‘You are a shitty bastard, Umberto. You know that? The shittiest of the shitty. I’ve come a hell of a long way with you over the years, through thick and through thin, and there have been a lot of very, very thin times which you may not care to recall. The ugly little business with the Issotto brothers? The Caracas fiasco? The little “misunderstanding” we all wriggled through in Beverly Hills? And many more. Right? But this time, this moment, is the thinnest and rottenest I have ever been through with you, or with anyone else, during a long, long life of Roller Coaster ups and downs. And I am revolted! You have cheated, lied and destroyed morally all along the way, but, as far as I know, you have never quite stooped to physical assault. I don’t really count those wretched GIs you chiselled into the stock of your rifle. You were a kid then, there was a war, so okay … it wasn’t very pretty but it was just about allowable, give and take the place and the time. But to go right out and carve up a kid quite deliberately just because you found someone else you thought was more suitable and liked a whole lot better is the nearest thing to premeditated murder for gain that I have ever come across in all my life.’

Grottorosso attempted to speak; she cut him short.

‘I’m not through yet! Why didn’t you just sack him? Why not say, “You won’t do, we’ve tried and you aren’t coming up to scratch, I made a mistake, it is sad but I’ll have to get someone else … you don’t have the qualities we need, it’s all my fault, here’s a little bit of loot, you tried hard but it isn’t enough for such a major role.” Why didn’t you say something like that? Too simple? Too straight? Instead you stage a filthy trick and run him through, deliberately! Why? What joy does that give you? What kind of warped bastard are you? What do you prove to yourself by doing that? A sign of strength? Of masculinity? You are as mad as a snake, Umberto, you always have been, ever since you were a kid. I suppose that deep down I always knew it, but I was the softie, Miss Kamm from Troy City, Wisconsin, starry-eyed in Rome, Italy. I thought you were pretty exciting. We made each other laugh, you got me through the first five years of a miserable marriage, and I stuck it and I watched you grow, I knew you weren’t a saint, so that’s okay … you were “going”, you were “running” and I like that; you fought and I love a fighter; Christ knows I’ve had to fight every inch of my way through life for everything I ever got, and I got plenty … but I have never cheated, never loused anyone up for personal gain, never lied, and I’ve seen you do it, all along the track, and more, but I just shrugged it off and said to myself, “Well, from where I stand that’s a goddamned genius, they act differently from other people, if they didn’t they wouldn’t be where they are.” An easy way out for me, I could just avert my wooden head and look away with some kind of dignity; and so I did. Until today. You don’t make me laugh any more, you make me sick to my stomach. I’ve got the message loud and clear and I don’t care for it one little bit. You’re a nut. And worse than that, a dangerous nut. There is something terribly, terribly wrong with you deep down inside, and it scares the pants off me: all this high talk about “common clay” and “potter’s hands” and “flaws”. Sweet God! You have more flaws than a carpet has knots and one day, Umberto, someone is going to come along right out of the blue and take you to pieces; they’ll slit you open from head to toe and spill you out like a sack of jelly beans and scatter you far and wide. I hope they do: I hope it hurts: I hope it happens very soon, and I hope that I am there to see it.’