Over the next three months, Alex Rider truly became his identity Alessio Rinnovato. He had arrived in his Uncle Roberto's town of Porto Empodocle after hitching lifts down the coast on the backs of farmer's trucks and sleeping in barns and sheds, or out in the fields when there was no shelter to be found.
The town of Porto Empodocle was proud of its history as part of both the Greek and Roman empires, but the years had not been kind to it. Crime was at the epicentre of the towns problems, and tourism had begun to wane as the violence and corruption increased. One in five men could not find any form of work; all but a select few fell below the nation's already low indicator of poverty.
Roberto Rinnovato owned a fishing boat on the pier, a tiny tub of a thing that was held together with tape and prayers. Almost entirely covered in rust and decay, it was barely big enough for one person, let alone more. His uncle's house was no more than a stone shack a few hundred yards back from the shoreline, crushed on either side by the neighbouring buildings that were in no better state.
Much of Porto Empodocle was abandoned now, as people fled the poverty and violence in search of something better, but one of the things that remained was the market. At the centre of town, which was only three streets back from the shore, was the heart of the town's activity both socially and economically.
It was here that Alex found work while his uncle was away for days at a time at sea, stacking and moving crates of fish, which Roberto or other trawlers had caught, to the market stalls to be displayed and sold. Alex spoke little during these hours and days of heavy lifting and moving, only muttering his responses, but remaining ever watchful. His inability to converse in the traditional Sicilian dialect had been less of a problem than he had feared, but he avoided speaking or drawing attention to himself where he could.
The people of Porto Empodocle were not an inquisitive or suspicious bunch. They had their own problems, their own struggles, and cared little for the troubles of others. They worked their hands to the bone during the day, ate measly portions of whatever was on hand, and then slept in the evening. They were grim, and seemingly resigned to the inevitable struggles of life.
Alex liked to think of himself as a patient individual, a person who was able to detach himself when need be and simply act rather than think. Hours upon hours of transporting crates in the blazing sun had left him with both a dark tan and a short temper however. He had never spent so much time to achieve so little.
"Did you go for a walk today?"
Roberto Rinnovato sat opposite him at the small table in the kitchen, looking at his 'nephew' over a spoonful of cold fish soup. His uncle had been at sea for three days, scouring the Sicilian Straits for that elusive vein of late season Tuna that had been so lucrative in May and June during their peak.
His uncle was a tired looking man. He had reasonably light skin and hair for a man who had spent his life outdoors, but he was weathered. The sea spray and constant exposure to the sun had made him leathery, and his eyes did not shine like that of someone who took any pleasure in their work.
The phrase "did you go for a walk" did not refer to the usual interpretation of a walk. It was the accepted wording of an enquiry as to whether Alex had sought out any further the known locations of his targets, or even located some of the 'soldiers', as they were called, further down the food-chain.
The Bennevento family however were, unsurprisingly, very elusive. Alex had caught two glimpses of Bennevento family members in his time there, and both times he had been ushered away by surrounding security personnel totting pistols and even flaunting automatic weapons.
MI6 could have chosen any Mafioso family to target, but for this operation they were only interested in the very apex of the operation. So Alex was in Sicily attempting to get to the very top of the extensive food chain that was the Cosa Nostra – 'Ndrangheta alliance that had entirely monopolised the global drug trade from Europe to the Americas.
The Bennevento's only interaction with the local populous directly would have almost been comical if they weren't so real. In an effort to maintain loyalty not only through fear, they made occasional appearances in public to demonstrate their good-will and concern for the people by dolling out gifts, both of money and rare goods and items that were hard to come by.
Alex had twice now watched as the eldest son, Tommaso Bennevento, stood around soaking up the adulation of the desperate crowd while his lieutenants distributed cash gifts and artwork to the men, perfumes, jewellery and clothing to the women, and toys and sweets to the children.
It was a practiced routine, and the son, Tommaso, could barely hide the disdain he clearly felt for these people off his face. His appearances were rare, however, and the two times Alex had seen him had made little impact compared to the weekly occurrence the regular handouts were. Alex couldn't help but chuckle at the idea of the most powerful Mafia family being concerned about public image, but then again, history was littered with examples of mass-bribery. Governments were particularly prone to it prior to elections, Alex noted.
