Blinking back tears, she focused on her reflection in the mirror. Why not admit it? Her husband might have been no looker, but she wasn’t either. Years of sophisticated company, high-end dinner parties, charity galas, and still she looked like what she was: an Italian peasant woman, her greying hair scraped back in a bun, her face a pallid network of wrinkles, her sallow complexion not flattered by the unadorned black dress she wore, her eyes stricken with grief.
‘Mama?’
Bella turned. It was her Vittore. Her beloved boy. He too was showing signs of age: his hairline was receding, forming a widow’s peak at the front. It gave him a sinister look, wolfish.
Vittore had always been her favourite, the one she had nursed at her breast for longest, the one she doted on the most. Now he was the eldest living boy and head of the family. He came forward, looking at his watch. It was nearly ten thirty. He kissed her dutifully on both cheeks, held her close for a moment, then pushed her back.
‘Finally he comes to see his mother,’ Bella sniffed.
‘Shouldn’t Bianca be here?’ asked Vittore, ignoring her remark. He was used to such things.
Bella gave a shrug; Bianca was a law unto herself. She smiled faintly and patted his cheek. Vittore was her special one, that would never change.
She thought of the old English rhyme: A boy’s your son till he takes a wife, a girl’s your daughter all your life. Bella’s heart clenched with pain as she thought how Vittore had gone against her wishes and wed Maria. She had warned him about dirty girls and their seductive ways, but what could you do? Men had their needs, and that bitch Maria had snared Vittore despite all Bella’s efforts to prevent it.
But Bianca was completely hers. And she was proud of her. Bianca was intelligent, incisive – she was a true daughter of the Camorra. Bianca had adored Tito ever since she’d arrived on the scene, and her affection had been amply returned. It was Tito who had taught the girl how to shoot, how to do business.
‘She said she would be here,’ said Bella. ‘Or maybe she’ll go straight to the church.’
Vittore grunted a reply.
‘Where is Fabby?’ asked Bella, using her son’s baby-name. Her youngest son was always off doing something or other, mostly things that were best not known about. She had no illusions about her family; she knew what her husband and then her sons had become. What her daughter might be, too, now that she was finally getting involved in the business. Still, she loved them and excused them so much. But today, Fabio should be
