Michael Morley - Viper

But Paolo Falconi didn't stop. He knew what Franco intended to do, and it wasn't going to happen.

Franco forced a smile and mumbled his final message, 'Love you.' A surge of energy ran from his brain down to his hand and into his trigger finger. Like he was plugged into heaven's own generator.

Franco shut his eyes and pulled.

Paolo threw himself. A desperate, last-second lunge.

The gunshot roared and echoed across the ruins.

ROS Quartiere Generale (Anti-Camorra Unit), Napoli Ricardo Mazerelli apologized as his cellphone rang in the middle of the carabinieri interview. He turned it off, let the voicemail deal with it and then switched his attention to Pietro Raimondi. 'Lieutenant, I called because I hoped you could deal with today's developments within the framework of our new relationship. Do we have an understanding here?'

'Of course.' Raimondi gave the hint of a smile.

Valsi scowled at his brief, then leaned over towards the officer. 'I want to give a full interview and I want to give it now. That's presuming a piece of shit like you can actually write.'

The lieutenant had never been the type to allow himself to be intimidated. The two men stared at each other. Less than a metre of air separated them. Valsi didn't frighten him. 'Signor Mazerelli, tell your client to watch his foul and offensive mouth, or he'll need a dentist and will be spending a lot longer in here than he needs to.'

Raimondi heard a voice of calmness in his ear: 'Keep it cool, Pietro.' Not the voice of his inner self, but that of anti-Camorra boss Lorenzo Pisano, whispering through a micro-receiver earpiece.

'We'll take your written statement in good time,' said the lieutenant politely. 'Please be patient, I have just a few more preliminary questions.'

'Very good,' said Lorenzo in his earpiece. Raimondi had gone straight to him after interviewing Antonio Castellani, and the major had pulled his strings ever since. If all went well, Raimondi would be in line for promotion and a big salary rise. He'd probably need a transfer too. He and Lorenzo had put Sylvia in the picture only moments before starting the interview with Valsi.

Standing in the darkness of the monitor room, she watched the interview unfold and told Jack how Pietro had deceived her.

'I understand the need for confidentiality. Of course I do. But damn it, he could have trusted me.'

Jack chose not to comment. Local business was always quicksand and best avoided. 'What's Valsi's game, walking in here all lawyered-up? Why do that? Why not make your guys chase around after him?'

Sylvia cleared her head of Pietro. 'I'm thinking the same. Maybe he was just spooked by someone whacking his guard and thought here was a safe place to be until he could mobilize muscle and ammunition.'

Jack studied the young Cammorista. Spooked was a word that didn't fit. The man exuded violence. It glowed around him like a force field. Nope, he wasn't buying spooked.

'You tempted to ask him about Kristen Petrov? Or maybe drop Francesca Di Lauro's name in his lap and see if he jumps like you spilled hot water on his gonads?'

'Very tempted,' said Sylvia, 'especially as Bernadetta Di Lauro told me this morning that five years ago Francesca may have been having an affair with a married man.'

'Valsi and Francesca?' Jack pondered on it. Fire and ice. A striking couple.

'But I think we should wait. I have no forensics to link him to either woman. Not yet. Things might change in the next few days.'

'If that dead guard is the start of a turf war, then things are going to change mighty fast and Valsi could be pushing up daisies in a few days' time.'

Their attention returned to the TV monitor. Pietro was asking the Capo Zona about his movements last night. Who he'd been with? Who could alibi him? Valsi was toying with Raimondi. Promising to show him footage of the woman he'd fucked all night, a woman who wouldn't look twice at a streak of carabinieri piss like him.

Sylvia's phone rang. She moved quickly to the back of the room to take it and then hurried outside. There was someone in reception, directed there by the Incident Room, and it was urgent.

Lorenzo flicked a talkback switch on the control panel. 'Pietro, ask Valsi about Alberta.'

Raimondi did as he was told. 'Signor Valsi, the body of the key witness in your trial, Alberta Tortoricci, turned up in Scampia…'

'We're leaving,' interjected Ricardo Mazerelli.

'She was found with her tongue cut out…'

'My client has no knowledge of, or connection with, the incident you're describing.'

Valsi looked bored. He checked his watch and yawned.

The Capo stood up and slowly shook the creases out of his trousers and slid his jacket on.

'She'd been tortured to death. Electrocuted and burned…'

'We have no further comment to make.' Mazerelli had to push his client towards the door, otherwise he'd have stood there all day patting his mouth in mockery.

Valsi checked his watch again and bit back a smile. By his reckoning, the Don and the Dog should both already be dead. Murdered at exactly the time he had the world's best cast-iron alibi, courtesy of the carabinieri.

And any moment, many more of his problems would be solved.

Pompeii Just as Franco Castellani's life had been a terrible fuck up, so too was his death.

Blood and brain spattered the features of Pompeii's famous ashen fugitives.

The two cousins lay in a heap. Arms around each other.

But for the smell of muzzle blast and burned flesh, you could have been forgiven for thinking they were wrestling. A boisterous play fight that had ended in deadlock. Dead lock.

Feelings of hopelessness and a hardening addiction to heroin were what had driven Franco Castellani to the brink of despair. The point where suicide seemed a sweeter option than survival.

Paolo Falconi had been too late to stop Franco's finger from pulling the trigger. And he'd been too quick for his own good. The desperate last-minute lunge had been just enough to knock his cousin's gun away and divert the fatal bullet into his own head.

Paolo was dead.

Franco lay on his back. His cousin's brains were all over his face. His blood ran off him and formed dusty balls in the dirt of the Pompeii ruins.

Franco struggled to move Paolo off him. When he was free, he knelt there, crying and cradling his cousin's corpse. Gradually people crowded around. Strangers' eyes locked on the two youths and the gun in the dirt. They were uncertain whether to help, or to run.

Franco spotted them. And helped them decide.

He picked up the weapon and pointed it towards them. 'Get away! Get the fuck away, or I'll kill you all!'

Most ran. Some stayed frozen to the spot. Franco fired a shot that tore into brick above their heads. Now they screamed. Now they ran.

The Garden of the Fugitives was empty again. Except for the dead. The old dead. And the new dead.

Franco Castellani hugged his cousin and kissed his bloodied head.

And then he put the pistol into his mouth.

And fired. Capaccio Scalo, La Baia di Napoli Salvatore Giacomo parked up west of Vesuvius at the junction of the SS18 and SP277. From here he was only minutes away from most of the major routes in and out of Naples. Black coffee in the cup-holder on the dashboard, croissant crumbs on his lap, he dialled the numbers again. First the Don. Then Armando. Next Mazerelli. No replies. Even Valsi was unobtainable. Something was wrong.

Sal guessed it had started. War had broken out. He cursed himself. He should have killed Valsi long ago, killed him first. That son of a bitch would be at the centre of it. The Don had asked him to bide his time, wait until he was ready, and he'd done as he'd been asked. He'd always done as he was asked. And now they were paying the price. He should have followed his instincts, not the old man's orders.