I saw her face set hard. ‘You cannot do this thing. Do you understand? I will not be responsible—’
‘You are not responsible for anything. You can stay here with him, since that’s the way you want it.’
Her eyes widened in sudden fear at his tone. ‘I know what you are going to do,’ she screamed at him. ‘You will let us all be buried alive up here. You can do that to the two you have at Santo Francisco. I do not care about them. But you cannot do that to—’
‘Shut up — damn you!’
Zina stamped her foot. Her mood had slid from fear to anger. ‘I tell you you cannot do this to me. I do not wish to die. I will tell these—’
Sansevino hit her then, hit her across the mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Shut up, will you,’ he hissed. His ring left a streak of blood across the pallor of her right cheek.
There was a sudden, stunned silence. I felt my fist clench. A desire to smash his face to pulp, to hammer him to bloody pulp welled up inside me.
But before I could move Roberto had hit him. He hit him with all the force of pent-up passion. His face was bestial with the desire to kill. It wasn’t human. It was something primitive and violent. I heard the crack of bone breaking as Roberto’s fist smashed into the centre of the man’s face. The force of the blow flung Sansevino across the room. He stumbled against Hacket and fell sprawling on the floor.
For a moment he lay there, staring across at Roberto. The young Italian was breathing heavily and licking his bloody knuckles. Then he began to move in on Sansevino. He came forward deliberately and with relish, his face coarsened by some urge that was akin to lust. Sansevino saw him coming and reached into his jacket pocket. His hand came away with a glint of metal. There was a spurt of flame, an earsplitting crash and Roberto checked as though he’d been stopped by a blow in the stomach. His mouth fell open and a look of surprise crossed his face. Then with a little choking cough his knees folded under him and he crumpled up on the floor, his eyes open and staring.
Zina started forward, but I caught her by the arm. Sansevino was on his feet again now and the muzzle of the gun was pointed at her, a thin twist of smoke coming from the end of it. His eyes had a murderous look. ‘Mascalzone! Sporco scifoso mascalzone!’ Zina poured her hate of him out in a spate of Italian. And then suddenly she was crying. ‘Why did you have to do that? It wasn’t necessary. There was no need. I would have stopped him from hurting you. Why did you do it?’