Lawless - страница 9

She was used to this. With three older brothers, she was always the one standing on the sidelines, the one nobody consulted or enquired after, because she was a girl and in their eyes that made her something less than a man, someone less likely to get things properly done. She had kicked against it for most of her life, but it was there, always staring her in the face: the testosterone wall.

She might have been used to it, but that didn’t mean she liked it, or accepted it. In fact, it enraged her. She knew she was capable, sensible, tough enough to run this place. When she put herself forward for it, her brothers been taken by surprise; it was obvious that they wanted to say no, but Mama had backed her. They all knew Mama was the boss, so Tito had said OK, why not? All the time expecting Bianca to make a bollocks of it.

And here it was, Vito checking up on her, proof that they thought her inadequate; a mere female and not even one of them. She was adopted, not proper Danieri blood.

She waited patiently for him to say the words: Everything OK, Sis? Need a hand?

Expecting – almost hoping – that she would say, Yes, someone’s giving me trouble, can you help me please, Vittore?

She would rather choke than say any such thing. She was tough, through and through. She carried a.22 calibre gun in her handbag, she looked you straight in the eye and dared you to look back. She was Tito Danieri’s little sister. She was Camorra.

‘Vittore!’ she greeted him warmly as she sat behind her desk, elbow-deep in paperwork. Fucking paperwork. ‘What can I do for you?’

It’s more what I can do for you, Sis. I’m here to help you out of whatever trouble it is you can’t handle.

And all the while he’d be mocking her in his head, thinking, Knew it. She can’t cut it, not like us boys.

Well, she was going to show them.

‘Sis…’ he hesitated. Vittore’s face was somehow… changed. No confident sneer today, and his mouth looked tight, strained.

Bianca felt alarm spiral up through her core. Felt that soul-draining weakness that comes with the certainty that something nasty is coming, something bad.

‘What is it?’ she said, rising to her feet.

‘No. No. Sit down, Bianca. This is bad news. I’m sorry.’

Bianca sank back into her seat. ‘Is it Mama?’ she asked, dry-mouthed.

He was shaking his head.

‘It’s Tito,’ he said. ‘It happened last night, when he was at the new place in Docklands.’ Vittore swallowed hard, and Bianca was horrified to see that his eyes shone with tears. ‘He’s dead, Bianca. Tito’s gone.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ Daisy asked her mother on the day of Tito’s funeral.

‘No, I’m not,’ said Ruby. ‘But I’m going.’

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ said Daisy, her face looming up in the mirror at Ruby’s shoulder.

Ruby glanced at her watch. Ten to eleven. She felt a shiver of apprehension run right through her. The sort of shiver that told your senses Just don’t, OK? But she sent her daughter’s reflection a smile. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Stay here with the babies.’

Daisy’s eyes, blue as cornflowers, stared into her mother’s. She thought that Ruby’d had more than enough upsets over the past few months. She wished she wasn’t being so damned obstinate about this. But then, Ruby was obstinate about nearly everything: Daisy supposed that was how she came to be such a success in life.

Could she look any less like me? wondered Daisy, watching her mother straighten her pearls in the hall mirror. It never failed to amaze and amuse her when she looked at Ruby. Daisy herself had the healthy tanned complexion, golden-blonde hair and robust build of a Valkyrie. There was certainly no question who Daisy’s father was: she was every inch the daughter of big, blond Cornelius Bray. She looked nothing like exotic, dark-skinned Ruby – unlike her twin, Kit.

Daisy didn’t even sound like her mother. Ruby’s voice still held a hint of the East End she’d grown up in; when Daisy spoke it was with the beautifully rounded vowels of the Home Counties, as befitted the daughter of Lord and Lady Bray. But Lord Bray hadn’t wanted to know about his dark-skinned son; Kit had been raised in a succession of uncaring state orphanages. And she had always felt so guilty about that.