“Mummy...” Giacomo said.
“Mummy, Giacomo, what’s wrong with Mummy?” He took the child by the shoulders, kneeling in front of him.
“Mummy's hurt, Daddy! Those men hurt her bad, really bad. I locked them in Mummy's car.” He handed Pagnan the key fob.
“You did great, Giacomo. Are you sure Mummy's hurt? Maybe she's only pretending? Where is she?”
“She's inside. I'm fine because I was under the bed.”
“That’s good, Giacomo. You're a smart boy. Now Daddy's going to go see what's happened. You stay here with Uncle Polenta. I'll be back soon.”
“Hey, young man, how are you? Your dogs are beautiful, you know!” Polenta threw a glance at Pagnan, who nodded in silence and started walking towards the house. Tripe followed him, gun drawn.
For Rossano Pagnan it felt like riding the ghost train at the fun fair. Like a tornado had dropped by to unleash all its violence. His shoes started to creak while he stepped on the thousands of glass fragments all over the marble floor of the main room. His motor magazines were in hundreds of pieces. It looked like they'd been puked up by the bookshelves that had been toppled to the ground. Jackets and suits were torn to shreds and the pieces scattered everywhere, ideograms were painted all over the lavender walls. Of the crystal side table only the frame was left, and the huge cast-iron pendant lightshade had crashed to the floor.
Rossano Pagnan couldn’t believe his eyes.
A nauseating stench hit him like a slap. And then he saw her.
His wife’s body lay next to the big stone fireplace. Her head had been mashed to a pulp with the poker beside the corpse. Swarms of flies covered her wounds like a vibrating black crust. Her legs, broken in several places and heavily bruised, were bent at a grotesque angle. Her chest had been opened – actually, literally torn apart – and the butcher who'd done it seemed to have amused himself extracting everything he could find inside: a slow, painstaking job.
Pagnan screamed.
Raging, he launched himself on his wife’s body, yelling, desperately trying to swat the flies away.
Tripe, stunned, watched the scene in silence.
When he turned his eyes towards the big leather couch he noticed the body of Rolando, the small Filipino waiter. It had been laid on the cushions so that his head would protrude and his blood drip into a blue plastic bucket placed there on purpose. That's what they'd used to paint the gigantic ideograms on the walls.
The acrid stench that filled the air was the smell of death. Polenta closed his nostrils with one hand. He managed to get to the door, his hand pressed on his mouth, and then threw up an acid jet that stained the outside steps.
Meanwhile, in the main room, Rossano Pagnan was holding his wife’s corpse in his arms, cradling it.
“My wife...” he whispered. “My fucking wife.”
He wasn’t able to say anything else.
“Fuck. We might as well have kissed his ass while we were at it!”
“You'd have liked that, wouldn’t you?”
Mule hated that tone of voice. Especially coming from the mouth of some kid with red dreadlocks who'd had the temerity to interrupt a pleasant meet-up with Pagnan and the whole gang so she could pass judgment on what they should do and how they should do it.
“Fucking hell, you ever going to stop trying to provoke me?”
“Hey, chill, man! I didn’t start it.”
“Fuck you, I've been busting my balls for years for Mr Pagnan, I work like an idiot, get hold of that fucking traitor who the boss had practically treated like a son, one of our guys gets killed for his troubles and not only does the boss fail to thank us, he tells us all to get to fuck. And who does he trust in the end? A woman. And a total stranger at that.”
“This drives you crazy, right?”
“Of course it drives me crazy, for fuck’s sake!”
“Because I'm a woman...”
“Especially because you're a woman!”
“...and because I'm smarter than you.”
“Christ! I really need to teach you a lesson.”
“So, come on! What are you waiting for? I'll park and you can teach me that goddamned lesson. Since I met you, it's been nothing but talk, talk, talk. The only action I've seen from you is taking a punch from a Chinaman.”
