Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano

obviously had a few things tweaked. Her retroussé nose, slightly bee-stung lips and host of dimples didn’t really go with her otherwise classically Greek physiognomy. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her figure was eloquent of great self-discipline, and she spread her fingers every time she gestured, activating a whole orchestra of bangles, chains and earrings. Poldi’s idea of a hands-on cook had been rather different.
    What a day it had been, she thought. Relieved to catch sight of a young Moroccan in red livery padding around with a trayful of colourful aperitivi as if duty-bound to protect them, she made a beeline for him. Having sunk two in quick succession, Poldi took a third to be on the safe side and then felt sufficiently refreshed and fortified to cope with the rest of the evening.
    Enchanted by his unexpected German guest with the spectacular bosom, Mimì led her around, patted her hand, squinted down her décolleté and introduced her in a whisper to the dozen-odd guests who had already assembled in the drawing room. Bent-backed old gentlemen in grey suits and tiny, elegantly dressed ladies, most of whom were the wrong side of eighty. The sight of them reminded Poldi irresistibly of dried figs and candied fruit. However, the main focus of her attention was the man facing her, who never took his eyes off Valérie.
    My aunt had pictured Italo Russo quite differently – more like the typical, greasy Mafioso familiar from movies and TV, with a pot belly, pencil moustache and oily hair, wearing shirtsleeves and braces. Uncle Martino had told her that slovenly dress was part of the typical Mafia look, and that the bosses of Cosa Nostra made a point of neglecting their outward appearance in the extreme, but I think that’s just a post-war myth.
    Poldi was, in fact, confronted by a tanned, good-looking man wearing jeans and an orange sports shirt. He was in his mid-fifties, with no tummy to speak of, but was shaven-headed and endowed with a pair of pale, darting, lizard-like eyes that missed nothing and radiated serene self-confidence. It was as if Russo owned the house and everything in it – or would very soon do so. Despite herself, Poldi couldn’t help picturing him in police uniform. The other guests and Mimì treated Russo with the utmost respect, but one of them overdid it. A man in his mid-forties, he bore a closer resemblance to Poldi’s Mafioso stereotype: swarthy, ill-shaven, thickset, collar sprinkled with scurf. He munched grissini and nuts the whole time, picked his teeth with his thumbnail, and followed Russo around like a dog.
    â€œWho’s that greasy character?” Poldi asked Valérie in a whisper.
    â€œCorrado Patanè, a building contractor from Riposto.”
    â€œWhy’s he fawning over Russo like that?”
    Valérie shrugged. “Probably hoping for a contract if Russo expands his empire further. Smarmy but harmless.”
    Instinct told Poldi otherwise, but she pushed between the two men and shook Russo by the hand. “Well, what a coincidence, the two of us meeting here. I needn’t have gone to the trouble of getting myself so rudely ejected by your gorillas this afternoon when I asked to see you.”
    Russo grasped her hand and looked her keenly in the eye. “I’m sorry if you had any unpleasantness, but we maintain strict security measures.”
    â€œIn case someone runs off with a palm tree?”
    He smiled. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”
    â€œI simply want to know where Valentino is. Valentino Candela, who works for you.”
    â€œAh yes, you’re the German signora Valentino sometimes goes shopping for, aren’t you? Delighted to meet you in person. Valentino is a great admirer of yours.”
    â€œOh, did he tell you that? Then you surely must know where he is.”
    Russo remained calm. If he was nervous, he didn’t betray it by so much as the bat of an