He promised Michael he was going to try to forgive me.
Didn’t look as if he was trying very hard.
He wasn’t trying at all.
‘That was bloody awful,’ she told Rob as she slid into the back seat.
Rob said nothing. Of course it was awful. It was a funeral.
‘Let’s go home,’ she said.
‘Holy shit,’ said Rob, straightening in his seat, looking ahead.
‘What? What is it?’ Ruby craned her head to see. There were lines of cars parked up in front of them, there were people moving about on the pavement. She couldn’t see anything past all that. She could see some of the Danieri family, standing beside a black limousine parked four spaces from her Mercedes.
‘Over there,’ said Rob, indicating the far side of the road.
More parked cars, people milling about, everyone dressed in the heavy black of mourning, and…
‘Oh God!’ she burst out.
Kit was walking across the road, moving toward one of the Danieri limousines. Bella’s daughter Bianca had already departed, with her youngest son Fabio. But Vittore the eldest was still there, just getting into a limo with his mother.
‘Fuck,’ said Rob.
Ruby threw her door open. ‘Stop him, Rob, will you? Quick!’
Rob was already out of the car, moving around the front of it. Ruby followed, her heart in her mouth. If Kit reached the Danieri party, there would be massive trouble. The situation was a tinderbox, ready to blow: one spark, and all Bella’s efforts to defuse it would come to nothing.
Kit moved fast, even though he seemed to be weaving a little, unsteady. By the time Rob caught up with him, he was standing in front of the Danieri limousine.
‘So that bastard Tito’s planted at last,’ said Kit loudly, with a laugh. ‘And not a fucking minute too soon.’
A gasp went up from some of the remaining guests at Kit’s words. They turned and stared at this crazed-looking interloper. Ruby hurried up; Rob quickly put himself in between Kit and Vittore. Bella, black-veiled, inscrutable, stood there unmoving. Vittore, blank-eyed with hate, looked like he wanted to do Kit extreme damage.
Kit was swaying on his feet. He was scruffy, unshaven, his tie askew, his shirt collar grubby.
‘You’re drunk,’ Ruby realized, saying it aloud.
Kit turned his attention to her. ‘Mother dear,’ he said, as if seeing her there for the first time. ‘Hello! I am, in fact, royally pissed. Because I’ve been celebrating the funeral of one of the worst scumbags ever to walk the earth.’
Vittore cursed in Italian, his tone vicious, his eyes murderous as they rested on Kit’s grinning face.