“Fuck it! Stop! I’ve fucking had enough!”
“Oh, finally! Took your time, didn’t you?”
“Stop the car!”
“Whatever you say.”
They were speeding towards Mila’s home. The road to Arsego. They'd driven past Vigodarzere and were close to Saletto. As soon as she saw a space, Mila slowed down and parked the car. She opened the door and got out.
Mule looked at her, dumbfounded.
“Come on, Big Man, get out. Don’t make me wait.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said huffing.
Mila had reached the uneven ground of the frozen field next to the roadside. Two feeble streetlamps lit the surrounding area. She was waiting for him.
Mule realised that there were no tricks, the girl was preparing for a dust-up with him. That was it.
“How long do I have to wait?”
She was driving him completely mental.
“So you really want me to knock the living daylights out of you!”
“You wish!”
He looked at her, surprised by her insistence and furious at the way she was treating him. He got out of the car and reached her as she was donning a pair of specs with yellow lenses.
“What’s up, you have eye problems?”
“What do you think?”
“Mm, you're really pissing me off!”
“I hope so.”
“You know, I don’t think I can beat up a woman.”
“Bollocks,” she said. “But if that's what's holding you up, I can help you out there.”
Mila smiled. It looked like she couldn’t wait to get started. An eager child. She drew closer and punched him straight in the face.
Mule felt something crack inside his nose. Then nothing for a second, and suddenly a terrible pain gripped him. Blood flowed copiously into his mouth, which was still swollen from the Chinaman's fist.
“You dirty fucking bitch. Now you're really pissing me off!”
“So you said. What're you going to do about it?”
He attacked her like a wounded animal. First he tried a right uppercut that Mila avoided easily, then a straight left that also missed.
“What are you doing? Some kind of dance, is it?” Mila taunted him, staring at him as if she already knew precisely what moves he was about to make.
She kept moving on her feet, elegant and lethal. She swayed like a reed under the moonlit cloak of a night sky patterned with pale stars.
It was so cold it was hard to breathe.
Mule charged again. He feinted once, twice, shot a left hook that Mila parried with her forearm, followed immediately by a right jab. Mila dodged it, took two steps forward and whacked him with her right hand, a chop to the back of the head, then pivoted on her left leg and delivered a roundhouse kick that struck him in the pit of the stomach.
Thump!
Breathlessness.
Mule was hurting. Mila had been so fast he hadn’t seen where the kick had come from. He found himself grasping at thin air. Then, with the last of his strength, he threw himself forward with all his weight, trying to knock the woman over. This time he hit her torso in a clumsy tackle, leading with his head, like a bull.
But Mila was waiting for him and managed to slide on her side to cushion the blow. They fell together. With a quick twist she ended up on top of him and hit him in the ribs: a series of fast, effective punches intended to weaken him, so she could pick him apart at her leisure.
She wasn't in a hurry and didn’t want to hurt him too badly, just enough to prove which of them was capable of beating up the other. Clear and simple.
Her specs were still where they were supposed to be; they hadn’t fallen off durin
g the fight. So she'd been able to film the whole scene. It might be useful at some point.
Mule had crouched under her hail of blows, practically in the foetal position, protecting his ribs with his arms as best he could. He tried to kick her but the Fury was straddling him, beating the living crap out of him.
Suddenly he felt her releasing him. He took the chance to get back on his feet, limping and groggy.
Mila was staring at him, still moving on her feet. A predator, a perfect warrior who came back to life with each fight, each brawl, every move rehearsed over and over again, thousands of times. It was a nice feeling. To feel so fluid, dynamic, quick. To smell the blood of the enemy.
Mule was light years away from feeling anything like that. He stood there, motionless, his face purple and the front of his white shirt, where Mila had punched him over and over again, red with blood.
“Come on, let’s go again,” that fire-haired demon said to him.
