Jessie Keane: Lawless

‘Well, Astorre, how are we going to get through this?’ Bella Danieri asked the framed black-and-white photo of her late husband on the mantelpiece. No answer came. Of course it didn’t. Astorre had been gone for ten years now, he didn’t have to go through the excruciating pain of burying their eldest child, his favourite son, Tito. She was thankful for that.

Bella picked up the photograph and kissed the still, silent face. He’d been no looker, her Astorre. Bulging-eyed and over-excitable, Astorre had been a bruiser of a man, bludgeoning his way through life. He was camorristi , one of the much-feared Camorra, a powerful Naples urban underworld organization. And he’d been doing well in the city of his birth until the feud with Corvetto forced the Danieris out of the district of Villaricca.

Astorre had dragged himself and his Italian émigré family from those dangerous Naples gutters to the even meaner streets of London, pushing aside all those who would attempt to hold him back from enjoying his due: a comfortable life of crime.

He had achieved his goals too; he’d mixed with the best of the best. The resettled Danieris had dined with MPs, celebrities and minor aristocracy. Their eldest son Tito had taken over the reins after Astorre’s passing, extending their criminal empire still further. Tito had proved himself a skilled puppet-master, building on Astorre’s talent for business, blackmail and subtle mayhem, ensuring that the family would always be safe. Too many people in high places stood to lose their easy life of privilege should the authorities ever bring trouble to the Danieri family door.

Bella stood and looked around at this room, stuffed full of the possessions accumulated over a lifetime. The Danieri family had thrived in exile. At first, of course, life had been a struggle, but now they owned this big town-house with its many rooms, placed squarely and elegantly here in Little Italy, in the heart of Clerkenwell. They were safe, secure, among their own kind, and reasonably content with that.

Bella preferred to keep her family close, under her control. She didn’t like Bianca being away so much, down on the south coast, but she kept her adopted daughter’s room just as she left it, so that it was always ready for her return.

Why should her sons and her daughter find places of their own when there was this big house here, with plenty of space for them all? Of course, Tito had kept an apartment over one of the clubs – she didn’t want to know about that , or about what he got up to when he was there, God forbid. Fabio, her youngest boy, still lived here with his Mama, and why not?

And Vittore!

Bella’s lip curled. Her favourite boy, the middle son, had shocked and upset her by insisting on marrying that whore Maria. He’d been ready to break his mama’s heart by moving out, setting up his own household with the slut.

Bella soon put a stop to that. She had cajoled, pleaded, cried, clutched at her chest. ‘I am losing my son!’ she wailed.

In the end, Vittore had relented, as she had known he would. Now Vittore and Maria had their own set of rooms – lounge, kitchen, wine cellar, bathroom, bedroom, even their own little patch of garden – in the big family home, and there was no more talk of them moving out.

The rain battered against the window and Bella gazed out at the dark sky, the lashing rain. She sighed then, and cursed the weather in this country. In Napoli, sweet hot Napoli, people sat outside, sharing grappa with their neighbours and laughing at the problems of the world under a brilliant, scorching sun. Here, they huddled indoors even in the summer months, and the air was never dry, it was always damp, humid: everyone went out in raincoats to dodge the showers. But there could never be any going back for the family; she knew that. This had become their country, their home.

Once it had seemed that nothing could touch them here, nothing at all: and then it happened. Her son Tito, walking out of the renovated Docklands one night. An assassin, lying in wait, striking when it was least expected. A single thrust with a long, narrow blade, and her precious boy, her eldest, was dead.

With trembling fingers Bella placed her long-dead husband’s picture back on the mantelpiece. She was so tired of it all: the fight, the struggle. Tired to death; all she wanted was peace. No reprisals, no beatings. She’d told the boys and she meant it. Tito was gone, nothing was going to bring him back. Let him rest.

Blinking back tears, she focused on her reflection in the mirror. Why not admit it? Her husband might have been no looker, but she wasn’t either. Years of sophisticated company, high-end dinner parties, charity galas, and still she looked like what she was: an Italian peasant woman, her greying hair scraped back in a bun, her face a pallid network of wrinkles, her sallow complexion not flattered by the unadorned black dress she wore, her eyes stricken with grief.

‘Mama?’

Bella turned. It was her Vittore. Her beloved boy. He too was showing signs of age: his hairline was receding, forming a widow’s peak at the front. It gave him a sinister look, wolfish.

Vittore had always been her favourite, the one she had nursed at her breast for longest, the one she doted on the most. Now he was the eldest living boy and head of the family. He came forward, looking at his watch. It was nearly ten thirty. He kissed her dutifully on both cheeks, held her close for a moment, then pushed her back.

‘ Finally he comes to see his mother,’ Bella sniffed.

‘Shouldn’t Bianca be here?’ asked Vittore, ignoring her remark. He was used to such things.

Bella gave a shrug; Bianca was a law unto herself. She smiled faintly and patted his cheek. Vittore was her special one, that would never change.

She thought of the old English rhyme: A boy’s your son till he takes a wife, a girl’s your daughter all your life. Bella’s heart clenched with pain as she thought how Vittore had gone against her wishes and wed Maria. She had warned him about dirty girls and their seductive ways, but what could you do? Men had their needs, and that bitch Maria had snared Vittore despite all Bella’s efforts to prevent it.

But Bianca was completely hers. And she was proud of her. Bianca was intelligent, incisive – she was a true daughter of the Camorra. Bianca had adored Tito ever since she’d arrived on the scene, and her affection had been amply returned. It was Tito who had taught the girl how to shoot, how to do business.

‘She said she would be here,’ said Bella. ‘Or maybe she’ll go straight to the church.’

Vittore grunted a reply.

‘Where is Fabby?’ asked Bella, using her son’s baby-name. Her youngest son was always off doing something or other, mostly things that were best not known about. She had no illusions about her family; she knew what her husband and then her sons had become. What her daughter might be, too, now that she was finally getting involved in the business. Still, she loved them and excused them so much. But today, Fabio should be here.

‘Something to do with the funeral director,’ lied Vittore.

There was no trouble with the undertaker. Vittore knew that because he had handled all the arrangements himself. Fabio was off somewhere, doing something he shouldn’t. That was for sure. If he screwed up, today of all days, then Vittore promised himself he would kick Fabio’s stupid arse from here to the moon. ‘There were one or two things to be straightened out, that’s all.’

The doorbell rang, and Vittore went to answer it. A moment later, he returned, followed by Bianca – dressed in black today, not her usual white. She embraced Bella, who started to cry.