Jessie Keane - Lawless

Seeing that Bella was now alone at the graveside, Ruby summoned her nerve and approached the older woman.

‘Mrs Danieri?’ she said hesitantly.

Bella nodded.

‘You wanted to talk to me,’ said Ruby.

‘Yes. I did. Thank you for coming, Miss Darke.’

Ruby was wishing she hadn’t. She hated this – standing in a damp, cold graveyard among strangers. She’d been glared at by Bella’s children, and she was still wondering anxiously what this strange request, that peculiar telephone call, was all about.

Blood will flow.

She shivered anew to think of those words. Her eyes skimmed over the woman wearing the thick black veil, the shapeless clothes, then down at the coffin, lying there in the unfilled grave, the brass plate sullied by the first sprinklings of dirt.

‘There have been rumours, Miss Darke,’ said Bella.

Ruby wished that Bella Danieri would lift her veil, that she could see her face, judge her mood more clearly. In business and in life, she liked to know exactly what she was dealing with. Here, she felt she was flying blind.

‘What rumours?’ asked Ruby.

‘Rumours that your son Kit could have been the one who killed my boy Tito.’

Ruby said nothing. Her heart was beating very fast: she wondered if she was about to be sick.

‘And you know what I think?’ Bella went on, then paused.

She’s about to tell me that they’re going to kill Kit , thought Ruby in horror.

But Bella’s next words surprised her.

‘I think enough. We – you and I – we’re the matriarchs of our families. That’s the word, isn’t it? Matriarchs?’

Ruby had to swallow hard so that she could speak.

‘Yes. That’s the right word.’

But Ruby was thinking that she wasn’t much of a matriarch. She had built a new relationship with her daughter – but barely any relationship at all with her son. To imagine that she could influence Kit in any way was madness. Just a few weeks ago, he had told her that Michael Ward, who had been like a father to him, had wanted him to try and patch things up with Ruby, to forgive her. That had been almost Michael’s last wish on earth. So Kit had said he would try.

But he hadn’t.

Kit was still cool to her, still as remote as ever.

She could hardly see Bella’s eyes through the veil, but she could feel them, watching her face keenly. ‘We have the power to stop this here,’ said Bella. ‘You and I.’

‘I thought all Italian families cared about was revenge,’ said Ruby.

‘I’m too tired for revenge,’ said Bella, and she sounded tired, too: old and exhausted.

‘Do you believe these rumours?’

‘Did I say I believed them?’ Bella shrugged. ‘Tito had many enemies, you know.’

Ruby said nothing, but she was chillingly aware of Bella’s eyes on her, gauging her reaction. She was aware of what the Danieri family was. Michael had told her about the Camorra in Naples and how it had now come onto the streets of London. It was a brotherhood, a society, older than the Mafia which had its roots in Sicily. She didn’t think for a minute that Bella was simply a sweet, doddering old woman. Like the rest of her kin, she could be lethal.

‘You were close to Michael Ward,’ said Bella.

‘Yes,’ said Ruby. ‘I was.’

‘He was married to my niece Serafina up until the time she died. She grew up here, and changed her name to Sheila. She wanted to “fit in”, you see.’

‘I know all that.’

‘Then you came along. And I think he was happy with you.’

‘I hope so.’

‘But then he died too. Violently. Perhaps 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.’

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!’