Fuck right off, he thought. He'd had enough. He was a man of common sense and, behind his alpha-male attitude, he was perfectly able to recognise when a situation was only going to deteriorate. Mule wasn't thick. You didn't become Pagnan’s right-hand man by being stupid.
Sure that girl could scrap a bit. But sooner or later there would be an opportunity to teach her a proper lesson. He just needed to wait. He settled for giving her a sideways glare.
“Let’s forget about it,” he said. “Maybe next time we’ll see how good you are with a gun. No more of this karate shit.”
“Whatever, honey-bun.”
What was one more jibe. Mule climbed back into the car, just in time to hear his phone ring.
It was Polenta, who informed him of the massacre in the boss’ home and didn't spare the details, however disturbing.
“You need to come over straight away. The boss is devastated. He just wants you. And Mila of course.”
“On our way,” replied Mule.
Great, he thought a second later. The girl's going to be right next to me the whole time.
“Good, we're waiting. And make sure she gets here. If she gives you any crap, sort it out. Do what you must. No pissing about, OK?”
“Don’t worry,” said Mule.
Meanwhile, Mila had started the car.
“Trouble?” she asked.
“Yes, big time. Carnage at Pagnan’s villa. The Chinks took advantage of the fact that we'd let our guard down and struck while we were all busy messing around like fucking idiots with Longhin. That asshole has been an absolute disaster, worse than the plague.”
“Shit happens.”
“I hope Pretty Boy is having fun with him.”
“I imagine so.”
“Listen...”
“Yes?”
“We need to go to Pagnan’s straight away and update him on the agreement we reached with Guo. I don’t know if he'll still be OK to meet up with that Chinese son of a bitch, but we need to have a watertight plan. Tomorrow we have to blow the fuckers away. Whatever the cost.”
“Arranging the meeting at the farmhouse is the best idea. I think it's the perfect place for an ambush. If I'm not wrong, there's an old furnace around there.”
“Yes, about five hundred metres away.”
“Awesome! No problem.”
“What do you mean, ‘no problem’?” mumbled an irritated Mule.
“I mean no problem. I mean, I'll be on top of the furnace with a sniper’s rifle. And with the right telemetry, I'll knock them down one by one.”
“So you said. Who do you think you are? Rambo’s daughter?”
“Nice. You just quoted John Ashton in Beverly Hills Cop II. But anyway. Trust me, this is the best way. They'll be caught in the middle. You guys shooting at them from the front and me mowing them down while they try to run. Thing is, I need a spotter.”
“A what?”
“Damn it, you people know jack shit about military techniques!”
“No, you're right. Say that word again?”
“Spotter.”
“OK, I did hear correctly. What the fuck do you mean?”
“Hmm... OK, let’s see: you know what a sniper is?”
“Of course... someone who can shoot from a distance. And hit the target.”
“Great, at least you have a bit of a clue. A spotter is someone who works alongside the sniper. He's in charge of covering fire, helps identify the target and adjust the sniper’s aim, carries most of the equipment. Sniper and spotter are a cell working on the total annihilation of their enemy, one man at the time. It's evident you won’t be able to manage the sight adjustments, but at least you'll be able to help identify the targets with a pair of binoculars and carry some of the equipment, right?”
“Christ, yes, you can bet on it!”
“If your boss agrees, of course.”
“And you seriously think you'll be able to pick off all the Chinese one at a time, including that dirty bastard Guo?”
“Well, that’s the idea.”
“Pagnan will be delighted.”
“Great. Now, a question: where exactly are we going?”
“The hills. Towards Muson. That’s where Pagnan lives.”
“Cool. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hold tight.”
Mila put the pedal to the metal, the Focus darted away. A blue shadow in the winter night. She already knew where Pagnan lived, of course, but she hadn’t imagined she’d be walking in through the front door.
11.
From Mila Zago’s journal.
So, Dr Berton, how's the reading experience going?
