Drone stepped out the downstairs front door and a policewoman floored him with a billy club to the stomach. Drone folded over at the waist and then fell to his knees. Another policeman yanked him back onto his feet, and a third cop handcuffed him. The police cars had come to a halt in a semicircle in front of his building, and now he could clearly see the helicopter high overhead, monitoring the neighborhood. Drone turned around when he heard his mother sobbing. Next to her, his father was staring at him, impassive, while Annalisa had a hand over her mouth, as if trying to choke back words she preferred not to say. The three policemen dragged him toward the squad car, but Drone dug his heels in and the officers loosened their grips slightly, to give him one last moment with his family. Drone leaned forward to give his sister a kiss. He wanted to kiss her on the mouth, in the traditional act of a clan boss sealing a pact of trust with the one who will manage their business while they’re away. It’s the kiss of death, which sentences the one receiving it to death if they then cheat or betray. He stretched, lips pursed, but Annalisa turned away. Then he tried the same thing with his father and then his mother. No good. It had been them after all. Annalisa had brought them around without much effort, once they found out that the boss of the Piranhas was hiding in their garage.
“Bastards! Rotten blood! Shitty traitors! I paid your salaries! I paid for your construction projects!” he shouted at his father. “I don’t want to be near you, even in the cemetery!”
His family stood watching, forcing themselves to remain silent. Only when his body was already half inside the squad car did Annalisa take her hand away from her mouth and say: “Better to come see you at Poggioreale Prison than in Poggioreale Cemetery, behind a marble plaque. Better behind bars than underground.”
* * *
It was almost time to head back to the garage when Tucano asked him: “What does L’Arcangelo want, I wonder?”
Nicolas shrugged. Actually, he was worried that he’d disappointed L’Arcangelo with that stupid murder, which had kept him far from his business for months. Again, he shrugged his shoulders, but Tucano was already looking elsewhere. He was staring at the sky. Nicolas sped up his pace, but Tucano seized his arm and dragged him into a hallway. A helicopter darted between the buildings, nose down to cut through the wind, as if it were abandoning the theater of operations. Nicolas and Tucano stepped back out into the open, made sure that the street was empty, and continued toward Drone’s house. One more corner to turn, and Nicolas would be safe again.
The sirens of a couple of squad cars split the air, and Tucano and Nicolas flattened themselves against a wall, like a couple of clandestine operatives surprised by the fall of the curfew. Nicolas leaned out and just managed to glimpse Drone’s head vanishing into a police car, and his family trooping back into the building.
“What now?” Tucano asked, stammering.
“Now we go to the lair. It’s all burned … not even a dead man would hide out there.”
TOWARD THE CORONATION
“Why did you always make me come up through Professoressa Cicatello’s apartment?”
In front of Nicolas was a metal platform that would have been able to hold at the very most four people. A panel with just two buttons—UP and DOWN—controlled the mechanical arms of that jury-rigged freight elevator, without walls or even railings, without a roof.
“This is L’Arcangelo’s private elevator. Here, if you fall, there’s no insurance,”’o Cicognone said with a laugh.
Nicolas nodded. Tucano and Briato’ had escorted him from the lair to the porticoes, and then Cicognone had taken delivery of him and had walked him around to the back of the building. The rear façade was falling apart and the vegetation that grew over it all covered the elevator to perfection.
During his time on the run, Nicolas had felt just like that backyard. In order to cut his beard, first he’d had to use a pair of scissors, and then an electric razor. He’d left the walled-up neighborhood like a castaway brought back to civilization who discovers that under the filth, a man still exists.
“We heard you let someone steal the arsenal.”’O Cicognone drove the point home as the elevator was taking them up. “L’Arcangelo took a little offense at that.” The blade of the hoist jerked violently and Nicolas’s breath caught in his throat; he was forced to plant his legs wide to maintain his balance. Cicognone’s words didn’t bode particularly well for the interview to which he’d been summoned. For the past several hours, he’d done nothing but talk to his paranza about the upcoming meeting: There had to be something big behind it, but what?
