Michael Morley - Viper

He jammed her against the wall. Forced his mouth against hers.

She tried to bite him.

His hand grabbed her throat. Strong fingers on her windpipe. She wouldn't do that again. He could feel her heart banging against his chest. So fast. So afraid.

Gina closed her eyes. She didn't want him to see her cry. Didn't want him to see the disgust she felt as he fumbled between her legs.

And when he finished, when he'd fucked away the last of the love she had for him and had walked off, laughing, somehow she still held back the tears. Still kept the tiniest shred of her dignity. Just enough to build a new life with.

Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli Salvatore Giacomo was always nervous meeting the great Don Fredo Finelli. Always had been, always would be.

Although they'd known each other for more than two decades, Sal still felt intimidated by his employer. And in a strange way, he liked that feeling. Liked to work for someone who was better, richer and cleverer than him.

As Sal was shown through the hallway to the office in the Don's home he found himself more nervous than usual. Two things were making him anxious. Fear that the Don knew about the incident in Bar Luca with his son-in-law. And the fact that there had been no card on his doormat from his boss. Don Fredo had never forgotten before. Never. But this time – and this was a landmark birthday too – there had been nothing. He was afraid he might say something. Might forget his position.

Fredo Finelli instantly rose from behind his fine desk when the bodyguard showed Sal into the study. 'Ciao, Salvatore, come here, my friend!'

Finelli embraced him warmly, patted his back and gripped his shoulders. 'Let me look at you. My, you don't look bad at all for a man of fifty. You feeling good?'

Sal straightened his jacket and nodded. 'Si, Don Fredo. I think I am as fit and healthy as I have always been.' For a moment Sal feared the old man was about to pension him off, put him out to grass and bring in some young gun to fill his place. It was in his nature to always fear the worst.

'Sit down, Sal.' He pointed to the leather sofas. 'I have to get something from my desk.'

Sal sat and waited. His eyes took in the wood panelling, the photographs of the Finelli family. He liked it here. Liked to feel part of it all.

'I have a little gift for you. Something small to say "Happy birthday", and also "Thank you" for everything that you've ever done for me.'

Sal's face didn't show it, but he was as excited as a kid. The Don handed over a small square box wrapped in gold paper, topped with a gold ribbon and bow. Thirty years ago Sal had dated a girl called Giovanna. She'd kept every bow and ribbon from every present she'd ever been given and had stuck them on her bedroom wall. He remembered it now as his big clumsy hands fumbled to open the gift.

'It's nice,' he said, finally getting through all the wrapping. 'Thank you, Don Fredo, it is nice.'

Finelli smiled. Most people would have managed more than nice if they'd been given a €15,000 watch, but he was all too familiar with Sal's ways. The manner in which he kept himself to himself. His emotions always tight and under control. Nice was about the best he could have hoped for.

'It's a special watch, Sal. Do you know why?'

Sal turned the gold Rolex over and over in his hands. He concentrated hard on the question. He looked relieved, and proud, when the answer came to him. 'It's like yours, Don Fredo. It's just like yours.'

Finelli shook his head. 'No, it isn't. It's not like mine at all. It is mine.'

Sal was shocked. 'Then, Don Fredo, I must not take it. It is too much.' He stretched his hands out and offered his boss the watch.

The Don waved him away. 'No, I want you to have it. It's a Cosmograph Daytona. Eighteen carat gold, with a diamond dot dial. I hope it serves you well.'

The Don paused for a reply, but Sal remained speechless.

'Salvatore, I hope it proves as reliable and trustworthy to you as you have been to me. It's supposed to be the most dependable watch in the world. It is always good to have at hand something or, better still, someone you can rely on.'

Sal didn't look up as he slid the bracelet awkwardly on to his left wrist, pocketing his old Sekonda with its cracked glass and frayed leather strap that stank of his sweat. He couldn't find the words to express himself but he fully understood the compliment he was being paid.

'I can always rely upon you, Sal, can't I?'

Now Salvatore's eyes lifted from his gift. He knew his boss's ways, just as well as his boss knew his. He was going to be asked something important. Something that needed his full attention. 'Yes, Don Fredo. Of course you can. I hope you know that of me?'

Fredo nodded. 'Of course I do, Sal. I need to talk to you about my son-in-law, Bruno. What I am about to say to you must never leave this room. You must never discuss it with anyone else, do you understand?'

Sal understood. He always understood this kind of chat. He was going to be given the best birthday present of all. The chance to kill Bruno Valsi.

San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli That night, Creed came to Sylvia in her nightmares. In the fitful two hours that she slept, his yellow-toothed mouth spat out the question again: 'Would you say that this killing is connected to the disappearances of Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello?'

Well? Would you, Sylvia? Would you?

Calm – he'd been so damn calm – and arrogant. Creed was still on her mind when she woke. And he stayed there as she showered, dressed, skipped breakfast and drove to work. She was so preoccupied she didn't notice her lieutenant walking in behind her.

'Buon giorno. Are you okay, boss?' asked Raimondi.

'Yes, yes I'm fine, Pietro. I've been thinking of what Jack said about Creed. What do you think? Is he innocent or guilty?'

'Well…'

'No wells! No painfully long answers! This man is driving me mad. Just tell me; what do you think? Innocent or guilty?'

'I don't know,' he shrugged. 'I really don't know.' And neither did Sylvia. There was no real evidence – certainly no forensic evidence – but his behaviour was so odd, his character so unpleasant, that it made it hard to even connect the word innocent to him. 'I know we've run checks on him having any links or relationships with these women, but please run them again. Shake the whole thing down once more. See if we can sieve something out.'

Pietro's reply was halted by a knock on her office door. A woman clerk stuck her head round it, 'Scusi, Capitano, but your phone, it is off the hook.'

Sylvia peered through the rubbish on her desk, found the receiver and slapped it back on its cradle. 'Grazie.'

'Downstairs there is a Professore Sorrentino, asking to see you. May I bring him up?'

Pietro laughed. Sylvia dropped her head into her hands. 'No, you may not! God save me from this. Sorrentino is the last person I want to see.'

'Shall I send him away, Capitano?' The clerk seemed confused.

Sylvia turned to Pietro and looked flirtatiously at him. The look was a little jaded, but still did the trick.

'Okay. I will see him.' He followed the clerk to reception.

The door banged shut behind them and Sylvia stared down at the mass of paperwork, growing like bacteria on her desk. If the Francesca Di Lauro case had been the only one she was overseeing then things might not have been too bad. But to her left were witness statements, forensic evidence and psychiatric evaluations on a teenager from Portici who had raped five elderly women. And to her right was a reminder from her chief that a week ago he'd requested her Quarterly Crime Analysis Reports. She settled down in the middle of the paper maze and tried to find her way out.