Maraja seemed dressed for another wedding, but instead he was going to take the scepter that awaited him.
“Maraja, get moving,” said Tucano, checking the clock on his phone for the umpteenth time. “We’re running late, and Briato’ is already there.”
“My wedding and this: these are moments I’m going to have to remember for the rest of my life, deep down,” Nicolas said, fastening the top button of his jacket. He’d had it custom tailored along with his wedding suit, intentionally, and Pachi had gone over to Letizia’s to get it. She had it stored carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, beside the wedding suit.
“But when you got married, people were looking at you,” said Tucano, who was wearing a black Urban Classic jumpsuit. “No one here is going to remember your good suit.” Then he laughed and leveled his AK-47.
Nicolas let him talk, this was his moment, and he could take it, all the rest was nothing but words. At first glance, Micione would understand it all. He would read the symbols, he would glimpse the new king, and Nicolas couldn’t wait to see the look of dawning awareness of his impending fall on that piece of shit’s big moon face.
“Are you ready, Maraja?” Tucano was buzzing around Nicolas like a horsefly.
“Ua’, Tuca’,” said Nicolas, chuckling. “Are you in a hurry? The party can’t start without us, don’t worry.”
“I’m in no hurry, Nico’, it’s just that I want to make sure there aren’t any surprises.”
“What surprises! You’ve done all the on-site inspections, haven’t you?”
Tucano had spent hours doing the on-site inspections. He’d tried out the fastest route, the longest one, the one that went around Capodimonte Park and the one that followed the ring road.
Cupa dei Cani. It was there, in that bit of Marano outside Naples, that Don Vittorio had arranged the meeting. Nicolas hadn’t reacted when L’Arcangelo had informed him of the location where it would all be decided; he would have looked like a child whose parents have just told him that the family was going to Euro Disney Resort: Marano, Poggio Vallesana, Nuvoletta, Cosa Nostra … The list of connections could go on endlessly, extending over decades of Camorra wars and Sicilian infiltrations, illustrious murders and corpses dissolved in acid. A legendary place, where the fate of Campania had been decided, along with plenty more. L’Arcangelo had chosen well, Nicolas thought inwardly.
Tucano had procured a brand-new scooter for Nicolas, a nondescript Honda like so many others going by on the street, with documentation that checked out perfectly. Nicolas climbed aboard, taking care not to get anything on his suit. Tucano rode ahead, checking out the situation and reporting back to him through his earpiece, to alert him to any potential checkpoints or suspicious cars.
Nicolas was driving no faster than 35 m.p.h. and the wind burrowing into his sleeves made him feel as light as a kite.
“Everything all right, Maraja?” Tucano asked in his earpiece.
“Everything’s all right,” Nicolas replied, clearing his throat. Unintentionally, he went back to where it all began, his bedroom at home. “The less we have now, the more we’ll have later,” he used to say to Christian, and he’d said it to Briato’, too, to Drago’, Dentino, Stavodicendo, Biscottino, Cerino, and Tucano … to all his friends. He hadn’t yet been carrying the burden of all the tragedies, betrayals, disappointments, and errors: back then, all he’d had was potential, endless potential.
They’d been driving for ten minutes or so when Nicolas managed to rid himself of his memories and noticed that Tucano was leading him in circles.
“Tuca’,” said Nicolas, “what kind of fucked-up route are we taking? We’re still in Vomero.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Tuca’, for fuck’s sake—” Nicolas said, more sharply. His second-in-command had slammed on the brakes and Nicolas had narrowly missed crashing into him.
“I made a surprise for you, Maraja.”
“We don’t have time for this bullshit—”
“Hold on.”
Nicolas hadn’t noticed that they were driving by his apartment building, because he’d never been to that building in his life. On the third floor, the green curtain that was covering a French window pulled back like a curtain on a stage. Letizia was wearing a dressing gown, and over that, a white blanket. Her hair hung loose, all brushed to one side. In her arms, she held Cristiana, who was fast asleep, swaddled in a pink blanket. Letizia blew him a kiss with one hand and then pointed to her daughter, smiling at him, as if to say, look what a nice life our daughter has, she just eats and sleeps all day. Nicolas smiled, too, and after getting off his scooter, he did a pirouette, so his wife could admire him, and his wife slowly enunciated: “You look wonderful.”
“So do you,” said Nicolas, pointing his forefinger up at her, as if there were other women up there beside her. He cupped his hands together: “I love you,” he shouted, and Letizia started, a sob of emotion choked back to keep from awakening the little one. “We love you too.”