As he cleaned away the remnants of the very basic meal that he had just shared with his uncle, he wistfully thought back to his kitchen in Knightsbridge, with its marble bench tops and stainless steel range hood.
London seemed more than a world away. Tom would be doing his finals at Brookland, his classmates would be chattering and enquiring about his latest horrible illness, Alan Blunt and Ms. Jones would be safely holed up in their office on Liverpool Street.
As he lay his head down on the hessian-covered pallet that had been set up for him in the corner, he realised he'd almost forgotten what his bed at home had felt like. His SAS commander would have been disappointed in his lapse in training, but seven to ten hours of hauling fishing crates around, six days of the week, had led Alex to seek more and more sleep to compensate for the continued hardship and lack of stimulation. He was sleeping almost six hours a night in Sicily, and he knew Wolf would have been appalled. In all honesty though, Alex couldn't care less.
He had taken some time to get acclimatised to his new surroundings, but after ninety-two days of the same routine, he had gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline and the pungent smell of the sea in the air.
Sun streamed through the newly opened window, colliding with Alex's eyelids in a most unpleasant manner. He groaned and tried to roll away from it, but his uncle Roberto wasn't having a bar of it.
"Do not give me that rubbish, Alessio, you have work to do!"
His uncle had set a precedent on the day he arrived by referring to him only as Alessio. To him he had no other name and no other identity than that of a fisherman's boy who moved crates for a living. It made it much easier for Alex to assume the identity, for which he was grateful.
Alex's collection of clothing consisted of two sets of garments which gradually became dirtier and dirtier until he was forced to wash them, and himself, in the sea. He soon became immune to the smell however, as working with fish for hours on end masked any otherwise undesirable scents that may have built up.
Roberto was going out on the boat just for the day, so Alex made his way up the cobbled streets to the market stalls, jangling a few Euros in his pocket as he did so.
The early morning sun was providing little warmth, but Alex was attired simply in a loose cotton shirt and pants, with a pair of old hand-me-down leather boat shoes from Roberto which were almost worn through.
A large hunk of bread later from the nice lady at the corner bakery stall later, Alex arrived at the marketplace to be assigned his first crate of putrid smelling fish to be moved around. The day's work had begun.
It was nearly sundown, and the afternoon's final rays were illuminating the sky as the seagulls circled above the leftover stock from the day's sales. Alex had moved crates all day, taking the opportunity to listen in on conversations that might have been of interest.
He had noted that amongst the stoicism of the people, there was much cynicism as well, often no without cause. No government or regulatory body was trusted, as everything was linked at least indirectly with the Mafioso according to the patrons and vendors at the market. Nothing was immune, and no one did or achieved anything without their explicit permission. Needed to build or renovate? The Mafioso would organise a permit. Had a problem with "the law"? Charges could be dropped within minutes if you had the right connections.
Alex was packing away one of his final crates for the day, just thinking about his next move in the overall scheme of things, when he heard a gunshot ring out in the night sky.
There was a momentary pause when all the vendors and few remaining costumers hoping to pick up a late day bargain stopped, and registered how close the shot had been. Alex dropped the crate with a loud bang, which shook the assembled market goers out of their stupor. He heard an enraged shout from the owner of the box that he had dropped on the stone flagon road, but he ignored it as he ran down to the waterfront, immediately fearing the worst.
His shoes slapped against the road as he hurtled down the hill, his shirt billowing against the sea breeze. Alex had no idea what was going on, but he had knew Roberto was the only one of the four fishermen who moored their boat at that pier who was coming home after only a single day on the water. No one else would be down at the pier at this time of night, not usually anyway.
Skidding around the final corner as he grasped the signpost for leverage, he was confronted with a gruesome scene.
A man, who was indisputably his uncle Roberto, lay on the ground, clutching his stomach in pain as the red stain on his shirt spread. At his feet stood another figure, dressed in a full suit, with his back to Alex, masking his identity.
