David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

He thought he heard her whisper his name, then the tongue returned, probing, hard, insistent, finding the deepness in his throat. There was just the hint of something solid on the tip, something that made him swallow and, in the heat of the moment, scarcely notice the act.

Nic Costa closed his eyes, not thinking, letting her hands do their work, rising when he was bidden, feeling her straddle him, panting, demanding, feeling the heat rise between them, drowning out the doubts in his head.

In the fevered stream of his imagination painted figures watched from the walls, eyes bright, gaping mouths laughing, particles of dead, dry dust coming alive, waiting for the ancient siren song to rise in her throat, waiting for the ecstasy to bind them.

At some point afterwards he closed his eyes and slept. When he woke she was quietly singing a line from an old song, one his father possessed among that ancient pile of vinyl back in the farmhouse off the old Appian Way. He recognized it: Grace Slick fronting Jefferson Airplane, all those years ago. Miranda Julius was softly chanting the same refrain over and over again.

“One pill makes you bigger,” she sang in a low, breathy voice that ran through his head like a dream.

“HE’S OFFERING me what ?”

Emilio Neri couldn’t believe his ears. Maybe he’d misjudged the kid all along. It was now almost eight thirty. He’d just finished breakfast in the cellar of the safe house on the Aventine Hill, after the best solitary night’s sleep that he could remember in years. Bruno Bucci made the choice. Neri had forgotten he even owned the place. The radio and TV stations were now blurting out his name as the chief culprit for the previous night’s bomb blast. One of the newspapers had even put up a reward for anyone who helped track him down. None of this worried him. Bucci was a good guy. He’d done his homework. He’d paid the right people, sealed the lips of those who might be tempted to go for the main chance. The Albanian mob reckoned they could spirit Neri out of the country late that afternoon. By midnight he’d be in North Africa. In a couple of days he’d find himself in Capetown, ready for a little holiday, in preparation for the trip across the southern Atlantic to his new home. Once he was beyond his native shores no one could touch him. A long line of money would grease his path all the way, from one understanding state to the next.

But now, as luck would have it, a little temptation had got in the way, and Emilio Neri knew the moment he heard it nothing would induce him to walk away from Mickey’s offer.

“Tell me again,” he said. “Just so I know I’m not dreaming.”

Bucci grimaced, unhappy with the idea from the outset. “If you forgive him, if you let him and Adele live, you can have Wallis on a plate. He just wants some money, that’s all. And some guarantees.”

“Guarantees?” Neri waddled around the room, shaking his head. “Tell you what. Get him back on the phone. Let me talk to the kid. I’ll give him guarantees. Why didn’t he call me direct anyway? I’m his father, aren’t I?”

Bucci shook his head. “He won’t speak with you, boss. He’s pissed off with you. Says you expected Toni Martelli to off him last night. Seems to think that was an insult or something.”

“Yeah.” Neri laughed. “Maybe it was. But Martelli’s dead and he’s alive. So where’s the insult now? How much does he want?”

“A cut of the action,” Bucci said gloomily. “Ten per cent of everything going forward.”

Neri slapped Bucci cheerfully around the cheeks. “Hey, don’t look so miserable, Bruno. There’s plenty to go round. Be realistic. Nothing’s ever fixed in stone, now, is it?”

“Whatever you want, boss.” Bruno Bucci said that a lot, Neri thought. It could get annoying.

“Did you know anything about this?” he asked. “Mickey snatching this girl on the side? Be honest now. I’m not pissed off with you.”

Bucci threw back his big shoulders as if it were some kind of insult. “No. You’d have been the first to know. He’s always up to stuff. Stupid little bastard. Why fuck around with crap like that? What’s the point?”

“His dick’s the point. Some things never change.”

Bucci sighed and gave Neri a knowing look. “Stupid—”

“Don’t be ungrateful, Bruno. When the word gets around about this nonsense you come out looking good. No one wants a lunatic running things. You get the business. I get retired. And that black bastard Vergil Wallis gets dead, which is a good lesson for anyone who thinks they can fuck with this house in the future. Understand?”

“Sure.” He really didn’t look happy. “Look, boss. We made lots of good plans here. I can get you out of the country, no problem. If we start messing around like this, I don’t know—”

Neri smiled. “You can do it.”

“Why not let me or one of the boys handle Wallis? We can see to him.”

“Yeah.” Neri grinned. “Mickey and Adele too, huh? You think I’m stupid?”

Bucci was silent. Neri patted him on the shoulder. “Hey, I’d do the same thing myself. Hell, you will do it when I’m out of the way. Let’s not fool ourselves otherwise. But I got a score to settle with Vergil Wallis. Got some personal questions I’d like answered too. He whacked that little accountant of mine. He gave all them private papers to the DIA. It’s thanks to him I get to retire now. I wanna show him a little gratitude. Understand?”

“I understand. But is it worth the risk?”

“Yes,” Neri snapped. “It’s worth the risk. Besides, with you planning things, there is no risk. Am I right?”

Bucci looked at him oddly. There was something going on in his head Neri couldn’t see. “Am I right, Bruno?”

“I never asked you for anything, boss. Let me ask now. Just this one thing. Stick to what we’ve got. No distractions. Just go and enjoy being retired. I’ll look after things.”

Neri would have given up on him then, changed his mind completely. But he was too far down the road and Bucci, he guessed, understood that already. “I’m still running things right now,” Neri snarled. “You do the fuck what I say. A man’s gotta leave a few memories behind him. They got last night. Now they’re gonna get Wallis too. That’s my legacy, Bruno. Don’t fuck with it.”

Bucci grunted something incomprehensible.

“So when do we wrap this up?” Neri demanded. “Where?”

“He’s gonna call us back.”

Emilio Neri thought about his son. And about Adele. Maybe this was all her doing. Maybe this was her way of convincing Mickey she could set him up for life. What a pair they’d make. She’d be screwing the chauffeur before Christmas.

“You know there’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Neri said, more to himself than to Bruno Bucci. “How the hell has Mickey talked Wallis into walking out into the open like that? After all this time? Is he just getting dumb in his old age or what?”

“Maybe he’s thinking of retirement too,” Bucci suggested. “Maybe he wants to even things out.”

Emilio Neri grinned. “Oh, he’s retiring. That’s for sure.”

THEY CLUTCH EACH OTHER on the cold, damp bed. His too-bright eyes, the pupils now dilated, dart everywhere, to places he doesn’t want to see. She watches, face close to his, her breath on his skin, smiling, thinking.

He looks into her eyes and just at that moment, when she’s caught him completely, she says, in a new voice, a low voice that seems as if it should belong to someone else, “Every good deed needs a witness, Nic. Every crime has to meet with some punishment. Without that—”

He’s laughing, can’t help himself, can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.