Viper

19

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Antonio Castellani's eighty-three-year-old face looked like it had been shaped out of saddle-leather. Skin sagged around a once broken and now entirely toothless jaw and fell in wrinkly folds down his scrawny neck.

Alone since his wife had died a decade ago, he spent most of his time in the old, rusting caravan that was both home and office. From here he ran the family holiday camp business and from the leaky window that let in the winter wind he watched what remained of his family go about their chores.

Outside, hauling garbage, were his grandsons Franco Castellani and Paolo Falconi. Both twenty-four, they'd been best friends since they crawled on a rug together. That was back in the days before Franco's father went to prison and his mother ran away to Milan with Paolo's father. Paolo's mother had looked after Franco for two years before she'd then upped and left as well.

Antonio gazed sadly at his grandsons heaving sacks out of an old van, straining to earn extra money by burning trash that gathered on the streets. Was that what his life had amounted to? Garbage. Was this the best he could provide for his family? It certainly hadn't been what he'd planned half a century ago as he'd fought his way out of the slums and worked two jobs a day so he could start his own business. And years ago – more than fifty to be precise – well, he'd even hit the big time, for a while. He used the cash he'd saved to buy land and move in a fleet of shiny, new caravans. Then, by targeting those not rich enough to stay in hotels, he'd made money, good money, from tourists bound for Pompeii and Herculaneum.

It had all gone well.

Until he'd met Luigi Finelli.

Antonio had been full of bravado, ambition and cash. He'd cut quite a dash in the city's most popular ballrooms, bars and clubs. But such success didn't just catch the eyes of the ladies. It also turned the heads of the city's predators.

Camorra kingpin Luigi Finelli had been born with an instinct to spot easy prey. One long spring night, when Antonio fell into a game of high-stakes poker with fickle friends and ruthlessly rich strangers, Luigi scented blood. With a wave of his hand the strangers gave up their places to his Camorra soldiers. A day later, Antonio left at dawn, a broken man. All of his savings and a third of his business had been surrendered to settle his debt.

If you looked closely into Antonio's face, you could still see the lines of shock that had been seared into his skin half a century ago when the game ended and reality sank in. Past, present and future – all had been lost on the turn of a card. But this momentous event was not what was troubling him as he stared out of the caravan window this dour December day. It was something more personal. More painful.

Young Franco Castellani looked towards the caravan, caught his grandfather's gaze, smiled and waved. Antonio returned the gesture along with a gaptoothed smile. It had been years since Antonio had cried, but when he looked at Franco he couldn't help swallowing hard and blinking. It wasn't just that he had his grandmother's eyes, and Antonio remembered her every time he saw him. It was that the child had been cursed with something worse than death. A disease that was cruelly robbing him of the life he should have.

Car tyres crunching dusty gravel made the old man jump like a lizard in the sun. He hoped the arrivals were tourists, plenty of them, packed with cash.

But they weren't.

The black Mercedes S280 was undoubtedly a Camorra car. The Finelli Family normally sent their weekly collectors in more modest vehicles, but sometimes one of their distinctive Mercs rolled up. An under-boss usually slouched in the back while he despatched some young leech to come and bleed Antonio of his hard-earned money.

'Buon giorno,' shouted a man that most of Antonio's generation recognized as Sal the Snake. The Camorrista stood and waited for someone to appear from around the other side of the car.

'Buon giorno,' replied Antonio, respectfully dipping his head.

The muscled form of Tonino Farina slid out from the passenger seat and opened the back door for his boss.

'This is Signor Valsi,' said Sal, moving towards Antonio. 'He'd like to come inside and talk to you.'

The old man slicked back his hair and tried to fuss himself smart. 'Of course. Please, come in. This is an honour. A great honour.'

Valsi nodded, buttoned up his black suit jacket and climbed two metal steps into the van. He looked around contemptuously. The air stank of male sweat and cigarettes. It reminded him of his first day in prison.

