Viper

14

Centro citta, Napoli Nine-year-old Mario Gaggioli mumbled the instructions as he ran. This was an errand that he knew he mustn't get wrong. His long black hair trailed from a specially customized woollen rapper's hat. His wiry body zigzagged fearlessly between the honking mopeds, cars and trams that fought for space down Naples' potholed streets. He was Ronaldinho, sidestepping a sliding tackle. He was Henry, ready to sell a dummy and unleash a fireball from his foot. Above him, wet washing flapped from lines strewn from one balcony to another. Down at his level, old people swore as he bumped and barged his way past them. His foot flashed at a stone and thundered it into the path of traffic. Henry scores!

True to his word, Mario didn't stop running until he reached his given destination. His body zinged with excitement. It was like Ronaldinho taking a penalty in the last minute of extra time. Now was the moment. The time to step up – to be brave – to deliver!

Pounding towards the front steps he remembered the drill. He flipped the woollen hat round so it concealed his face but still allowed him to see through a slit he'd cut in it.

Ronaldinho places the ball and takes three steps back.

Inside the building, he spotted his target.

The Brazilian begins his run.

Behind the reception desk, a man in uniform looked up from paperwork he was helping a pensioner complete.

'La bagascia e morta! ' shouted Mario. He threw the small soft parcel he'd been given into the chest of the carabinieri receptionist and bolted for the door.

Ronaldinho scores! It's all over!

Mario had no idea why he'd been told to shout the bitch is dead, and he had no clue as to what was in the handkerchief. The carabinieri officer picked it up from the floor and opened it.

He wasn't sure what sickened him more, the sight of a severed tongue or the sure-fire fact that another young child's soul had already been lost to the Camorra.