Viper

94

Centro citta, Napoli Cicerone consigliere Emile Courbit was the son of a French immigrant who'd died of bronchitis in a Neapolitan slum before his fortieth birthday. Emile vowed he'd never suffer the same fate as his father. As a consequence, he worked harder and longer than anyone Carmine the Dog had ever known. The two met just before midnight, the late hour not being a problem for either of them.

'Ciao, Emile, you like espresso?'

The lawyer nodded.

The Dog called his PA, also well used to burning the midnight oil, and ordered coffees and water. There was only one thing on the agenda – a meeting earlier that evening with Finelli's consigliere.

'Did he show?' asked the Capo, his lush leather chair creaking as he craned forward over the desk.

'Si, Mazerelli came. He said they understood our position, respected our rights. They will pay restoration for their actions.'

'Hmmm,' grunted Dog. 'He say how much exactly, and when?'

Courbit shook his well-groomed head. 'No, not how much. Mazerelli has spoken to his boss and to Valsi. I cannot distinguish whether payment will be made by Finelli or by his son-in-law. But he did promise we would have it within forty-eight hours.'

'If Fredo has any sense he will beat it out of the young blood's hide and make him bring it here on his knees, the money in his mouth like a whipped dog.'

'Amusing thought. But I don't see Valsi backing down. Not if our information on him is correct,' said Courbit. 'It's possible Finelli may pay, even if Valsi doesn't, and then he'll settle the dispute internally. As we know from Vito, all is not well in the Family.'

'I don't care. I just want my money and their undertaking that they will never again trespass into our territory and our businesses.'

'I understand. If they do pay, then the question is, what will you see as acceptable and what will you consider an insult?'

Cicerone waved a hesitant hand in the air. 'If Finelli pays, he will be generous. I think maybe half a million. If he leaves it to Valsi, then the stack will be short. Less than two fifty would be unacceptable. Less than six figures would be insulting.'

The tray of coffees arrived, brought in by a young J-Lo shaped Russian girl called Agata. They both fell silent until she'd gone. Then Courbit continued, with a wry smile, 'Do you want these troubles with Finelli to go away, or do you want to try to take advantage of them?'

Cicerone bobbed his big heavy head from side to side as he weighed up his answer. Instinct urged him to wait. Play the long game. But the cards pressed a different case. Today's Tarot had told him to be brave and opportunistic, to be strong when others were weak, to lead and not to follow. 'What would you advise, consigliere?'

There was no hesitation in Courbit's voice. 'I would not wait any longer. If you do not kill both Valsi and Finelli in the next twenty-four hours, then one day Bruno Valsi will control our neighbour's clan and you can be sure that he will make it a priority to try to kill you.'

'Twenty-four hours?' The Dog looked amused. Haste was seldom wise in business.

'Yes. Strike now, before the payment is made. You will have a story on the streets. Wait until after Finelli pays, then you will look unfair. Untrustworthy. After a war, we then have to win the loyalty of the beaten soldiers, we have to become one Family.'

Cicerone liked the idea. But secretly he was frightened. It was one thing to order someone to be beaten up or even killed, but an all-out firefight was something completely different. Something he had no experience of. As usual, he erred on the side of caution. 'Consult with Vito; you will find him in some bar somewhere in the city. Finalize the plans we have spoken of and be ready to explain how they will be executed. I will sleep on your notion and we'll talk before morning Mass.'

Cicerone looked at Courbit and could see that the young man didn't understand his reasoning, his reluctance to draw first blood. Nor should he. At his age, the Dog had known little about the combined powers of God and the Supernatural. But he'd learned his lessons. And so too would Emile. After a brief sleep he'd cleanse his soul, consult the Tarot and then decide whether to fill the gutters of Naples with the bodies of his rivals.