Page 81 of Marcello

This was unexpected, to say the least.

“What… happened?” I wheezed.

“Lametta’s a fuckin’ pussy, is what happened,” he growled.

He didn’t say anything more than that, and I didn’t push.

We drove to a mansion on a hill overlooking the Bay of Naples.

There was a huge brick wall around the property and a painted metal gate barring the driveway. Several guys in chinos, t-shirts, and windbreakers were stationed near the entrance. They were dressed better than your average Camorra thug, but the tattoos on their hands and necks gave them away.

I didn’t see their guns, but I was 100% sure they were packing – probably pistols tucked in the backs of their pants.

They let the Maserati in, and Cesare parked on the circular drive in front of a mansion.

It was big and gaudy – a beige McMansion built to show off its occupants’ wealth.

It looked nothing like Fausto’s Tuscan estate. No grandeur or beauty to it – just a mismatched bunch of turrets, gables, and columns to give the illusion of class.

“Come on,” Cesare said as he got out of the car and led me inside.

The foyer was just as huge and tacky as the outside of the house. There were side tables with massive gold-painted vases on them, an avant-garde chandelier made of glass orbs the size of cantaloupes, and Roman-themed tapestries hanging on the walls. Lots of gladiators and women in togas. An oversized staircase wound its way up to the second floor.

Somewhere at the back of the house, a man with a gravelly voice was shouting. His voice boomed throughout the entire first floor.

“I don’t give a shit what he says! Tell him to go fuck himself!”

Cesare led me through a parlor and a living room, each one just as garishly decorated as the foyer, until we reached the kitchen: a sea of walnut paneling and gold-flecked marble countertops. Ornate high-backed chairs sat around a central island.

In one of the chairs sat a man in his late 40s or early 50s. He was slim and wiry with close-cropped silver hair. His clean-shaven face was deeply tanned and leathery. He wore dark slacks, expensive leather shoes, and a cream-colored shirt with a Cuban collar. The short sleeves exposed a bunch of shitty gang tattoos that were barely visible against his tanned skin. A thick gold chain hung around his neck.

He looked like a street thug who had clawed his way out of the gutter, made a lot of money, and wanted everybody to know it.

Judging by what Fausto had told me, I assumed I was looking at Aristide Caproni – Cesare’s father, and Number Two in the clan.

“JUST FUCKING GET IT DONE!” the older man screamed into his cell phone, then slammed it down on the marble countertop. If he’d cracked the screen in his rage, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Papa,” Cesare said, not at all concerned about his father’s mood, “this is Romeo, the new guy I was telling you about.”

Aristide stared at me like I’d just killed his dog.

Cesare said nothing. He stood there in silence.

I followed his lead and stayed silent, too. My ice-water-in-the-veins abilities kicked in, and I met the old man’s gaze without flinching.

This is the part of the movie where the hero has to prove he’s calm under pressure.

Finally the old guy spoke. “So you’re the one who shot that Mallardo fuck in the ass.”

By now, I knew that Mallardo was indeed a rival Camorra clan. I’d heard a lot about them when I was day-drinking with Cesare and his crew.

But unlike them, old man Caproni didn’t seem to find it funny.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why the hell would you do that?” Aristide asked contemptuously. “Are you fucking retarded?”

I remained calm. “Cesare said I only had to shoot him – not kill him.”