to sleep on a night like this? Who in their right mind? You’d have to be a sociopath. A textbook psycho: Thomas Ripley or Patrick Bateman. Or maybe Amy Dunne. Given the choice, then I’d be Amy. One of those glamorous psychopaths you read about in books. But I’m not. I care. I want to know.
I check Beth’s watch: 8:30 p.m. I’ve already been here three hours at least. My ass feels numb. I’ve got pins and needles like Elizabeth’s doll. I told Emilia no supper. She’s been hanging around a lot lately. Watching me. Staring. Acting like there’s something she can’t bring herself to tell me. It’s driving me crazy. Twitching the curtains. Listening. Worrying. Anyway, she wasn’t surprised about dinner. I don’t think Beth ate actual food: a pistachio for breakfast, a lettuce leaf for lunch, half a cherry tomato for supper, a lick of granita for desert. I’ve got no appetite. Not with all this weight on my mind. Not now that I’ve eaten all that cake. He might not even do it tonight. But he has to. He’s a professional. He won’t like leaving a loose end like this. Nino will want to finish things up. Right now. Tonight. I know I would.
Shit, I’m feeling kind of queasy. It’s not the wine. It’s not the cake. It’s not the constant chain-smoking, I’m used to that. Nino’s killing Salvatore. This time tomorrow, he’ll be dead. And it’s all my fault. My crazy idea. I’ve never actually murdered someone. I mean, I haven’t killed them with “intent.” Isn’t that the term they use in court? Isn’t that what Judge Judy says? That’s the difference between manslaughter and murder. That’s the fucking crucial point. Beth and Ambrogio, they were different. I mean, Beth was an accident—at least, I think. And as for Ambrogio, I had no choice! That was clearly self-defense. It really was Ambrogio or me. But this is different. Premeditated. I feel sick, in a good way. Like butterflies before a gig. I kinda like it . . . Man, I’m fucking high!
I need to go to the toilet. I’ve needed to pee for the best part of an hour, but I’m scared I’ll miss him if I leave. My eyes are glued to the road. But I can’t hold it in. It’s the physical pain of a too-full bladder and the mental pain of denying release. I glance at the villa; the lights are off. Ernie’s asleep. I think Emilia’s gone home. I jump off the sun bed and run onto the lawn, still watching the road like a hawk. Like a drone. I pull down my knickers and squat on the ground. The hiss of piss on grass. Just like that Joni Mitchell album, The Hissing of Summer Lawns. I’m in midflow when suddenly, I hear it: the purr of a vehicle down there on the road. I look up and see it: a big black car with its headlights off, driving slowly, slow as a hearse. It’s Nino’s people carrier. It glides past the villa and stops at the end of Salvatore’s drive. I pull on my pants and stand up.
Yes!
◆
“You did it?” I whisper.
“I did it,” comes a voice in the darkness.
I wasn’t asleep; I was staring up at the infinite blackness that is the ceiling. I sit up in bed and reach for the light on the bedside table. I flick it on and it almost blinds me. Nino leans over me, his eyes like fire.
“You did it,” I whisper.
I look into his eyes for a split second longer; I feel hot, like I’m burning from the inside out.
“Nino,” I gasp, “no one’s ever killed for me before. It’s . . . so . . . fucking . . . hot.”
Nino is my superhero.
“You like it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m in the right job.”
And I can’t help it; I need to know. My curiosity’s going to kill me, like some kind of idiot cat: “What is it you do exactly, you know, for a living?”
Nino laughs. “You don’t know?”
“Not exactly.” I shake my head.
He laughs again: his shoulders shake and the mattress shudders: a sound like dirty water going down a drain.
“I kill people,” he says. “For cash.”
And I’m not sure if he’s joking or if he’s telling the truth, but then he laughs and laughs and laughs some more like it’s the very last time before somebody puts a bullet between his eyeballs and I know it’s the truth. Fuck, he’s sexy: Italian accent, hair slick and shiny as oil. And oh my God, I really want him. I never wanted anyone so much in my life. Nino is hotter than Christian Grey.
“Awesome,” I say.
He wipes a tear from the corner of a dead black eye. “I thought you were a good girl,” Nino says, leaning toward me. “Hated violence. Hated killing.” He raises an eyebrow. “Ambrogio said you were a pacifist?” I want to reach out and grab him.
“Well, I guess you were both wrong. I’m full of surprises.”
A gravitational pull seems to draw us together, like he is the sun and I am Mars. Or is it the other way around? I tear back the sheets so Nino can get in. He jumps on top of me, still wearing his jacket and steel-capped boots. Metal studs dig into my flesh. Nino’s tongue darts into my mouth and I taste blood; is his lip bleeding? Or is it Salvatore’s?
