‘But…’ Ruby floundered, searching for words. Her brain was spinning. She had believed the rumours, as much as anyone. She had believed that Tito killed Michael. She knew that Kit believed that too, and although it was never spoken about, she was quietly convinced that he had taken Tito’s life in retaliation. But now…
Bella was saying that the rumours were wrong.
That Kit was wrong.
That he had, in fact, killed the wrong man.
So who was responsible? Who had taken Michael Ward, snatched the great love of her life, away from her?
She could feel Bella’s eyes boring into hers. Ruby gulped hard; her mouth was very dry. ‘So you’re saying…’ she started, then faltered to a halt.
‘I am telling you, none of my sons killed Michael Ward,’ said Bella with conviction. ‘Not Tito, not Fabio, not Vittore. None of them did it.’
Naples, 1926
Baby Tito was nearly a year old when the volcano erupted with a staggering, ground-shaking roar. What followed that first hideous crackling boom was a strange day, overcast and brooding – like the end of the world. Astorre was out walking the streets, going to see his friend Gilberto, watching the ash spew out of Vesuvius in huge belching clouds. It drifted over, fogging the streets of the city with fine grey powder.
Astorre covered his mouth and thought with a prickle of dread of long-buried Pompeii and Herculaneum. He prayed that the volcano, forever smouldering on the edge of the city, should fall silent again soon. That was when he saw Gilberto rushing toward him through the drifting smog. Gilberto was panting, dishevelled, bathed in sweat and a film of gritty soot.
‘Your father!’ he gasped out, eyes wild, choking as he inhaled ash, clutching at Astorre.
Astorre’s heart nearly stopped. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘He’s been shot! Shot and killed.’
In dawning horror Astorre ran with his friend to the carabinieri station, and there he was, his beloved papa: laid out dead and mangled, torn horrifically apart by a hail of bullets. Astorre collapsed onto his father’s chest, sobbing with grief. Gilberto stayed with him, tried to comfort him. But it was impossible.
‘This is Corvetto,’ Astorre said in between his tears. His father’s blood was staining Astorre’s hands, his face, his clothes.
‘How can-’ asked Gilberto.
‘I know!’
They left his father’s corpse lying there, covered in blood and tears. Astorre stumbled out of the room as if he was drunk. Gilberto took Astorre’s arm to steady him as they went out onto the powdered, noise-muffled streets. And there – there – walking along the other side of the road in the softly drifting grey veil of ash, his eyes on the two men as they came out of the police station, was Corvetto, walking among a phalanx of his men, well guarded, safe enough to sneer. Astorre surged forward. Gilberto grabbed him.
