NICCOLÒ

9. Broken

Niccolò had finished discussing business with D'Angelo, and had moved onto Mancini. Mancini was, by far, the most important of the three men despite his nervous disposition. His clients were all across the world, particularly in Mexico and Southern Europe; it was Mancini's position in Mexico that Romano wanted.

"If we did draw up contracts," Mancini asked, sipping his water, "I would want minimal contact throughout the deals."

"What would that entail?"

"You would have no say in where or when you delivered the goods to me," Mancini's fingers were tapping nervously. "If your men are caught, they would have no way of being linked back to me."

"I can't allow you that sort of position," Niccolò refused, frustrated. "I understand that you don't want anything traced back to you but I cannot risk my men like that."

"I have been running my business for nearly twenty years," Mancini stuttered, his hands shaking. "I have never been exposed from a business deal, and I don't plan on starting now."

Niccolò ran a hand through his hair, tense.

"Perhaps - " Their conversation was interrupted by what sounded like a woman screaming for a split second. Mancini looked startled, almost spilling his water.

"What the hell?" Rossi stood up, his shoulders tensed and ready, his hand reaching to his holster. Niccolò reached out a hand automatically to Camilla's wrist, but his fingers grasped thin air.

"Camilla," he whispered, understanding flashing across his face. He stood up abruptly, his chair tipping back, turning to the glass doors. Another scream echoed through the room, splitting the air.

D'Angelo was gone.

Romano was out of his chair, sprinting across to the balcony before his mind caught up with him. He ripped the glass door across, feeling the cold wash over him and felt anger, fury, blacken his vision.

Camilla was crying, a red mark on her face where D'Angelo had slapped her, her dress hoisted around her waist, her hair dishevelled. D'Angelo was bending her over, one hand around her throat, the other reaching for her underwear.

"You stupid slut - "

"D'Angelo!" Romano snarled, his weapon pointing at his head. "Release her." D'Angelo spun, his eyes comically wide with shock and fear.

"Romano," he attempted a smile, fear dripping from his voice. "I was just having a taste - " Niccolò fired, once. D'Angelo dropped to his knees, howling in pain as his thigh spurted thick, dark blood. "JESUS!"

Camilla backed away, her hand pressed to her mouth to stop herself vomiting. Tears leaked from her eyes.

"Camilla." Her blurred gaze snapped to Romano, felt her lungs gasping for air. He held out his palm to her, beckoning her forward. "Come." She shook her head jerkily, backing into the corner of the balcony, feeling the cold glass press against her back.

Romano frowned, his heart tugging at his conscience. "Camilla," he repeated, more softly, ignoring the two men that gaped now at D'Angelo's state. Mancini retched, and turned away. "Please."

The poor girl squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering quietly, sliding to the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. Tears rolled down her cheeks, mixing slightly with a drop of blood rolling from her cheek. D'Angelo's ring had cut her.

Romano knelt down, reaching out his hand and smoothing her dark hair away from her face clumsily. He didn't know how to comfort a crying girl; he hated tears. "Shhh," he whispered, "I'm here now." Camilla flinched away from his fingers, initially, and then relaxed into his soothing touch, weeping silently.