The freight elevator stopped a few yards short of the roof. Painted the same hue as the wall, a small metal door swung open when pushed, giving onto the stairs that led to L’Arcangelo’s apartment.
Nicolas leaped across the yard of empty air between the freight elevator and the door and waited for Cicognone.
“Now you know the way,” Cicognone said, and pressed DOWN.
Nicolas felt his carotid artery pounding against the flesh of his neck. He took the steps calmly, guided by L’Arcangelo’s voice, which carried all the way up there. He couldn’t make out exactly what the man was saying, but he could tell that he was in a good mood because the belly laughs were unmistakable, and then he caught the timbre of a different laugh.
L’Arcangelo was sitting in his usual armchair, and in the armchair next to him was a man whose wrinkled face suggested he might be the same age as the master of the house. But if L’Arcangelo carried the marks of the passing years with great dignity, as if showing off a glorious past, the other man masked his age with an excessive tan and bangs with an orangey hue that hung diagonally over the oval of his face.
“You have guests and you don’t inform me?” Nicolas began, on the attack.
“No,” L’Arcangelo retorted. “I also forgot to tell you that I took two shits today, are you offended about that, too?”
Nicolas tried out a conciliatory smile, and stood there as if he were being interrogated the whole time; Don Vittorio made no introductions, nor did he invite Nicolas to take a seat. Instead it was L’Arcangelo who stood up, went over to a shelf to get the bottle that had stood there, enjoying pride of place, for years, the bottle that Gabriele had given him, the bottle that every so often Don Vittorio would look at, as if in its place he could see his son’s face. This time, however, he took it down, held it up to the light to admire its dense reddish hue, which reflected on his olive complexion, then calmly got out three wineglasses and uncorked it.
“What’s happened, Don Vitto’, to make you pop the cork on this exceedingly fine bottle?” Nicolas asked, his voice cracking with expectation.
“Take a seat, Maraja, and sample this wine,” Don Vittorio replied. He half filled a glass and took a quick sip. “Ah,” he said, and he clucked his tongue. “Excellent. Bordeaux, ninety-five percent merlot. A 1990, an excellent year.” He took a longer drink, slowly, and then set the glass down on the armrest of his chair. “It’s important to celebrate, Nico’, otherwise every hour of the day is the same.”
“True words,” added L’Arcangelo’s guest.
“Nico’,” Don Vittorio went on, “do you know Don Arturo Lauretta?”
“Of course. Don Arturo ’o Sciroppo.”
“My reputation precedes me,” said ’o Sciroppo. “All the same, there’s only one rock star in this room,” he added, and extended his glass toward Nicolas, who returned the gesture, relaxing a little in his chair. But he still couldn’t figure out for the life of him what ’o Sciroppo was doing there, nor why Don Vittorio had organized this meeting. Everyone knew the Lauretta family; they’d been solidly ensconced in Marano from time out of mind and their alliance with the Sicilian Mafia had made them an all-powerful enclave to the north of the city.
“Let’s take a selfie, Maraja,” said ’o Sciroppo. “I’ll send it to my grandchildren.”
Nicolas gulped down the Bordeaux, letting that guy give him a hug and ready his pose for the selfie. In the meantim
e, L’Arcangelo had poured himself a little more wine. He raised the glass to the ceiling and started declaiming: “The kings of the inhabited earth will be gathered…”
’O Sciroppo smiled and snapped another picture.
“And I saw the beast, and the kings of the earth, and their armies, gathered together to make war against him that sat on the horse, and against his army.”
“What is this prayer?” Nicolas murmured to ’o Sciroppo.
“But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone,” Don Vittorio went on.
“Don Vitto’…”
“And their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth.” And with that he drained his glass to the very last drop. “It’s the Apocalypse, Nico’,” he explained at last. “Revelation. Zecharaia. The Bible, you have to read the Bible. You learn a lot of things!”
