Bentayga Iceberg

Part II

The Alfetta sat on the Tuscan street that night, its engine taking deep breaths.

She was in the driver's seat, gloved fingers tapping away at the steering.

“It's time.” the gamekeeper whispered.

The masked woman nodded, tugging at the door handle of her father's old car.

“Wait here. If things go south, run.” she whispered back, her voice gravelly.

She got out of the car, adjusting the fedora to mask her eyes.

Her steps whispered as she made her way to the chateau, the only building on the block.

She pulled at her collar slightly, to let some air in. Tuscany gets too warm in times like these.

The old chateau was cast an uncouth yellow by the old lights.

She stopped at the wooden gate, still lifted by rope.

A lone guard sat at the booth; portly with a bottle of Salvatore red on the table.

"Who are you?” the guard grunted, busy with his clove cigarette.

She handed him the card, a cheap counterfeit.

"What's with the mask? Did you finally look at your face in the mirror?” He asked, leaning forward as he ran a thumb over the photo in the card.

“My face got messed up during that job from last month.” She lied, voice still gravelly.

He scoffed.

“Fine. Don't come running when he cuts your pay.” He dismissed, with a wave.

“We'll see if Lambiassi survives tonight.” She thought with contempt.

He felt a shiver in his chest as she passed. Too many clove cigarettes.

The old fountain welcomed her, the same one where her father took a bullet to his chest.

The chateau retained wooden windows, at a time when most buildings on the street had switched to glass ones.

A lone rocking chair swung on the porch.

She stopped in her tracks, as the cacophony of shrieks came back to her like a terrible chorus.

“Where the hell were you? The boss is about to sleep now.” A masculine voice rang in her ears, pulling her back.

She grunted an apology, as she climbed the stairs on her left. The ones on the right were reserved for Lambiassi.

“Evening.” She grunted to the guard by the bedroom.

“You're late. As usual.” He replied.

“Eh you know….. Personal stuff.” She explained, clearing her throat.

“You really love Fabrizio's carbonara don't you?” The man dismissed, as his eyes wandered to her waist.

“Man cooks like a grandma if you don't mind roughing him up a bit.” She admitted.

"Not wrong about that." He nodded with a smirk.

She heard the footsteps come through the right staircase, heavy and slow.

The guard next to her straightened a bit, as the person came into view.

Don Lambiassi.

Even after all these years, he was portly and balding. His lips had an odd fullness which suggested a faint sensuality. He still smelled of orchids and lard.

He grunted a greeting as he walked into the bedroom. The door closed behind them with a faint click.

The man next to her yawned, stretching his hands.

“I’ll head out now. A girl owes me a favour tonight.”He gave her a half-drunken smile.

“Don't worry about it. I'll take really good care of him. She said to nobody in particular.

He nodded, walking towards the staircase on the left.

She waited till she couldn't hear him stumbling.

A silent prayer was muttered for the girl he mentioned.

“Bring the car to the window.” She ordered the gamekeeper through her ear pods.

She took an iron rod which leaned on the wall next to her.

Her hands reached the door knob and twisted it to the right, causing it to swing slightly open.

He kept a few papers by the night lamp adjacent to his bed. Papers with the Roman red tape still on them, blood red.

She stole glances into the room, before she heard the grunt of an exhausted pig.

Eyes to the right. Eyes to the left.

She entered the room, no guards around.

The bedroom was dimly lit, save for the night lamp which stayed by his bed. The wooden windows let the Tuscan breeze in; warm and anxious.

She removed her shoes, walking to his bed. The same bed stained with the blood of her own mother.

She removed her coat, to unwrap the burlap sack stabbing at body all night.

A breath in,

“For my mother. For my father. For everyone cursed to have walked on the same Earth as you.” She muttered, swinging the metal rod.

The metal punched the side of his skull, as she covered his mouth with the sack.

His eyes widened, only to close back down.

The red liquid ran thick from his head, like raw grape wine, except for the stench of wet iron.

A breath out.

Her fingers trembled from the impact.

She scanned the room- where families split by day and souls shattered by night.

Her eyes landed on a bottle of anise liquor, accompanied by two glasses.

A glass was poured for herself. A toast wafted through her lips.

She took the sip, only to spurt it out on the man's shirt.

“Seriously? You replaced the wine of my family for this?” Contempt laced her tongue.

Her head cocked to the door, as she heard footsteps; faint, unsure.

The man was grabbed and thrown out the window with a strangled groan escaping her mouth, landing on the old mattress in the dumpster.

It muffled the sound of pigskin on a trashcan.

She leaped out the window, as she heard the footsteps grow closer.

“I’ll need a painkiller after this.” She muttered on the mattress.

She spared the chateau a glance, as she gazed up from the mattress.

One of the guards, older and skinnier, met her gaze with a smirk, as a cigarette hung from his lips.

He muttered something which she couldn't quite read, yet he didn't chase.

It earned him a smirk. He knew his wines.

“He lived a life too indulgent.” her accomplice remarked in hushed tones.

The night wasn't over yet, as the Alfa’s engine grumbled about the distance to cover.

She paced over to the red sedan, sliding into its passenger seat.

The roar of the twinspark engine grew fainter as she pointed its nose to the hills.

The hills were silent, save for the smooth roar of the Alfa's engine which bounced on the hillside.

The Tuscan summer breeze ran against the Alfa’s stocky bodywork, as its shield grille overlooked the city.

“We are here.” The elder declared as the Alfa stopped at a cliff face, the tallest in the whole of Tuscany.

They got out of the car, taking the sack with them.

The sack tumbled to the ground and rolled out to the cliff.

“The wine.” She called out, one hand outstretched while the other ruffled her pockets for a lighter.

He handed her a bottle of wine. The cheapest bottle in the local supermarket.

The cap was unscrewed as she doused the sack in wine which smelled of rotten grapes and wet iron.

In the bleak night, the lighter sparked the only light for miles.

The lighter fell onto the sack, releasing a howl before it raged away.

The sack was pushed off the cliff, using the baseball bat the elder one gave.

The sack landed with a thud, as the embers crackled.

"I have trodden the winepress alone; and none of the people was with me.” She muttered, removing her mask.

Giulia Salvatore sat on the cliff, as the wind caressed her face.