Nicolas and Tucano got there a few minutes early. The car was there, right where it was supposed to be. A white Alfa Romeo, parked half on the asphalt and half on the dirt berm that marked the edge of the fields. They left their scooters about fifty yards away, as per instructions, and continued on foot. The key was supposed to be in the wheel well, directly above the right rear tire.
And in fact, there it was. Nicolas looked around. From there, they could see the roof of the building where the meeting was supposed to be taking place. Red brick, no antennas, not even a chimney pot, the place was an open-air bunker. It was situated right at the center of a slightly raised expanse of dirt, higher than the cherry orchards that surrounded it; L’Arcangelo had told him that the only way to reach it was by a dirt lane.
“Is Briato’ in position?” Nicolas asked.
Tucano fooled around with his cell phone and then held it up to his ear.
“Yes, he’s there. He’s still in a quiet area, off to one side. He’s waiting for instructions to head into the hot zone.”
They got in the car. Nicolas started the engine, and the Alfa Romeo turned over, coughing and wheezing. The two of them exchanged a glance with the same thought in mind: Let’s hope they don’t hear us coming. They took the first left turn, into a dead-end street that ran alongside small detached houses surrounded by metal fencing. Nicolas was driving at about five miles per hour, his eyes focused between the cherry trees to identify the lane. They reached a fence that marked the boundary of the last detached house. Nicolas made a U-turn.
“Where the fuck is this lane?” asked Tucano. “Is this still the quiet zone?” He was sweating and he kept mopping his forehead with his forearm. Nicolas veered sharply right; he’d spotted something in the distance, a gleam, perhaps a reflection of the sunlight on a mirror, or a sentinel standing guard. It was worth checking out.
“There it is,” said Nicolas.
Tucano leaned out the car window. A lighter strip of earth compared with the surrounding terrain, and a few signs of truck traffic that the sentinels had apparently failed to erase sufficiently.
They rolled slowly forward, even though by now the sentinels must have spotted them. The first checkpoint consisted of two men who waved for them to slow down. L’Arcangelo’s men, Nicolas had crossed paths with them a few times before. He only needed to lift his foot off the accelerator pedal and pull the hand brake. The guards checked the license plate and let them proceed. A hundred feet later, another checkpoint, and two more of L’Arcangelo’s men checked the license plate again.
The cherry trees gave way to the enclosure wall, which stood at least six feet tall and was topped by sharp chunks of tile. The way into the estate was through a white gate before which a tall, slightly bowed man was strolling, as if measuring its extent.
“That’s ’o Cicognone,” said Tucano. Nicolas drove up to him and lowered the window.
“Guagliu’,”’o Cicognone said, “go straight ahead, along the wall. There’s a sort of stable, just pull your car in there. Shut the gate, pull out your guns, and wait.” He opened the gate just enough to get through and then vanished behind it.
They followed the wall around the estate until they came to the sharp right turn, where there was a large open area with a tumbledown stable, where two horses were chomping hay. Nicolas steered the car around and backed into the stables, next to the horses, which showed no signs of concern.
“Ua’, look how pretty they are,” said Tucano, jumping out of the car to pet them. “I’ll bet these boys are fast, what do you say? And I know the whole Lauretta clan are crazy for horses.”
Nicolas grabbed the gate with both hands and started to pull until he noticed that Tucano was out in the open.
“What the fuck are you doing, Tuca’?” asked Nicolas, in a low voice. “Why are you playing with horses?”
“Nico’,” said Tucano, “come and see.”
So Nicolas followed him, crouching down in the brush. They could hear engines in the distance and soon enough three jeeps and an SUV rose over the hill from the opposite direction.
“That’s Micione with his bodyguards,” said Tucano.
In those cars, Nicolas reckoned mentally, there could easily be as many as fifteen men, armed to the teeth.
“They’ve laid an ambush for us,” said Tucano, his voice climbing by a good octave.
“Ssssh, shut up,” said Nicolas. He leaned out to get a better view, but the cars had turned the corner and all he could see was the brake lights on the last jeep in line.
They heard the gate to the estate opening with creaking noises and one of the cars accelerating to go through the opening. Then the repeated beep of the SUVs backing up. The bodyguards were leaving; Micione was going in alone, and of course, unarmed, just as L’Arcangelo had told them.
This was the moment. They waited for the noise of the cars to die down before moving forward.
“Ua’, guagliu’, what the fuck are you doing out here?” Aucelluzzo had emerged from the stables, out of breath. “You were supposed to wait inside.”
Nicolas crossed the road, arms thrown wide. “That’s just the way it went, Aucellu’.”
“Get moving, come on, come get your girlfriends,” said Aucelluzzo.
