Fatal. Jacqui Rose

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       PROLOGUE

       Alcuni anni fa …

      Some years ago …

      Standing by the grave in the pouring rain, Alfie Jennings felt the cold droplets running down his neck and inside his coat collar. He turned slowly to his friend Abel Gray, who until recently had been an unshakable force, a powerhouse amongst men. Wealthy and driven, a man at the top of his game. Selling and supplying weapons, Abel had been ruthless when it mattered, when he had to be, but at heart he was loyal and generous. But as Alfie looked at his face, drawn and haunted, he could see Abel now was nothing but a broken man.

      ‘Are you going to be all right, Abel? Cos I can stay if you like.’

      ‘I’ll be fine, Alfie, I’d rather be left on my own anyway, but I appreciate you coming.’ Abel paused as he reached out to touch the headstone gently. His voice hoarse, he added, ‘We both do.’

      Alfie shrugged uncomfortably. He was the only one who had come; over the last few months, Abel through his trauma and sorrow had pushed everyone away who cared, but Alfie was determined Abel wouldn’t do that to him, no matter what he said, no matter what he did.

      The two of them went back a long way, first business associates before becoming firm friends, so there’d been no question of him not making the trip to Abel’s isolated thirty-acre country home. The estate, which sat on top of a hill, was tucked away in the New Forest of southern Hampshire, and Abel had insisted the burial take place within the grounds. But it still cut Alfie up to see him like this. The once physically imposing presence, the once sharp mind, all felt like they were crumbling, fading away in front of his very eyes. Sighing, he gave his friend a sad smile.

      ‘I’ll get off then, but Abel, if you need me, you know where I am mate. It don’t matter what time of night or day it is, just call … And I’m sorry, truly I am. She was really special.’

      As Alfie Jennings walked out of sight, Abel dropped to his knees, tears and rain mixing in the wet earth as he began to scrape away at the soil of the freshly filled grave. ‘No, no, no, no, no, baby, no, it’s all right, I’m here, I’m here … I’m coming, Natalia. I’m here.’

      And as the rain poured down and Abel frantically dug, his fingers beginning to bleed, he remembered that night as if it were only yesterday.

       ‘I’ll ask you again, what did you do with my money?’

       Panicked and desperate, Abel shook his head, his vision blurred as he stared through the stream of blood that ran from his head. ‘I told you, I don’t have it, I’ve no idea where it is.’

       Nico Russo pulled out a blue handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the beads of sweat that sat on his olive skin like dewdrops. His eyes as dark as ravens, he gazed impassively at Abel, bloodied and tied to the chair. He spoke again, his voice unnervingly calm, heavy with a North Jersey–Italian twang. ‘You need to speak up, I can’t hear you, but it sounded like you were saying you don’t have my money.’

       With blood bubbling from the side of his mouth and the gash so deep on his forehead the bone of his skull was exposed underneath the flapping skin, Abel spluttered his words through lips that had been carved wide open, fear wrapping round him like a tight restraint. ‘I don’t! I don’t have it, Nico! I never did!’

       ‘Is that right?’

       Abel nodded, flinching at the pain shooting through his body. He looked at Nico, pleading with him, desperate to persuade him somehow that he was telling the truth. ‘Please, I swear. I can’t tell you something I don’t know.’

       Nico Russo, a second-generation Italian-American who was built as powerfully as a herculean god, shrugged, his mop of unruly curly black hair pushed back far enough for Abel to see the deep lines of a frown appear. ‘If that’s the way you want it, so be it.’

       ‘It’s the truth, Nico!’

       As he walked closer to Abel, Nico’s words were rolled in sadness. ‘You’ve been like family to me, and that’s why this hurts me so much.’

       ‘Nico, please, I’m telling—’

      Nico’s fist swung hard, striking and perforating Abel’s eardrum. He breathed heavily and raised his hand to point at Abel. ‘Never interrupt me, you know better than to show a lack of respect like that. Non mancarmi mai di rispetto. Never disrespect me. You understand? Never ever. Mai e poi mai.’

       Agony shot through Abel as he felt the warm fluids drain out of his ear and down the side of his face. Barely capable of moving his head from the pain, Abel muttered his reply in Nico’s mother tongue.

      ‘Sì. Sì.’

       ‘Good. However, that still leaves us with the problem of where my money is. So, you give me no choice … Salvatore! Salvatore!’

       The wooden door to the cabin opened a few moments later. Salvatore Russo’s features were more delicate than his elder brother’s, but there was no mistaking the prominent sharp nose that determined the Russo family bloodline.

      ‘Sì, Nico?’

       Nico smiled, something he rarely did and rarely cared to do. ‘You can bring it in now. Let’s have some fun.’

       With hatred and fear burning in him, Abel watched as Salvatore, always eager to please his older brother, nodded. ‘Okay. No problem, Nico.’

       As Salvatore stepped outside again, Nico turned back to Abel. ‘You’ve no one to blame but yourself. It pains me, but I won’t let anybody, not even you, who I loved like my own brother, steal from me.’

      ‘I told you—’ Abel’s words were cut short as a woman was dragged inside by her hair and flung to the ground, knocking over one of the wooden chairs in the sparse, dimly lit cabin. She scrabbled to the back of the room and pushed herself up against the wall.

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