Nino rips off my nightie and pulls it over my head. He tugs at my knickers and kicks them down my thighs. I am completely naked. He stops and looks me up and down, licking his lips: a dog about to devour a bone. I watch with wide eyes and breathe in his scent: sweat mixed with blood. My pussy is aching.
He leans in tow
ard me: his hot, wet breath; his lips an inch from my lips. “Betta, Madonna, I never knew you were so bad.”
He throws off his jacket and kicks his boots to the floor. He pulls his gun from his belt and slams it down on the bedside table.
“No,” I say, “keep it.”
“What?” says Nino.
“The gun. I like it. Give it to me.”
I reach over to the table, looking into his eyes. I take the gun; it’s loaded, heavy. Nino’s pupils are dark and wide. I lie down on the bed with the barrel between my legs. I wonder if there’s a safety catch. I wonder if it’s on. I rub the gun against my clit. What would happen if it went off? . . .
“Oh yeah,” says Nino.
I play with the gun and Nino watches. It feels cold and hard inside me. I moan. The barrel vanishes and reappears, in and out, in and out. It twists and slides: its edges rough, cold, hard, metallic. A shiver runs down my spine.
“Oh yeah.”
Nino takes the gun and puts it back on the table, kneels down in front of me on the bed; I know what he wants. I open his fly and pull down his jeans. Holy fuck; he’s enormous; the biggest I’ve seen. Even bigger than Salvatore’s. Just like Mark Wahlberg’s. Just like Mr. Dick. It doesn’t look real. A purple vein protrudes from the skin. He smells fleshy, corporeal. I open my mouth. Nino is trembling, his eyes flicker and blaze.
“Come here, puttana,” he says, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me down and over the bed. My pussy aches so much it hurts. His fingernails digging into my waist, pulling me, squeezing. I’m so wet, I’m dripping.
“Are you sure he’s dead?” I say into the headboard.
“His brains are on his kitchen floor. Domenico’s cleaning him up.”
I kind of wish I’d killed him now . . . but it’s too late for that. He enters me now all in one go, so deep and hard, I can’t help but scream. He grabs my hair and forces my face down into the pillow. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. He pounds me and pounds me on my G-spot. Mean. Rough. I turn my face to the side and groan.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
His hands slide up across my back, up my neck and over my shoulders. He puts his finger in my mouth and I bite hard. I’m panting, breathing, begging him, pleading: “Don’t stop. Do not fucking stop.”
He slaps my ass; it smarts, like a snakebite.
“Hey,” I say, pulling away. I pretend to be cross, but I actually liked it.
He flips me around and lies flat on the bed. I move up his body and lower myself down. I slide onto his cock, slowly, slowly. I ride him now and he pulls my waist closer. He feels amazing, so full and fat. It builds and it builds and it builds and it builds and I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming, and fuck!
He flips me back over, I’m dizzy. I’m high. His fingers feel for my ass and, suddenly, he pushes one inside. Oh my God! I wasn’t expecting that. He thrusts his cock inside my ass. It burns. Is that normal? I haven’t done this before. My hand slips and I bang my head. Nino pulls me back up. He breathes into my hair; his breath hot and wet at the back of my neck. His fingers rub my clit and he’s fucking my ass. Fuck normal, this is fucking spectacular! They say the ass is the new vagina. He comes inside and my insides clench; something liquid squirts from my cunt: violent, strange. And I’m coming again like never before.
He killed for me!
Nino killed Salvatore!
I can’t breathe.
I can’t see.
Oh my God.
Nino’s my happily ever after.
I think Nino might be my soul mate.
DAY SIX
Greed
“The Love of Money Is the
Root of All Financial Success,
So Why Am I So Broke?”
@Alvinaknightly69
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was Beth’s fault I got kicked out of the Girl Guides in 2001.
All through that year, Beth and I organized countless charity bake sales, fun runs, swim-a-thons, sleep-a-thons, galas, discos, and sponsored bike rides. I read twelve Enid Blyton novels back-to-back for the Easter read-a-thon (you can never recover from that kind of thing). I dressed up as a hot dog for the costume picnic. I knitted three kilos of scarves. We were the most benevolent Guides in our unit. We were doing our good turns, keeping the law as decreed by the late, great Baron Baden-Powell. We met the Girl Guides president, Her Royal Highness Sophie Countess of Wessex; collected the badges for “Fire Safety,” “First Aid,” and “Survival”; and worked our way up to the dizzying heights of “Sixers.”
To say I was crushed is an understatement; crucified more like.