“Calm down,” Nicolas told him, smacking him in the nuts with the back of his hand. Tucano and Nicolas got out the AK-47s they’d hidden in the trunk.
“Let’s go, Tuca’,” said Nicolas, with a smile, and cocked the automatic rifle. He’d use it only if necessary, if the situation went sideways. He was planning to kill Micione with his knife, the one that L’Arcangelo had given him.
“Where is he?” he asked Aucelluzzo.
“There’s an office, the minute you go in. He’s in there. I’ll take you.”
Aucelluzzo led them to the big white gate and kicked it three times to alert ’o Cicognone.
“Leave it open,” Nicolas told him, after stepping into the broad open plaza that overlooked the estate. Briato’ must be somewhere in the area, but he’d never be able to get over the wall to come to their assistance if something went wrong.
Nicolas ran a hand over his collar; he was drenched with sweat, and the tattoo at the nape of his neck seemed to be covered with a greasy sheen.
“Are you afraid?”’o Cicognone genially needled him. “We still have time to call it off.”
No, Nicolas wasn’t afraid. He was about to bring the scepter back to Forcella, how could he be afraid? He was about to become the boy king, how could he be afraid? He was about to kill the man who had destroyed his paranza, how could he be afraid?
“’O Cicogno’,” said Nicolas. “It’s time.”
The front door opened into an enormous empty room; at the far end, next to a large planter, was a closed door.
“He’s in there,” said Aucelluzzo.
Nicolas made sure he’d loaded the AK-47, and then he took off, without giving it a second thought, because he’d already thought far too hard about that moment: now the time had come, and he just needed to act.
The door swung open easily, without resistance. “’O Micio’, it’s all over now,” he said, aiming the gat at him. But Micione’s face showed neither terror nor astonishment, just the usual mocking grin. Diego Faella really did have a pair of balls on him, he thought to himself.
“It’s all over now,” Nicolas said again, and only then did he focus on the people sitting at the table with Micione. There was La Zarina, ’o Sciroppo with his smarmy, untroubled face, and, as if he’d sprung out of some short circuit in his brain, Nicolas saw L’Arcangelo in person, his feet propped up on a green duffel bag, with the guns sticking out of it. The guns. His guns. The paranza’s arsenal.
He squinted, shutting his eyes, but when he opened them again, L’Arcangelo was still sitting right there.
“I don’t get it,” said Tucano in a loud voice, right behind him. “What’s happening?” Dreamily, in a daze.
“You see,” said Don Vittorio to Micione, pointing to the Rolex on his right wrist. “He showed up right on time. What did I tell you? ’O Maraja is always right on time.”
“Don Vitto’, what the fuck is going on here?” asked Nicolas. He was holding his AK-47 aimed right at Micione, but his finger on the trigger hung limp.
“And now that we’ve gotten the paranzas out of the way,” L’Arcangelo went on, “I’m taking central Naples all for myself, with everything that’s in it…”
“Not everything,” said Micione, looking at La Zarina. “You supply the piazzas and I provide protection for the businesses…”
They were haggling. They were actually in the final phases of divvying it all up, the instant before the final signatures.
“Don Vitto’, what the fuck are you doing? You’re selling off my zone!” Nicolas was shaking, and the vibration was making the metal components rattle. At last he made up his mind to do what he’d planned to do from the very start, and he jammed his finger down on the trigger and angrily started spraying the AK-47 back and forth, the way a little kid might do with a toy weapon. Micione lifted both hands to his belly. “Oh, no, aaargh, Maraja’s killed me,” he said with all the seriousness that little kids put into it when they’re playing.
Then Tucano in his turn pulled the trigger. Click. He’d set it to semiautomatic to improve his aim, and he knew that if he wanted to fire again, he needed to pull the trigger. Click. It was an empty sound, like a wet firecracker. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened.
“They gave us piece-of-shit guns, they’re no good! Nicolas!” cried Tucano, furious.
L’Arcangelo stretched his legs to push the duffel bag out of the way and get to his feet. He was even more elegantly dressed than the last time Nicolas had seen him, even more elegantly dressed than Nicolas was.
“Maraja, Maraja,” he said, and for an instant Nicolas secretly hoped that this, too, was part of their agreement. Don Vittorio was stepping lightly on the terra-cotta floor; he looked twenty years younger. He placed his hand on the barrel of Nicolas’s AK-47, pushing down on the front sight. And then he kissed him. On the mouth. Hard, violently jamming his lips against Nicolas’s, until he opened them. Then their heads separated. “What have I always told you? That if everyone else is looking up, then you have to look down. If everyone else is looking out, then you have to look in. You always have to look where everyone else isn’t. This time, you just didn’t look.”
