Michael Morley - Viper

'Okay.' Valsi clicked off his phone and smiled. He knew Mazerelli would call the cops and make sure there were no loose ends when they came asking questions. Cleaning up was part of his job. After that, he would call his father-in-law and the old man would presume the hit had come from a Cicerone triggerman. The last thing he would suspect was that in the dead of night Valsi had sat laughing and joking with one of his own guards and had then shot him dead. What a turn-on that kill had been. No wonder the little lap dancer could barely walk this morning.

The game had begun. And like he'd told Mazerelli, he wouldn't be playing by any rules. 7.58 a.m. San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli After the call from Mancini, Sylvia Tomms had fallen into a heavy sleep and missed the alarm. Once more she found herself being woken by the bedside phone.

'Pronto.' She was alert within a second. It was Pietro Raimondi. Had he not talked so fast, she would have torn him off a strip for taking to his sick bed when so much was happening. Instead, she listened intently as he filled her in on the call he'd just received. There'd been a shooting at Bruno Valsi's home. A security guard had been killed in his gate hut. His lawyer had phoned to report the murder.

'Where's Valsi now?' she asked.

'On his way to the station house, with his lawyer, Mazerelli.'

'Cazzo! ' Sylvia scrambled to the bathroom. 'I'll be there as soon as I can. Maybe half an hour, forty minutes. Depends on the traffic.'

'Don't worry. I'm only five minutes away. I'm told Major Pisano is en route as well.'

She dropped the phone and ran the shower. Thank God Pietro was back. One thing annoyed her, though. How had he known about Valsi before she had? And how come he knew that Pisano was already on his way? 8.15 a.m. Centro citta, Napoli Thunder boomed and rolled. Forked lightning cracked the grey sky and darted across the darkened bay. It looked more like late evening than early morning as Mazerelli's Lexus emerged from a maze of cobbled backstreets and parked at a nightclub the Family owned near the carabinieri's central HQ.

At the front desk, Mazerelli introduced himself in a very deliberate manner. 'I am Ricardo Mazerelli, legal representative of Bruno Valsi. A short time ago I telephoned this station and reported a murder at Signor Valsi's home in Camaldoli. It is now a little after eight fifteen a.m. and, as promised during my call, my client and I are here to assist you in any way we can.'

'Who did you talk to?' asked the male desk officer, sounding bored as he ran a chubby finger down a ledger for times and notes.

'Lieutenant Pietro Raimondi.'

The desk jockey scanned a list of extensions pinned to the top of his desk. 'Raimondi is not stationed here.'

'I know,' snapped Mazerelli. 'I called your switchboard and they put me through to him. He'll be arriving here shortly.'

'Then take a seat, over there.'

'First, please make a note of the time of our arrival.' Mazerelli turned his wrist and ostentatiously tapped his watch. 'Eight eighteen.'

The officer glared at the lawyer. 'Your time of arrival is noted. Now, please take a seat.'

'In a moment.' Mazerelli leaned forward over the desk to check the time had been entered in the ledger. 'Fine. Thank you.' He touched Valsi on the shoulder and they settled in some black plastic chairs by a window. Valsi grabbed a magazine from a wobbly-legged table piled high with old reads.

'Raimondi will be here shortly,' said the lawyer. 'With a little luck we'll have all the formalities done within the hour. Then we'll be out of here.'

'No rush,' said Valsi. 'They can take as long as they like.' And for once, he meant it.

Right now, there was nowhere else he'd rather be than in the company of the carabinieri. 8.20 a.m. Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli Gina Valsi's hair was still a little wet. She and her son Enzo had been swimming in her father's indoor pool when Don Fredo had been told of the guard's murder. Not surprisingly, the Don had chosen not to say anything to his daughter as he breakfasted with her and his grandson in the conservatory.

'You look tense, Papa,' observed Gina. 'Work is giving you problems already?'

He laughed dismissively. 'Work is always giving me problems.' He poured coffee from a silver pot. 'You want some more?'

'No, grazie. I have to get Enzo ready for the child-minder.' She ruffled the boy's hair as he dabbed a jammy fingertip into a plate full of croissant crumbs. 'Go scrub your teeth. And make sure you do them properly.' She bared her gums and waggled a finger up and down as he escaped to the bathroom. Gina turned back to her father. The top of his head was now all that was visible above a wall of newspaper. 'I'm going to have Leonardo bring my car round. Papa, do you want me to call your driver too?'

Finelli didn't hear his daughter; his mind was elsewhere, and not on the newspaper. Cicerone had some balls whacking his son-in-law's guard. If they'd waited twenty-four hours then they'd have got their money in full. A generous amount as well. A pre-emptive strike like this was meant as a warning. Or a challenge. When Mazerelli was finished with Valsi, then he'd call him in. After that he'd ring Cicerone himself and see where they stood. He doubted Carmine the Dog wanted a war. But if he did, then he'd certainly give him one. A war to end all wars. Perhaps the killing was a way of hiking the settlement price up and showing his own clan that he wouldn't be publicly disrespected. If that was the case, he could live with it.

'Papa, do you want your car? You're supposed to be at the doctor's in thirty minutes.'

The paper wall crumbled. 'Merda! I'd forgotten.' Finelli sprang to his feet. 'Grazie. I'll be there in a minute. God, the traffic will be awful now. I should have left ten minutes ago.'

Gina smiled. Her father was growing increasingly forgetful. She and Enzo had lived with him for only a short time, but already it felt as if she were looking after two children. Yesterday he'd forgotten she was cooking dinner and he'd eaten before coming home. And now today he'd almost missed his monthly check-up and blood tests. His cholesterol had shot up over the past year and the doctor said he was now borderline for type 2 diabetes, hence the checks.

Enzo reappeared, toothpaste all around his mouth. Gina couldn't help but laugh. 'Come here. At least I can see you scrubbed.' She picked up a napkin from the table and he wriggled while she wiped away his white moustache. 'My sweet baby, you're growing up just fine, aren't you?' She straightened his jumper, tucked in his shirt and kissed his head.

Then he hit her with it.

Straight out of the blue.

'Mamma, why doesn't Papa live with us any more? I miss Papa being with us.'

Gina caught her breath. What could she say to her beautiful baby-faced child? How could she explain that when his father wasn't playing soccer with him in the garden he was torturing people and raping his mother? 'He's busy, Enzo. You'll see him again, soon.'

Busy – what a great word to cover his father's multitude of sins. The boy took it at face value and looked disappointed. For a second Gina felt sad that the next time Enzo would see his father would be in a box at a funeral parlour.

But only for a second. 8.30 a.m. Pompeii The Visitors' Centre opened daily at eight thirty, but in winter the coach parties seldom arrived before ten. Franco had been sitting for hours with his back against a wall of the ancient amphitheatre. Cradled in his hands was his grandfather's Glock. Simmering in his mind was the thought of how he'd use it.

After Paolo had gone he'd roamed the ruins. Imagined he was the sole survivor of the eruption of Vesuvius. The strongest of them all. The ruler of all he surveyed. Now the darkness was gone and so was his dream.