Delilah J
www.delilah-jay.com
Chaussee 17
14621 Schoenwalde
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© 2013 Delilah J, www.delilah-jay.com
Translated from the German by Gitta Wolf
Cover design: Julia Kuhnert, Berlin, www.juliakuhnert.de
Cover idea: Massi J ©
Images: private
Interior Typography: Siegfried Pompe, Köln
published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de
ISBN 978-3-8442-5485-3
IN THE END ...
They could not put him on display. Could not lay him out. Too many gunshots. The head destroyed, the chest area too. There was a brief forensic examination. Nothing major. One might be better off not knowing - here in Naples. Could be dangerous. For the medics, the experts, the Carabinieri, the family, the judges, the witnesses. Yes, witnesses. Were there witnesses? Five shots in total. They made sure that death was certain. Aimed for head, chest, heart, and again. Certain. Shots fired from a Kalashnikov. The weapon of choice, here in this region. Yes, it happened in Naples. One beautiful, sunny lunchtime. He got out of the back of the black limousine. By the harbour. On his way to an appointment and on to the island of Ponza. Usually he goes by helicopter. Not today. No looking back. The driver opens the door. He gets out. Two young guys - not even masked - skilfully let their motorbikes drop to the ground, pull their weapons and shoot - first him, then the driver. The driver survives, after a seven-hour operation in the Ospedale Cardarelli in Naples. He will be unfit for questioning for a long time. According to the doctors. And anyway, what could he say - or, more to the point, what would he say? Should his condition allow. Physically, at least. Mentally, he would not want to, would not allow himself to. Mission accomplished. Fast and efficient. Two young guys, almost still boys. Slight, slender. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old.
Move like professionals. He was not their first victim.
No one can restore him: not his body, and certainly not his soul. And now, no one can look at him anymore either. No undertaker or medic ever could do or had to do that much artful reconstruction work on the body of a respected deceased person.
He fell to the ground. Fell onto the filth of Naples harbour. Around him a sea of blood. The burning sun quickly turns it into a sticky, smelly mass. He meets his end here, where fish, cigarettes, smugglers, alcohol, cocaine, diamonds and other contraband arrive, intermingled with the blood of asylum seekers dead or alive, the human merchandise that touches down and is bought and sold, here, on this, the world’s main trafficking spot for all merchandise of illegal and murky origin - this is where he meets his end. The end of a wealthy life. A life of profiteering. Did his wealth increase with other people’s deaths? With drugs, with human trafficking? Did he stay clean because he was never caught? Protected by his friends: Bellarosa, his special kind of companion? Or the “Gransignore in Carozza”? No conviction without an accusation - here in Naples, nobody dares to accuse the guilty. He succeeded: he managed to dedicate an entire life to dark machinations and he got away with it. Or did he? Then what is this?
What would he have imagined? A different kind of death? One where his son would hold his hand for hours while he talked in monologues about his life with an undertone of: look at me and be grateful? Forgive me? That I was never there for those who loved me? Needed me? Saw myself as some kind of God? Oh yes, he loved his monologues! They started with “let’s talk about this” and they always ended with the way he believed things were.
His son - thank God his son had not been with him today. His son, his true loss. A never-ending sorrow. Irreparable for him. The one that pulls his strings. Like a puppet. The only thing in his life. MIND GAMES. Over and over. Manipulation. Always and everyone.
How well did he know his murderers? Could he have manipulated them? Would his monologues have touched them? Begging for his life? Was he one of those people referred to as “signore”? There is a saying in Naples: “Signori non crescono - signori nascono”, which means, “you can’t become a Lord and Master, you are born a Lord and Master”. That’s how it was for him. Right from the start. No other choice, where he was born - and how he grew up. A saying of the poor, who are forever excluded from the world of the “signori”. Those who spend their lives looking up to those who are what they would like to be. In Italy, the gap between rich and poor is greater than anywhere else - there is respect for what one does not have. What one is not. What is out of reach
- except for very few, and very rarely.
What exactly was his business, out there on the island? Ponza: the island of the “nouveau riche”. Didn’t he receive building permission for swimming pools? And wasn’t the one who had granted them arrested? Arrested! And was that by order of the most powerful man in Italy, second only to the president, or was that his routine day-to-day business? A director and board member of some fifty successful companies trading in anything from alcohol, fashion, media, foods, hedge funds, insurance and executive jet charter to real estate, he certainly lived dangerously. Power and control are defended by a scheming game of corruption, manipulation and lies. Danger lies in waiting everywhere. Even for you! And now it got you. You buy, pay, and receive that which you paid for. That which you gave yourself to. You were practically on your own, thank God! Don’t let me speculate: what if you hadn’t been alone... There was just your driver, and he survived. How come? Doubtlessly it was planned that way.
A professional execution like this one doesn’t normally leave any witnesses. Maybe they will come back and kill him later, when they read in the papers that he survived. Would you have been safe if you had taken the helicopter instead of the ferry from Procida to Naples?
The body was taken to Ferrara on the day of the murder. A long procession of mourners stood waiting as they arrived. Organized in just a few hours. They take him through the entire city.
Everybody was there: his family, his friends, his enemies. Also his family’s enemies. And us: Feliciano and I. Many wore black, but certainly not all of them. I did, but only because I am German. My mind would have chosen a bright red dress and a huge hat with a feather on it. Plunging neckline. I can still carry it off, or rather, again. My breasts are just the right shape and size, swelling as prescribed by the demands of lust. My hat like one of those worn at Ascot, the difference being that this occasion is unique and never to be repeated, whereas the Ascot races take place every year. You can hear loud moaning, crying, wailing. As befits Southern Italy. Especially in Campagna, but pretty much everywhere else, too. Everyone is here: businessmen from all over Italy. Corruption has no name. It simply exists. Still does. Here and now. In a small, intimate circle. Practically all brands and exports united around one coffin. How many dead bodies are they responsible for, jointly and severally? Those shot to death, driven to suicide, those maybe killed in a car crash, killed by drugs, the dead of the garbage and real estate mafia? How many? Did he die for “revenge”?
Was he getting too inconvenient for Bellarosa and her business interests? Or maybe he knew too much and, just this once, overplayed his hand? Or maybe it was a combination of all kinds of small things that she could not forgive? I am one of those things. As is Feliciano. We are the greatest agony anyone ever bestowed on Bellarosa.
It almost looks like the entire city is in mourning. Surely he would not have wanted that. The way he lived, introverted, almost shy. He, the Philosopher of High Finance! He wanted to show the rich how to use their wealth responsibly. He explained to those who asked him for money because they were in dire need, that money does not make you happy. Copied the Gransignore in Carozza with his longing for “serenita”. The Philosopher of High Finance - that’s what the media called him - is dead.