“You fucking bastard!” Nicolas shouted, his face twisted with rage.
I’m the one who’s falling now, I was on top of the sky and now I’m going to eat dirt, he thought, and he shoved the older man away, hitting him flat on his double-breasted suit with his Kalashnikov. But L’Arcangelo continued smiling, as if he were looking at a ferocious animal rebelling against captivity. At that point, Nicolas brandished the AK-47 and tried to swing the rifle butt to hit L’Arcangelo, but in the meantime ’o Cicognone had appeared behind him. He shoved him against the wall, and L’Arcangelo was still talking, he still wouldn’t shut up, Nicolas was still being forced to listen to his lessons: “Nothing’s happening, Nico’,” he said. “This is all normal, it happens to everybody sooner or later, don’t worry about it.”
Tucano dropped the AK-47 and lunged at Micione, but a blast of gunpowder and lead from a revolver knocked him back a yard onto his back. Micione holstered his handgun and leaned forward to contemplate Tucano, lying there with his throat torn open, like a sheet that once you start a tear in it, you can simply rip open. Tucano was thrashing on the floor, trying to get air, but he was slowly choking to death. Red bubbles oozed out of his mouth, large and round as soap bubbles, but instead of popping they just built up, forming a whitish foam, until they were rinsed away on a gush of blood.
“Nothing’s happening, Nico’,” L’Arcangelo said again, “you’re just about to die is all. It’s perfectly normal.”
Nicolas could no longer breathe. He heard Tucano die, he could hear the sound of his friend’s teeth shattering in his final convulsive clenching, then a gurgle and nothing more. He writhed, slamming his head against the wall in an attempt to find enough wiggle room to break free, but ’o Cicognone’s hands held him braced against it, crushing his throat, as if he were squeezing a lemon.
He was going to die now, in an ambush, out of sheer stupidity; because he hadn’t been smart enough to foresee this—he who had become Maraja because he kept strategies in his head. The small gulps of air he managed to take in through his mouth made him retch repeatedly.
“Nico’,” L’Arcangelo said again, “it’s nothing personal, for real. There are those who command and those who take orders; you commanded, you did what you wanted, but children remain children, even if they’re all dressed up. The jack of hearts might be slow, but when he gets there, he gets there. So long to Google, not that anyone even knows what it is, something that’s in the air, not in your computer. We’re on top of a table.”
Nicolas looked at La Zarina. Everything that was happening was real. The Tsarina was sitting at the table with the man who had killed her son. Don L’Arcangelo was sitting at the table with the man who had killed his son. It really is true, he thought, nothing matters but money.
L’Arcangelo looked at Cicognone: “Strip him,” he ordered, and Cicognone crossed Nicolas’s arms while, with the other hand, he undid the two buttons of his jacket that were still fastened.
L’Arcangelo was using his thumb to try the edge of his little black switchblade knife. He looked Nicolas in the eyes, as if paying him a final tribute, the honor of arms, and with a sharp jerk, buried the blade in his belly.
The air that until then he’d been trying to pull into his throat now poured out of it, as if Nicolas had finally found relief; even his face was relaxed. The black needles of his eyes were fixed on L’Arcangelo’s eyes, but he couldn’t see him. He would have liked to imagine his daughter’s face, Letizia’s eyes, but instead nothing came. He could only feel the burning blade of the knife in his belly, and the scuorno—the humiliation—of dying that way.
L’Arcangelo slowly pulled out the blade, careful to avoid staining his suit, and ’o Cicognone released his grip on Nicolas’s throat.
Nicolas staggered forward, the rapidly spreading stain on his shirt darkening the light fabric. L’Arcangelo stabbed him again, just inches from the first wound, and then again. There was no thump, just one knee, and then the other, and finally down on his side. His temple hit the floor. And he saw Tucano. He tried to say something, to tell him not to be afraid, but he lacked the strength. He felt a great chill wash through him, and his legs started to thrash. It was over. He’d imagined dying so many times before, but he’d always believed it would be much faster. A light being switched off. Instead he could feel the parts of his body as they left him. At last, he stopped feeling the pain, because he simply stopped feeling anything.
Briato’ had heard a single shot, and no texts were coming in on his cell phone, so he walked straight to the farmhouse and, without a hint of caution, threw the door open, his pump shotgun leveled, his lame leg extended as a brace. And he saw.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he shouted. He aimed at L’Arcangelo, pumping the trigger. He fired three times before realizing that all that was coming out of the barrel was a puff of air, a fart of gunpowder. Then he hurled the shotgun at him and turned to run.