"You... you dare knock me... knock me over? You stupid peasant fuck... fucker, you dropped your filthy fish on my shoes... and my pants," slurred the unidentified stranger loudly at his prone victim, clearly drunk.
Without pausing, the stranger, who was apparently armed, fired another shot, this time at the chest of his uncle Roberto; just as Alex closed the distance and crash tackled the suited man from behind, bowling him over into the dusty street.
The body of Roberto's attacker cushioned Alex's fall, and he rolled off the top of him, and took the drunk man's arm and twisted it as he did so, forcing him to drop the gun in the process. The man gave a cry of pain, and Alex scooped up the gun and locked his opponent down, kneeling over his body with his legs pinning the man's arms to the ground as Alex pointed the gun into his face.
It was at this moment that Alex realised that his 'unidentified man' was actually the aforementioned Tommaso Bennevento, eldest son of the Bennevento crime family, as well as Mafioso Capo and king-pin in the making.
"Oh shi..."
The words had barely crossed his lips when he felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun-barrel being pressed into the back of his own head.
"Drop the gun. Do as I say immediately or I'll blow your head off."
He could hear the steps behind him, more than one person was there and they clearly weren't joking around. What in the name of all that was holy was Tommaso Bennevento doing on the shorefront, drunk, and shooting seemingly random people? Alex was immediately paranoid that he'd been discovered and his cover was blown, but Tomasso's inebriation suggested otherwise.
Alex wisely chose to drop his firearm, which he saw was quickly picked up by another man in a business shirt, while the gun continued to be pushed into the back of his cranium.
Then he was being shoved off the body he had tackled, as Tommaso Bennevento realised he was no longer in danger of being shot, and Alex fell backwards and was fortunate not to be shot himself.
"What the fuck?" screamed the enraged Tommaso, brushing down his shirt and pants furiously, "do you know these pants are worth more than you'll ever make in your worthless existence you piece of shit?"
His inebriation had clearly worn off slightly at the shock of having his own pistol waved in his face, but now he turned to the two men who had arrived with him.
"What are you waiting for Claudio, kill him! The little shit tried to kill me, fucking shoot him!"
Alex rolled over to observe in time to see Tommaso Bennevento spit on him, and unleash a furious kick to what would have been his groin if he hadn't moved his leg to block the worst of it.
"If you won't kill him, give me your gun so I can finish him off! I'll kill that little runt myself! Nobody does that to a Bennevento! Give me your gun Claudio!" he demanded, trying to wrestle the older man's arm to gain access to the weapon.
The man resisted the intoxicated struggle for his holster, eventually securing a grip on both his weapon and his charge's arm, holding him there.
"Tommaso. Tommaso! Tommaso, get it together! You've killed a civilian and now you want to off another one just like that? Your father is going to be angry enough as it is!" the man beseeched, and Alex began to see the relationship. This 'Claudio' and the other man were clearly minders for the eldest son of the Bennevento's, and Tomasso went from angry to sullen in the blink of an eye.
Claudio was clearly the bodyguard in charge, as he ordered the other man to collect Roberto's body.
Alex, who had been watching his fate being decided in silence, stood up quickly, and blocked the man's path to his adoptive uncle's body. The blood had seeped through his 'uncles' clothing now, and it pooled at Alex's feet as he stood resolutely guarding Roberto's corpse.
"Get out of the way peasant," growled the man, trying to shove Alex aside.
"You're a coward," Alex said clearly yet quietly, staring straight at Tommaso Bennevento as he did so, still resisting the attempts to remove the body.
"What did you call me?" demand Tommaso, moving to confront Alex until Claudio stopped him.
"You just killed his father, he is angry. Don't make this worse," said Claudio cooly, continuing to restrain his charge.
"He was my uncle, but it makes no difference. You're gutless scum to shoot an unarmed man in cold blood. You have no honour, no respect, no heart," Alex spat at the feet of the young Bennevento son, who was only a couple of years older than he. His words were inflammatory, but well placed. He sensed there was something here for him, if he only pushed a little bit.