All this way, the risk of coming all the way out here while wanted by the police, to listen to this bullshit? thought Nicolas.
“The Apocalypse is what’s happening,” Don Vittorio went on. “Micione has surrendered. He wants to meet with me.” At those words, Nicolas sat up straight, attentive now. “The historic center, Maraja, he wants to give it to me. He realizes now that there’s nothing he can do to stop you, and he can’t afford to unleash a full-scale gang war. So he’s decided to turn to an old friend…”
“Don Vitto’, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Now, now, don’t be rude, Nico’! Things are changing around here, for real.” A hint of hope bloomed in Nicolas’s mind. “Don Arturo, here, and his family have agreed to a meeting in Marano. He’ll serve as guarantor. Micione and his men will be without weapons. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Only instead of me going, you’ll go.”
And at that point everything became clear to him, and Nicolas understood what was being celebrated that morning. At last, his was to be the kingdom and the glory.
“You walk in and shoot him right in the face. At that point Forcella goes to you, and I take back San Giovanni, my old home. And there’s nothing finer than going back to your old home. You can travel the world ’round, but there’s nothing finer.”
Nicolas visualized the scene, Diego Faella’s big moon face blasted wide open. Their victory would be definitive, the Google method of savage price cuts in order to corner the market triumphant now, i Bambini, the Piranhas, winning against the old folks, against all the jacks of hearts. A smile escaped him, but he concealed it by raising the glass to his lips. There was just one detail that didn’t quite add up, and it needed to be cleared up immediately. “Excuse me, ’o Sciroppo, but if you’re the guarantor, won’t Micione’s family take it out on you afterward?”
“The minute you walk out of that room,” said ’o Sciroppo, with the confidence of someone who had gone over the plan countless times already, “we alert our men, who are already in position to rub out ’o Pagliaccio, Viola Striano, and all their men who are willing and ready to take a shot.”
The idea of Viola and Pagliaccio dying pleased him greatly, almost more than Micione: Viola had denied him the pleasure of settling matters personally with Drago’, but she’d still left him with the burden of that death, the slut, he thought to himself. While ’o Pagliaccio had killed Stavodicendo, according to what the patrons of the bar who’d been watching the game had told him. “So why are you doing it?” he asked ’o Sciroppo.
“What are all these questions!?” L’Arcangelo blurted out. “How dare you question the motives of the Lauretta family?”
“No, Don Vitto’,” said ’o Sciroppo. “The rock star wants to know, and that’s only right. You know why I want to do this thing? Because now you’ll buy our drugs. Since you started bringing in weed from Albania, ours hasn’t been moving anymore.” And he smiled again. Perfect teeth, straight out of an ad for oral hygiene.
“This guaglione is a smart boy!” L’Arcangelo told ’o Sciroppo, as if Nicolas wasn’t even in the room. “You really are a smart boy, Nico’. I’ve taught you well,” he said then, addressing him directly. L’Arcangelo rarely paid compliments, and usually Nicolas took great pleasure from them, but right now his excitement about the future that he’d played and replayed in his mind every day in the walled-up neighborhood, easily a hundred times a day, was finally there. The last time he’d felt an emotion even remotely similar was when he was watching on the screen of his cell phone the first few moments of life of his little Cristiana, the princess of the historic center.
L’Arcangelo poured him another glass. “And now let me tell you another thing: ’o Sciroppo, here? His wife is my wife’s sister. And Micione’s mother is his mother’s cousin…”
“Ua’, L’Arcangelo, but what are all these relatives? I don’t understand a fucking thing!”
“Nico’, I have to say, you are one rude young man, there’s nothing to be done about it,” L’Arcangelo scolded him. “I told you this so that you’d understand why Don Arturo is acting as guarantor between me and the Faellas. He’s got blood from both families in his veins.”
