your boy Kit believed that Tito gave the order to kill Michael. That Vittore or Fabio carried out that order. And for that, for the death of the man who meant so much to him, perhaps your Kit sought revenge.’
Ruby said nothing. She was too frightened to speak. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, landing Kit in the shit. If what Bella said was right, then this wouldn’t stop here.
Blood will flow.
Not Kit’s, she thought. Please not Kit’s.
‘But you know the funny thing?’ asked Bella.
Ruby shook her head dumbly.
‘No, not funny. That’s the wrong word. Sad is the right one, I think. My boys didn’t do it. They didn’t kill Michael.’
Ruby stared at the woman. Clearly, she was making excuses for Tito, Vittore and Fabio.
‘You think I am fooling myself,’ said Bella.
Ruby shook her head. ‘I think you’re protecting your sons.’
‘I am not making a feeble attempt to cover their backs.’ Bella pushed the veil back from her face, and Ruby felt shock at the sight of the poor woman’s pudgy and wrinkled face, but Bella’s eyes were hard as two black stones and they crackled with authority and intelligence. ‘Tito thought he might give the word to Vittore and Fabio, but first they came to me. Tito wanted to do it, he said, but this was my late niece’s husband, this was blood. So first he wanted to get my blessing. But I told him no. Under no circumstances. Miss Darke, none of my sons would go against their mama’s wishes.’
‘But . . .’ Ruby floundered, searching for words. Her brain was spinning. She had believed the rumours, as much as anyone. She had believed that Tito killed Michael. She knew that Kit believed that too, and although it was never spoken about, she was quietly convinced that he had taken Tito’s life in retaliation. But now . . .
Bella was saying that the rumours were wrong.
That Kit was wrong.
That he had, in fact, killed the wrong man.
So who was responsible? Who had taken Michael Ward, snatched the great love of her life, away from her?
She could feel Bella’s eyes boring into hers. Ruby gulped hard; her mouth was very dry. ‘So you’re saying . . .’ she started, then faltered to a halt.
‘I am telling you, none of my sons killed Michael Ward,’ said Bella with conviction. ‘Not Tito, not Fabio, not Vittore. None of them did it.’
14
Naples, 1926
Baby Tito was nearly a year old when the volcano erupted with a staggering, ground-shaking roar. What followed that first hideous crackling boom was a strange day, overcast and brooding – like the end of the world. Astorre was out walking the streets, going to see his friend Gilberto, watching the ash spew out of Vesuvius in huge belching clouds. It drifted over, fogging the streets of the city with fine grey powder.
Astorre covered his mouth and thought with a prickle of dread of long-buried Pompeii and Herculaneum. He prayed that the volcano, forever smouldering on the edge of the city, should fall silent again soon. That was when he saw Gilberto rushing toward him through the drifting smog. Gilberto was panting, dishevelled, bathed in sweat and a film of gritty soot.
‘Your father!’ he gasped out, eyes wild, choking as he inhaled ash, clutching at Astorre.
Astorre’s heart nearly stopped. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘He’s been shot! Shot and killed.’
In dawning horror Astorre ran with his friend to the carabinieri station, and there he was, his beloved papa: laid out dead and mangled, torn horrifically apart by a hail of bullets. Astorre collapsed onto his father’s chest, sobbing with grief. Gilberto stayed with him, tried to comfort him. But it was impossible.
‘This is Corvetto,’ Astorre said in between his tears. His father’s blood was staining Astorre’s hands, his face, his clothes.
‘How can—’ asked Gilberto.
‘I know!’
They left his father’s corpse lying there, covered in blood and tears. Astorre stumbled out of the room as if he was drunk. Gilberto
Ruby said nothing. She was too frightened to speak. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, landing Kit in the shit. If what Bella said was right, then this wouldn’t stop here.
Blood will flow.
Not Kit’s, she thought. Please not Kit’s.
‘But you know the funny thing?’ asked Bella.
Ruby shook her head dumbly.
‘No, not funny. That’s the wrong word. Sad is the right one, I think. My boys didn’t do it. They didn’t kill Michael.’
Ruby stared at the woman. Clearly, she was making excuses for Tito, Vittore and Fabio.
‘You think I am fooling myself,’ said Bella.
Ruby shook her head. ‘I think you’re protecting your sons.’
‘I am not making a feeble attempt to cover their backs.’ Bella pushed the veil back from her face, and Ruby felt shock at the sight of the poor woman’s pudgy and wrinkled face, but Bella’s eyes were hard as two black stones and they crackled with authority and intelligence. ‘Tito thought he might give the word to Vittore and Fabio, but first they came to me. Tito wanted to do it, he said, but this was my late niece’s husband, this was blood. So first he wanted to get my blessing. But I told him no. Under no circumstances. Miss Darke, none of my sons would go against their mama’s wishes.’
‘But . . .’ Ruby floundered, searching for words. Her brain was spinning. She had believed the rumours, as much as anyone. She had believed that Tito killed Michael. She knew that Kit believed that too, and although it was never spoken about, she was quietly convinced that he had taken Tito’s life in retaliation. But now . . .
Bella was saying that the rumours were wrong.
That Kit was wrong.
That he had, in fact, killed the wrong man.
So who was responsible? Who had taken Michael Ward, snatched the great love of her life, away from her?
She could feel Bella’s eyes boring into hers. Ruby gulped hard; her mouth was very dry. ‘So you’re saying . . .’ she started, then faltered to a halt.
‘I am telling you, none of my sons killed Michael Ward,’ said Bella with conviction. ‘Not Tito, not Fabio, not Vittore. None of them did it.’
14
Naples, 1926
Baby Tito was nearly a year old when the volcano erupted with a staggering, ground-shaking roar. What followed that first hideous crackling boom was a strange day, overcast and brooding – like the end of the world. Astorre was out walking the streets, going to see his friend Gilberto, watching the ash spew out of Vesuvius in huge belching clouds. It drifted over, fogging the streets of the city with fine grey powder.
Astorre covered his mouth and thought with a prickle of dread of long-buried Pompeii and Herculaneum. He prayed that the volcano, forever smouldering on the edge of the city, should fall silent again soon. That was when he saw Gilberto rushing toward him through the drifting smog. Gilberto was panting, dishevelled, bathed in sweat and a film of gritty soot.
‘Your father!’ he gasped out, eyes wild, choking as he inhaled ash, clutching at Astorre.
Astorre’s heart nearly stopped. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘He’s been shot! Shot and killed.’
In dawning horror Astorre ran with his friend to the carabinieri station, and there he was, his beloved papa: laid out dead and mangled, torn horrifically apart by a hail of bullets. Astorre collapsed onto his father’s chest, sobbing with grief. Gilberto stayed with him, tried to comfort him. But it was impossible.
‘This is Corvetto,’ Astorre said in between his tears. His father’s blood was staining Astorre’s hands, his face, his clothes.
‘How can—’ asked Gilberto.
‘I know!’
They left his father’s corpse lying there, covered in blood and tears. Astorre stumbled out of the room as if he was drunk. Gilberto
Similar Books
