Page 91 of Marcello

“Don Amato is the head of the Cosa Nostra family in Naples. If you killed a Cosa Nostra foot soldier in Naples, there’s a 99% probability he worked for Amato.”

“…oh.” The wind temporarily went out of my sails, but I still held out hope. “I think Cesare’s trying to kill Amato.”

“The entire Camorra have been trying to kill Amato for the last 20 years, and they’re no closer now than they were two decades ago.”

“…oh,” I said, even more discouraged than before. I tried one last time. “They said they caught the guy down by the docks.”

“‘The guy’ being the prisoner, and ‘they’ being Cesare’s men?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” Fausto said in a bored voice.

“Isn’t that important?”

“The port at Naples is one of the biggest in Italy, Marcello. It’s the clearinghouse for immense amounts of drugs and pirated goods from the rest of the world. If Amato were ambitious at ALL – which would be a new development – he would try to establish SOME degree of control over the ports. Apparently he’s failing badly.”

“So… it’s not important?” I asked, crestfallen.

“No, it most decidedly is NOT.”

I was confused. “If Amato is Cosa Nostra, and you’re Cosa Nostra, why don’t you care about the Camorra killing one of his guys?”

“Because Amato is the head of a different family in a different city, and I don’t give a shit about what happens to him unless it benefits me personally. Now, is that all you have?”

I wracked my brains for something – anything – that might be important –

And came up empty-handed.

“…that’s it,” I said glumly.

“Don’t bother me again until you have something I can USE,” Fausto snapped, then hung up.

I sat there on my bed, the stink of dried vomit on me, and stared into the darkness.

I silently cursed Fausto, Cesare, the Camorra, the Cosa Nostra, and the day I was born –

Then passed out again.

My sleep was plagued by nightmares of torture and murder…

But when I woke, I wasn’t sure whether the nightmares were dreams or reality.

29

Two years passed.

Some things improved. For instance, I started making several hundred thousand euros a year, which was nice. It allowed me to live in a much fancier apartment building.

It also bought a lot of high-priced scotch – and every so often, a top-dollar call girl – to numb myself at night.

I also started dressing much better. Rather than look like a track-suited scumbag, or ape Cesare’s thuggish style the way Ciro and Toro did, I bought tailored suits.

I tended to wear them with t-shirts, though. Sort of a Neapolitan Miami Vice vibe.

I guess in some ways I was emulating Fausto and his Cosa Nostra flunkies.

But if I had to be a gangster, I was going to dress like a stylish one.