It was gone one in the morning, and downstairs Tito’s was quiet, a man tinkling away a bluesy few notes on a piano, the lighting low and drifts of cigarette smoke creating a drowsy miasma around the couples talking softly at the tables as the hostesses slowly circled them. Donato went through the main body of the club and straight upstairs. One of the boys was on the door there, and he took one look at pudgy Donato’s face and let him through without a word.
Inside the flat it was less tasteful nightclub, more Roman orgy. There were chandeliers and Aubusson carpets, deep sofas and a roaring fire. Five men, all big faces from around Little Italy, were being fawned over by a mob of girls – all of them beautiful, all scarcely wearing a thing.
Everyone was laughing, drinks were being filled and refilled. A fat swarthy-skinned man with his trousers pushed down was in a corner with a blonde woman between his legs, her mouth full of cock. Another man had a girl on his lap, squeezing a handful of naked tit. And another – ah, Jesus, there was Fabio! – he was lounging there with one of the women, a luscious nude brunette, nibbling at her neck, whispering in her ear.
Donato went straight over to him.
‘Fabio!’ said Donato. He was a cruel-eyed youngster, short, stocky, always up for a fight. Now, he looked like a kid who’d had his favourite toy snatched away. He looked like he was about to cry.
Fabio glanced up, still smiling, a curl of smoke coming from the cigarette held loosely in his hand. The voluptuous naked girl with him stared up at Tito’s boy with dead-eyed disinterest. With Fabio distracted, she raised her glass and took a long drink of champagne.
‘Donato?’ asked Fabio, half-smiling, thinking that he’d fuck the girl very shortly. She’d be only too happy to open her legs for powerful Tito’s handsome baby brother; they always were. Across the room was a large gilded mirror, and Fabio could see himself reflected in there: he’d been admiring himself all evening, his glossy black hair, his perfect nose, his olive skin. He was a very good-looking young man, and he loved mirrors.
‘Is Vittore here?’ asked Donato.
As if Fabio hadn’t been hearing that all his life! Is Tito here? Is Vittore here? Always looking over Fabio’s shoulder as they said it, searching for the older brothers, the ones that could be relied upon for good sense – never for Fabio, the youngest. It hurt him, every single time. Like it had hurt him when his mother and father took in his little sister, Bianca, a white-blonde miniature usurper, just three years old, who had instantly become the centre of his parents’ universe. He’d been seven when that happened, and for him it had been a disaster. At least, before
