The Piranhas, The Boy Bosses of Naples by Roberto Saviano

Author:Roberto Saviano
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

ZOO

Maraja was ecstatic. He’d obtained exactly what he wanted: Don Vittorio in person had recognized thatb he had the makings of a paranza boss, but more important, he’d given him access to the gang’s arsenal. He was bouncing up and down on the motor scooter as if some enormous energy were building up inside him, like a tightly coiled spring, as he zipped along rapidly back to the center of town, and with a smile stamped on his face. He sent a text to the chat on WhatsApp:

Maraja

Guagliù, we did it: we got our wings!

Lollipop

Adda murì mammà!

Drago’

He’ scassat i ciesse!

Biscottino

Fantastic

Tucano

You’re better than a can of Red Bull!

He was so electrified and anxious he would never have been able to go to see Letizia or to the lair, much less return home, so he decided to end that day by getting another tattoo. He already had one on his right forearm with his initials and Letizia’s intertwined with a thorny rose, while on his chest, pride of place was enjoyed by a script rendition of his name, “Maraja,” surrounded by curlicues, flourishes, and a hand grenade. Now he already had a clear idea of exactly what design he wanted inked on him, and where.

He stopped at Totò Ronaldinho’s tattoo shop and barged in the way he usually did, even though the proprietor was working on another customer: “Ua’, Totò! You need to give me a pair of wings!”

“What?”

“You need to give me a pair of wings, a pair of wings back here,” and he pointed to his back, waving his hand in broad gestures to indicate that he wanted his whole back covered by the tattoo.

“What kind of wings?”

“Archangel wings.”

“Angel wings?”

“No, not angel wings: archangel wings.”

Nicolas knew the difference clearly, because his art history textbook overflowed and abounded with Annunciations and altarpieces depicting archangels with broad flaming wings, and during the class trip to Florence a few months ago, he’d even seen them in real life, those cheerful wings that, however, even put the fear of God into dragons.

Nicolas wrote on WhatsApp: “Guagliò, I’m getting a pair of wings inked on my back. Come on down.” Then he turned the cell phone to show Totò a picture of a fourteenth-century painting of St. Michael with black-and-scarlet wings and told him he had to do them “exactly like that.”

“But it’ll take me three days to do them,” Totò objected. He was used to working off the patterns and drawings in his catalogs.

“It’ll take you one. We’ll start work today, and then you’re going to have to do the same for all my pals. But you’ll give us a good price.”

“Sure, Maraja, whatever you say.”

They spent the next few days going in and out of the tattoo parlor, and the tattoo artist carved into the skin on their backs, etching the flesh, with a light, attentive touch. Because to a certain extent Totò had actually taken a passionate interest in this work, work that required a minimum amount of creativity. Along with the

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