'Sit down, please,' said Antonio. He hurriedly moved newspapers and a plate glazed with stale pasta sauce. Farina checked out the rest of the van. He opened the toilet door and almost gagged.

'I'll stand,' said Valsi. 'This won't take long.'

Antonio felt his chest tighten. He wiped his hands on his crumpled old trousers and hoped the Camorristi couldn't sense his fear.

'My father-in-law tells me that you pay us a third of all your earnings and, with only one or two unfortunate lapses, you have always met your debts promptly.'

'Yes, sir. That is the case. I do my best, even when times are difficult.' Antonio hated calling this young weasel 'sir'. There had been a day when he could have bought and sold scum like him.

'How old are you?'

Antonio smiled. 'I am eighty-three, almost eighty-four.'

'Then you do not have long left,' said Valsi coldly. 'Do you have any illnesses, anything wrong with you?'

'A little angina.' He patted his thumping heart.

'Then maybe you have two to five years,' said Valsi. 'What will happen to this place when you die?'

'I will leave it to my grandsons. They will run the business. It will be their livelihood.'

Valsi smirked. 'Oh, no. No, I really don't think so.' He placed his hands either side of the window and looked into the camp yard. 'I am going to buy the land off you, and you can have some money for the last of your years. I will be generous, so there will be some cash to pass to your grandsons.' He turned to face him. 'Signor Giacomo here will come back with a lawyer and you will sign all the legal papers transferring ownership to me. We will build on here. Perhaps housing. Perhaps a restaurant and apartments. You will be compensated and move out. Do you understand?'

Antonio wanted to say no. With all his broken heart and all his broken spirit, he burned with the urge to say no.

One last stand.

'Signor Valsi, this is all I have left. My wife died many years ago and my business has been difficult to run. But I have done so, because it is part of my family and I want to pass it on to the next generation. It is not worth much, but still it is an inheritance. And, in leaving an inheritance, we old people find some respect and dignity. Please don't take that away from me.'

Valsi's eyes lit up. The old man's fear excited him. 'Signor Castellani, you speak of your own family and your own respect, but in doing so, you show only disrespect to me and my Family. I am not interested in how you, or your grandsons, feel. I am a businessman, and this is purely a business matter. I will pay you fifty thousand euros. It is enough to rent an apartment – no doubt until your death – and even put some food in your mouth. In return, you will sign over all the land to me. You can take anything you want from here, I demand only the earth. Building starts in six months' time.' Before Antonio could react, the caravan door opened.

Franco Castellani blundered in, his voice full of youthful excitement. 'Grandfather, I've finished the garbage and toilets. What do you want me -' He stopped when he saw the three sharp-suited men in front of him.

Farina grabbed Franco by the chest and pinned him to the wall of the van.

'Please, don't hurt him!' pleaded Antonio. 'He didn't know you were here, he didn't mean anything -'

'Fuck! What is this shit?' Valsi grabbed at Franco's chin. 'What the fuck is wrong with you? You've got the face of a fucking hundred-year-old.'

Antonio pushed himself between his grandson and Valsi. 'He's ill. He has Werner Syndrome. It makes him look old. It's not his fault. Please, don't hurt him.'

'Enough!' said Valsi. He let go of Franco and brushed his hands together, as though wiping filth from them. 'This shit better not be catching.'

'It's not!' Franco stared straight into the man's eyes.

Valsi sized him up. 'Fucking weirdo.' He turned back to the grandfather. 'Be ready to sign the documents my men bring you.' He pushed Franco to one side. 'Stay out of the fucking daylight, Freak Boy; it's not Halloween for another year.'

Valsi and his laughing henchmen left. The door swung loose and banged in the wind.

Antonio ignored it and wrapped his arms around his grandson. 'Ignore them, Franco. I love you and God loves you. Everything will be all right.'

Franco fought back his rage and nodded as his grandfather held him.

'It will be all right, I promise,' repeated Antonio. But they both knew that it wouldn't be.

Everything was going to be far from all right.