“Take him out,” Micione shouted.
“Let’s do like in Apocalypto,” Aucelluzzo proposed, as he watched Briato’ drag his leg after him, slam against the furniture in the room, and then trip over his own feet, after traveling in thirty seconds roughly the same distance that ’o Pagliaccio, who’d appeared in answer to Micione’s call, and ’o Cicognone had covered in little more than five. It was like chasing a baby bird with broken wings.
“Apoca … what?” asked ’o Cicognone.
“Fuck, didn’t you ever see Apocalypto?” asked ’o Pagliaccio. “The scene where the guy is painted blue all over, he’s trying to run away from the human sacrifices, and the others all throw rocks and stones at him, shoot arrows … if he can get over the line, they’re safe, but if he’s caught they die.”
’O Pagliaccio hauled out his pistol and started firing. Briato’ had reached the center of the plaza, and when he heard the gunshot, he instinctively ducked, lost his balance, and sprawled headlong.
’O Cicognone gave him time to get back on his feet, then fired. Briato’ ducked again, but this time he managed to stay on his feet, and the white gate was just a few yards away, within reach.
“Oh, this guy is really getting away,” said ’o Pagliaccio. “Let’s go get him, ’o Cicogno’.”
“Eh, ja’, let him run, after all, we can just go pick him up at home…”
“Quit kidding around, knucklehead, we can’t let word get out that we killed them, these guys from the Piranhas.”
“Oh, what a pain in the ass … but why?”
“That’s how L’Arcangelo wants it. The Children are a threat, even when they’re dead.”
’O Cicognone took off running, his long legs getting in the way of themselves. In the meantime, Briato’ had reached the cherry trees; he grabbed the thin trunks of the trees to swing himself forward. If I can just reach the street, he told himself, if I can manage to get hidden in one of these little houses, then I’ll hunker down, keep quiet, and tomorrow morning I’ll sneak out of here and be safe.
He looked behind him. There was no one. He resumed his flight, even his injured leg seemed to be working better. I swear if I ever get home, I’ll start physical therapy, he told himself. Aucelluzzo was bent over his scooter, elbows out, aiming straight at him. Briato’ tried to dodge to the left and then swerve back to the right to outfox the scooter’s trajectory, but the snout of the TMAX scythed into him at knee height. Briato’ was lofted into the air and landed on the scooter, which had slid over on its side. Aucelluzzo got to his feet, cursing roundly, and started kicking Briato’ savagely in the gut.
He continued kicking him until ’o Pagliaccio arrived, and then knelt down over Briato’ as if to impart some final benediction and finished him off with a bullet to the temple.
They left him lying there, along with Aucelluzzo’s wrecked scooter, and headed back to the estate, discussing Apocalypto as they went.
In the office, L’Arcangelo was still talking.
“Now that we’ve gotten the Piranhas the fuck out of the way, my men need to be in charge of all the children in Naples: ’o Cicognone and Aucelluzzo, they’ll be giving the orders to the local kindergarten.”
L’Arcangelo bowed his head, over the bodies of Tucano and Nicolas, and went on, as if he were speaking directly to the corpses: “The Piranhas were all good guaglioni. They’d done what we never did. They had the courage that no one in this room has. This one, lying on the floor”—and he jutted his chin in Nicolas’s direction—“had more balls than all the rest of us. We were willing to be shut in, we started to become afraid of our own shadows. When you want something, you have to up and get it, and instead we all started dancing tarantellas, making pacts.”
“Arca’, I’d almost say you want him to come back to life,” said Micione.
L’Arcangelo shook his head, without taking his eyes off Nicolas. “No, it’s more like he brought me back to life. We’re like vampires, we need young blood, we need to suck ideas we can’t come up with ourselves.” Then, at last, he turned back to the others: “All right, come on, we’re done here.”
“All right, then, order has been restored. The cake has been shared out. And no one had better overeat,” said La Zarina. Micione filled his glass with Barolo and passed glasses to L’Arcangelo and ’o Sciroppo. He poured the first glass onto the floor: “The first toast is for the dead who have made it possible for us to live.”
The Barolo ran over the desk, the chairs, the armchairs.
L’Arcangelo poured his glass over Tucano and Nicolas.
“The shit that gets sold in the historic center of Naples has to be bought from me. And the heroin from La Zarina.” Everyone nodded at L’Arcangelo’s words. “And now that we’ve founded the United Nations of Naples, let’s make sure it lasts.”
Then ’o Cicognone and Aucelluzzo arrived with two black trash bags and put the lifeless bodies of the two members of the paranza into them. They took them away, one after the other, dragging them across the floor.