Tommaso was breathing hard now, his eyes dark with rage.
"This... fisherman's boy... demeans me like that, and you expect me to stand idly by and watch Claudio?" he hissed.
"That was not wise my boy," said Claudio sadly to Alex, "you do not know who you have just insulted do you?"
"I know the surname this yellow hearted filth carries," Alex spat, rubbing his face fiercely, as if fighting tears of anguish.
Tommaso had broken free of his minder's single handed grip, and advanced upon Alex, holding the barrel of a gun in Alex's face.
"Then you'll know that I can put a bullet in your head and throw you into the sea, and no one would lift a finger to stop me, now or ever? I am a Bennevento, we are untouchable!" he gloated, pressing the cold metal of his weapon into Alex's cheek.
"You wish to carry yourself like a man, but your actions are those of a child," Alex baited him, his voice gravelly with emotion, but showing no signs of the nerves that he felt. "You talk a lot, but there is no substance to shooting an unarmed man. No heart," he repeated. "You only fight battles which you cannot lose. That is not worthy of respect."
Alex was truly nervous about what he was doing. It wasn't in any of the handbooks he'd been given to read on psychology and manipulation of adversaries, well, the 'what to say with a gun to your head' part wasn't, but it was a simple tactic. Tommaso was both prideful and arrogant. He cared about what people thought about him. Alex was going to exploit that.
"You would only ever fight me with a gun in your hand, if I stood unarmed," Alex added grimly.
Tommaso stared at Alex for a moment, unused to be spoken to in such a manner, before a smile slowly spread across his face.
"You, you think you could best me in any form of combat?" he laughed mirthlessly, waving the gun about erratically. Alex's instincts were screaming at him to secure the barrel of the weapon and use the idiotic young man as a human shield or bargaining chip with his handlers. His mission would be in tatters however, and he was determined that his months lifting crates of fish would not be in vain.
"You would never dare risk your life in the lap of luxury and irresponsibility to defend your pretend honour. You ride your father's coat tails; you are nothing more than a spoilt brat," Alex retorted, as Tommaso closed the gap between them until their faces were inches apart.
"You have challenged my honour. I will have satisfaction," he breathed raggedly straight onto Alex's nose, who didn't blink. "I would fight you here and now, but with no one to see it, what is the point? I want the world to know what happens to those who disrespect a member of the Bennevento family."
He then turned to his minder, Claudio.
"Tomorrow is the ridiculous garden party mother insisted upon holding, is it not?"
"It is," was the short reply.
"Excellent. Tomorrow, noon, we will be the main attraction for my father and his guests at the festival banquet. We will provide tradition Sicilian entertainment with a display with knives. And they will watch as I cut you from your head to your toes for the words you've have said today. You will bleed like a stuck pig, just like your uncle, and I will display your head on a silver platter as a reminder to those who dare to think that their lives should worth anything to me."
Alex nodded simply, his face a mask showing no emotion.
"Good, no arguments then," smiled Tommaso Bennevento, "Claudio here shall pick you up an hour beforehand; to give you time to contemplate your impending death. Do not think of running away, fisherman's boy, or I will be forced to find you and prolong your suffering in a most excruciating manner," he chuckled, holstering his weapon.
He walked away from Alex, who stood still, not moving an inch.
"Enjoy your sleep, it will be the last your ever get!" Tommaso shouted as he climbed into the back of the four wheel drive that had arrived, and the other handler slammed the boot shut. It was then that Alex realised his uncles body had been removed in the tumult, without him even noticing. He watched, his shoes covered in Roberto Rinnovato's dried blood, as his newest enemy, and conversely his only contact with the Bennevento crime family, drove away leaving him alone on the pier.
A/N: As promised, here is an update only two days later! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, there's a bit of movement, a bit of development and a few new characters. I've had another PM telling me that this is strongly bordering on requiring an M rating, but I don't really want to tone it down too much, or at all really. If it comes to it, I'll probably push the rating up rather than sanitise my story, hope that doesn't put anyone off.
Anyhow, as always, any feedback is massively appreciated, both for it's own sake but also as motivation!