Jessie Keane - Lawless

One of Tito’s less experienced boys, one of the three who’d been with him at the Docklands launch, was sent to the favourite family-owned nightclub – which Tito had grandiosely named Tito’s in his own honour – to find Vittore, Tito’s brother, while the other two, each of them trembling with shock, said they would call on Tito’s mother Bella, break the bad news. They’d had to leave the scene when the ambulance and the police came. What the fuck – it was too late to do anything for Tito, anyway.

It was gone one in the morning, and downstairs Tito’s was quiet, a man tinkling away a bluesy few notes on a piano, the lighting low and drifts of cigarette smoke creating a drowsy miasma around the couples talking softly at the tables as the hostesses slowly circled them. Donato went through the main body of the club and straight upstairs. One of the boys was on the door there, and he took one look at pudgy Donato’s face and let him through without a word.

Inside the flat it was less tasteful nightclub, more Roman orgy. There were chandeliers and Aubusson carpets, deep sofas and a roaring fire. Five men, all big faces from around Little Italy, were being fawned over by a mob of girls – all of them beautiful, all scarcely wearing a thing.

Everyone was laughing, drinks were being filled and refilled. A fat swarthy-skinned man with his trousers pushed down was in a corner with a blonde woman between his legs, her mouth full of cock. Another man had a girl on his lap, squeezing a handful of naked tit. And another – ah, Jesus, there was Fabio! – he was lounging there with one of the women, a luscious nude brunette, nibbling at her neck, whispering in her ear.

Donato went straight over to him.

‘Fabio!’ said Donato. He was a cruel-eyed youngster, short, stocky, always up for a fight. Now, he looked like a kid who’d had his favourite toy snatched away. He looked like he was about to cry.

Fabio glanced up, still smiling, a curl of smoke coming from the cigarette held loosely in his hand. The voluptuous naked girl with him stared up at Tito’s boy with dead-eyed disinterest. With Fabio distracted, she raised her glass and took a long drink of champagne.

‘Donato?’ asked Fabio, half-smiling, thinking that he’d fuck the girl very shortly. She’d be only too happy to open her legs for powerful Tito’s handsome baby brother; they always were. Across the room was a large gilded mirror, and Fabio could see himself reflected in there: he’d been admiring himself all evening, his glossy black hair, his perfect nose, his olive skin. He was a very good-looking young man, and he loved mirrors.

‘Is Vittore here?’ asked Donato.

As if Fabio hadn’t been hearing that all his life! Is Tito here? Is Vittore here? Always looking over Fabio’s shoulder as they said it, searching for the older brothers, the ones that could be relied upon for good sense – never for Fabio, the youngest. It hurt him, every single time. Like it had hurt him when his mother and father took in his little sister, Bianca, a white-blonde miniature usurper, just three years old, who had instantly become the centre of his parents’ universe. He’d been seven when that happened, and for him it had been a disaster. At least, before she came along he’d been the youngest, the baby of the family. After Bianca arrived on the scene, what was he? Not even that, not any more.

‘Can you see Vittore here?’ snapped Fabio. Stupid cunt.

‘Fab, it’s Tito…’ Donato yanked out a chair and seemed to collapse into it. His face was bleached of colour. He looked like a man in turmoil.

‘What about Tito?’ asked Fabio impatiently when Donato said no more.

Donato’s eyes came up and met Fabio’s.

‘He’s fucking dead , Fab. He’s dead .’

Fabio felt time freeze. He looked at Donato. There were actual tears making tracks down Donato’s face now. Donato the hard nut. Not very bright. Not bright enough to see that he’d been made a patsy by two much smarter players, that was for sure. He was sitting there blubbering like a child.

‘What…’ Fab felt the smile, the one he had used to such effect on the girl – fuck knew what her name was – stall on his face. The smile stayed there, but the life had gone out of it. ‘What did you say?’

‘Tito’s dead,’ said Donato. And he told Fabio about it then, through sobs and hitches and gasps.

About halfway through, the girl got up. Fabio grabbed her arm. ‘Where you going?’ he asked.

‘I…’ she started.

Fabio yanked her back down.

‘Ow!’ she complained. People were turning, staring. Fabio still held her arm, crushing it.

‘No, you don’t run off and tell everyone the news like it’s a freak show,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You stay here.’

‘You’re hurting-’ she said.

‘ You stay here ,’ he said, and this time she remained silent. His returned his attention to Donato. He was thinking Tito, dead? No. Not possible.

Tito had been there all his life, an absolute and uncaring despot; ruling the roost after Papa went, with Vittore waiting in the wings, ready to take over when his turn came. Fabio’s turn at being head of the family was way off. It had been set in stone for so long, this fact, that Fabio had almost come to accept it. Almost. He’d always known he’d have to attend two funerals before his turn came. Two graves to stand by, and then all hail King Fabio! He’d always thought that, even as a small boy.

‘And where the fuck were you when all this was happening?’ he asked.

‘We were right there with him,’ said Donato. ‘Right there. This bastard came out of nowhere and did it.’

‘Right in front of your eyes,’ said Fabio.

‘Yeah. Just like that.’

Fabio let go of the girl and stood up. He was nodding, his head bent. Then without warning he lashed out, grinding the glowing tip of the cigarette hard into Donato’s cheek. Donato shrieked; so did the women in the room. The stink of scorched skin drifted up, and a faint repulsive sizzling. Everyone was suddenly on their feet, knocking chairs over, backing away, yelling and screaming. Donato was sobbing in agony. He had fallen to the floor and was holding his hands to his burned face.

‘You were there when it happened? And you didn’t stop it?’ roared Fabio, leaning in and jabbing the glowing cigarette against Donato’s face again, then again. Donato screamed.

One of the other men made as if to intervene. Fabio saw the movement and lifted his arm and pointed a rigid finger at him.

‘I really wouldn’t,’ Fabio hissed. Then he turned to the room at large and shouted: ‘Place is closed, folks. Everyone out now .’

No one moved. Everyone stared at the stricken Donato.

‘ Off you fuck! ’ yelled Fabio, full volume.

They started moving then, the women gathering up their clothes, grabbing handbags, edging away, their eyes still on him, the way you would keep your eyes on a dangerous animal that could turn and attack.

Fabio pressed the point harder: ‘ Get out of here! Show’s over! ’

Slowly, everyone started to move toward the door. Fabio stood glowering until the last guest closed the door behind them, leaving him alone with the cowering Donato.

‘You stupid cunt ,’ he said, and grabbed a heavy marble candlestick from a table and waded in.

Then, when he had seen to Donato, taught him a lesson he would never forget, Fabio went through to the office next door. With hands that shook with a mixture of excitement and terror, his knuckles sore and bloodstained, he phoned his brother Vittore. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that Vittore would. And the irony of this did not escape him.