Yes, I know, I haven’t told you anything about what happened recently but hey, bear with me. I need to be able to explain my actions. Pretend that my journal is like one of those boring memoirs written by some old fart of a lawyer who's mastered the art of long-windedness. Come on, just a few minutes more and I’ll get to the point, promise. You can trust me. I am pretty sure that what I'm writing is more interesting than the average application to dismiss. Am I right or what?
OK, where was I...?
I had sworn to myself that I would go after Pagnan until the bitter end. And as my project grew, I felt an uncontrollable rage grow too. At that point, I didn’t know how I’d do it, but I had a pretty good idea how it was all going to end.
It was as if the combination of my mother abandoning me, my father being murdered, and the rape had resulted in completely removing the concept of forgiveness from me.
After my father’s death, I wanted to see all those involved crawling at my feet. Dark, agonising nightmares inhabited my sleep every night. I fantasised that I could crush my enemies, destroy their faces by crushing them under my feet.
My love for my grandparents kept me alive, but it also fed my thirst for revenge. Through the constant training he made me undergo, my grandfather was – more or less consciously – pushing me to the limit, helping me to develop the killer instinct that was ripening like a poisonous fruit. Every hour-long run, every shot fired at the range, every bruise on my skin was a small step towards the death of Pagnan and his men.
Then, a few years later, my grandparents passed as well. They shrivelled up like leaves in autumn. They went together. Suddenly. One night they closed their eyes forever, in bed, holding each other's hand.
They left a tin box containing various bits and pieces for me: some coloured candles to remember them by on starry nights; the old mushroom guidebook I had leafed through so many times in preparation for our forays into the woods; Grandma's necklace, a silver coin with a hole in the centre with a leather strap; the Hohner chromatic mouth organ with a bullet stuck to the right hand side, the bullet that had saved Grandpa’s life on the Austrian front; a piece of wrapping paper on which he had jotted down the name, address and other details of a brother in arms with whom he had kept in touch after the war and who was working on a top-secret project that, according to him, would be of great interest to me in days to come.
No point telling you more: I think that secret
projects should stay secret.
The demise of my family was a key moment in my life.
The peace that their sweet deaths gave me triggered a new consciousness. Now nobody would know or judge what I did.
I started working on my grand plan with a newfound passion. I got a lucrative job as a fashion model for an important leather shop. Thanks to my slender physique I soon became very much in demand amongst the ateliers of the Padua province. With my inheritance and what I was earning with my job, I renovated my grandparents’ home and bought a small piece of land in the Seven Communities plateau, where I could hone my skills in private.
Usually I drive there in an old, metal-red Subaru Forester. Just like I did today. I cross the Valsugana and head up: the hairpins, the smell of genuine Asiago cheese from the cheesemakers along the route, the cowsheds with their animals snorting and grunting. Then, further along, I see the ski tows in the grass and, higher up, the small houses studding a sea of green that in winter is covered by a thick, white, solid coating which cross-country skiers slide along in silence.
Once I get to the plateau I drive up a dirt road climbing through the meadows and into the wood. Then, after several miles, finally, in total seclusion, it appears – the big house, built from strong, sturdy Scots pine, beautiful in its old-fashioned simplicity.
The shooting range is not enough for me any longer.
I need to be able to practice with all the weapons I want, alone, where I grew up.
So today I am in the woods again.
And I have something nice to play with.
Armalite AR 15 assault rifle, thirty rounds magazine, Zeiss dioptric riflescope, 5.56mm bullets. Semi-automatic shot selector.
When it impacts, a 5.56mm bores a small, neat, clean, flawless hole. If you know how to use it, a rifle like this is lethal. I have some experience.
The target placed on the fir in front of me is soon riddled with holes. Bark and wood splinters fly everywhere under the hail of bullets. My ear protection saves my hearing, the recoil is minimal and somehow pleasantly massages my shoulder.
Then I change weapons.
The Ballad of Mila Page 10