I’d been an example, a role model. The Rainbows, the Brownies, and other Girl Guides had all looked up to me. I can still hear the applause echoing off the walls in the old church hall, the falter in Beaver’s voice as she announced the record amount that I’d raised for good causes that year. Brown Owl’s eyes filled with pride as I collected my badge for “Community Action.” Squirrel cried tears of joy.
At its height, our mania for fund-raising saw us organize one event per week; it was pretty full-on. The pressure finally got to me just before our thirteenth birthday. We did a firework display for Save the Children, a sponsored silence for the NSPCC, and a gala dinner for UNICEF. The stress was immense. I didn’t sleep for a month.
It was worth it though: in 2005 I earned £5,487.56; that’s not bad for a kid in full-time education. I was running out of places to hide the cash; it was mostly pound coins, coppers, silvers, fivers, a few tens, a few twenties, some checks, and a couple of postal orders. I got up one morning and couldn’t find any pants because my drawers were all stuffed full of banknotes. I decided I needed a savings account. I went to my local Lloyds that Saturday morning and explained my predicament. Needless to say, the clerk was impressed by all the babysitting I’d been doing and my natural flair for saving. He tried to talk me into getting an ISA, but I had other plans. I needed an Internet bank account.
I’d recently watched the film Rain Man starring Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise. I bought a self-help book about counting cards; it didn’t look that difficult when Raymond did it, and if an autistic guy could do it, then I figured so could I. I lost five grand in online casinos in twenty-four hours. Add to that blow an angry phone call from a lawyer representing Save the Children and my shock exclusion from the Girl Guides; it was a bad October.
But I would have been a terrible Girl Guide if I hadn’t been ready for any eventuality; the guiding motto is “Be Prepared,” after all. I prepared an empty Pepsi bottle with petrol from my mum’s old Volvo and a box full of matches. One Tuesday night, when everyone was sleeping, I tiptoed downstairs in my pajamas, threw on my duffel coat, and sneaked out the front door. It was only a few minutes’ walk to the old church hall. I was tucked up in bed before the fire engines came flashing. The howl of the sirens. The roar of the flames. The faint smell of smoke creeping into our bedroom, seeping in through the single glazing. Acrid. Sour. Eyes stinging. Throat tickling. Beth slept through the whole damn thing. I would have burned down Save the Children too, but their headquarters was in London and that was too far away.
No one ever guessed it was me. Apart from Beth, but she didn’t say anything. I’m not sure why she kept it a secret. She didn’t even tell Mum.
◆
Saturday, 29th September 2015, 9 a.m.
Taormina, Sicily
“Buongiorno.”
It’s Emilia. She has caffè, a croissant, and a freshly squeezed orange juice balanced on a tray. What did I do before I had staff? Nescafé granules? PG Tips? I don’t remember. It’s another life.
It’s a beautiful day. Emilia pulls the blind cord to reveal a blinding rectangle of azure sky. A jungle of palm leaves throws black shadows across paving stones. I sit up. Nino? I look over to the crumpled-up pillow on the far side of the bed. He’s gone.
Of course. Even in my dreams I can’t make them stay; I know that’s what my sister would say. Fuck my sister: Elizabeth, the murderer. Or at least attempted. Ha. She’s not even a proper killer. She tried and failed; I’m on body number three.
“Is Ernie up?”
“Not yet, signora.”
“Let him sleep. I’ll go see him when I’m dressed.” Perhaps I’ll take him to the beach today. That could be fun. Kids like sand castles, right?
“Certo,” she says, with a tilt of the head. She makes her way to the door, but then pauses. “Signora?”
I look up, a face full of pastry. “Uh-huh?”
Oh God, what now? What’s she going to say? Can’t I have my breakfast in peace?
“Sono preoccupata. Worried. I hear you screaming this morning.”
“Screaming?”
“Sì.”
What the hell is she talking about? What screaming? Did she hear me having sex with Nino last night? (Fuck, that was good. I’m almost in love. Almost.) Perhaps she heard me shrieking with pleasure, but screaming? No.
“I wasn’t screaming.”
“Perhaps you had an incubo . . . a nightmare?”
“I just lost my husband. My whole life’s a nightmare.” I give Emilia a pointed look. “Can I have another croissant?”
“Certo.”
“Perhaps another cappuccino?”
She turns to leave the room. But then stops.
“Signora,” she says.
“Yes, Emilia?”
“I am very sorry about Signor Caruso. When my husband was murdered, I didn’t speak to another man for more than ten years. I wear only black.”
“My husband wasn’t murdered. It was suicide.”
“Sì, signora.”
“So off you pop.”
“Signora?”
“What?”
“I want to say you, you and Ernesto, you are family for me. For you I do anything. I die for you!”
Mad Page 25
