‘Don’t be a fool!’ he said. ‘You want to be laid out next to your father? There are too many of them. Be sensible, Astorre. Pick your time.’
Astorre knew Gilberto was making perfect sense. Standing there soaked in his father’s blood, sick and dizzy with horror and loss, the nightmare miasma from the volcano fogging his sight, choking his throat and filling him with dread, he acknowledged that Gilberto was right. Astorre would wait, and when he was ready, when the timing was perfect, then he would have his revenge. He looked at Corvetto. Their eyes locked. Astorre lifted his arm and flicked his thumb against the underside of his teeth. Corvetto’s smile died.
Like you will die, thought Astorre.
Corvetto had understood the gesture. It meant I am going to get you.
Corvetto walked on, surrounded by his heavies. For a moment, seeing Astorre Danieri there, he’d felt a chill, someone stepping on his grave. But he was safe; his guards were many and his home was a fortress. Astorre Danieri’s father Franco had been a thorn in his side, needing removal. Now the deed was done. If necessary, he would apply the same remedy to the son, Astorre. Let him make his threats; it was Corvetto who had the power – not him.
1975
Minutes after she had spoken to Bella at the graveside, Ruby was getting into her car, thankful that it was all over. Her mind was churning over all that Bella had said. Big solid Rob was at the wheel of the Mercedes, Rob with the toffee-coloured hair and the sexy khaki-green eyes. She knew that Daisy thought he was gorgeous, and he was.
Her old chauffeur Ben had retired after Christmas, and Rob – the minder that Michael Ward had assigned to her months before his death – had taken over the job, with Kit’s permission. Kit was Rob’s boss now, Michael’s successor, and she supposed it was generous of her son to spare Rob – who was after all Kit Miller’s own personal attack dog, his own right hand – for this.
Ruby sighed. Thoughts of Rob always led on to thoughts of Kit, and to the Christmas just past, a dismal Christmas without Michael. She’d received many cards from her business associates, and her old friend Vi – as usual. Also as usual, she’d got one from her long-estranged brother Joe and his wife Betsy, written as always in Betsy’s hand. A card at Christmas! That was all the contact she ever got from Joe these days, and he didn’t even write the damned thing.
Of course she always sent one right back – she did that religiously, every year – but she sometimes wondered why she bothered, when it was clear that they were no more than strangers now. It went without saying that there had been no card from Kit – and no presents either. Not so much as a short visit to wish her well.