“I don’t care about all this chain of relatives, cousins, and mixed blood,” said Nicolas. “A person counts for the balls they have, not for their balls’ cousins. And Don Sciroppo, if you don’t mind my saying so, after I kill Micione, you’ll have half your family gunning for you.”
“We’re all ready to do it,”’o Sciroppo replied. “Let me say it to you once again.”
“You’re ready to betray your flesh and blood?”
“How’s it feel, Maraja, to become the king of Naples?” L’Arcangelo asked, changing the subject. “When I took San Giovanni and Ponticelli all those years ago, in 1992, I wasn’t walking: I was flying.”
“Of course you were,” Nicolas replied, willing to lessen the tension. “You’re the Archangel, after all.”
L’Arcangelo smiled, then quickly put in: “Sure, but don’t kid yourself. After you fly, you know how many ass-fuckings you have to sit still for? Commanding isn’t easy. You become the father of everyone, and if there’s one thing I know about children, it’s that they bust your balls. Anything that turns out right, the credit goes to them, but anything that goes sideways is your fault—”
“Don Arca’,” Nicolas interrupted him. All that talk about blood and power was his territory. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how to command, but I haven’t. Here, the Piranhas take care of things; my brothers will get you out of this sewer.”
L’Arcangelo looked at ’o Sciroppo contentedly. He was visibly displaying his paternal pride. For a son who was becoming a man while following his own path, in spite of everything.
“Come on, let’s drink,” he said: there was still plenty to talk about. And L’Arcangelo gathered the various threads of the plan for the ambush: “Let’s go back over it. You go to Cupa dei Cani, tonight. How many guys do you take with you? Who are you taking?”
“Tucano and Briato’.”
“Fine. What weapons will you be carrying?”
“I’ll have my Desert Eagle. Tucano has a Smith and Wesson, Briato’ has a Glock.”
“A Glock? A woman’s gun? If you’d told me that before—”
“What am I supposed to do about it? They stole the arsenal … There’s no time—”
“Sure, I know, but I’ll give you the weapons, ’o Cicognone’ll take care of it.”
“But how will we get into Cupa dei Cani? Micione’s men aren’t carrying, but—”
“’O Cicognone will take care of that, too. Briato’ will be stationed outside the immediate area, as a reserve force, but a force that can take action on a moment’s notice,” L’Arcangelo said calmly. “That way, whatever happens, say the police arrive or Micione brings someone else, he can take action and shoot him.” Nicolas nodded.
“And you’ll go alone with Tucano.”
“All right, Don Vitto’, then it’s all taken care of. I’m ready.” He was eager—that evening seemed too far away, he wanted to go to Cupa dei Cani straight from there.
“This is exactly the way I expected him to be, Don Arca’,”’o Sciroppo spat out. “You can see he sprang from your loins.”
“The only loins I sprang from are my mother’s, Don Sciro’,” Nicolas shot back.
They all burst out laughing, and Don L’Arcangelo stood up from his armchair. “Come here,” he said, and shook hands with him. Then, unexpectedly, he hugged him, but Nicolas didn’t mind, it was a special day.
He found Briato’ and Tucano waiting where he’d left them, with ’o Cicognone and Aucelluzzo, who greeted him by placing a fist in the open palm of the other hand and leaning slightly forward. Nicolas told his men to exchange weapons: they handed over their own and Aucelluzzo handed out two AK-47s and a pump shotgun for Briato’.
And then off to Forcella. To kill time before the coronation, to drink a toast in their charred lair.
FLESH AND BLOOD
Maraja seemed dressed for another wedding, but instead he was going to take the scepter that awaited him.
“Maraja, get moving,” said Tucano, checking the clock on his phone for the umpteenth time. “We’re running late, and Briato’ is already there.”
“My wedding and this: these are moments I’m going to have to remember for the rest of my life, deep down,” Nicolas said, fastening the top button of his jacket. He’d had it custom tailored along with his wedding suit, intentionally, and Pachi had gone over to Letizia’s to get it. She had it stored carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, beside the wedding suit.
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