Camorra Chapter 1

Camorra cursed, vehemently. Sliding back in the shadows of the alleyway, he watched as the young man joked and laughed with his friends. He’d let his admiration get in the way, again. He knew he should have struck sooner, but had found himself unable to make the final move, tracking the young man as he’d moved through London’s cobbled streets. Every breath of wind had blown his hair in all directions, its apparent softness transfixing Camorra. Now, it was too late; the boy had met his friends, and his chance was gone.

Sighing to himself, he turned on his heel and strode away, his coat flapping in the breeze. The streets were deserted, the gas lamps just barely illuminating the wet cobbles. Muffled grunts from a corner indicated a whore and her customer at work, while further along, the sounds of a noisy tavern drifted through the fog. Perhaps, mused Camorra, he would have some luck in there.

Deftly tipping off his top-hat as he entered the tavern, he made his way through the crowd to the bar. The bar-maid, a young, busty thing, was harried with the influx of customers, but Camorra was in no mood to wait after his previous disappointment. Removing his kid leather glove from his right hand, he slowly and deliberately snapped his fingers.

The bar was noisy, and by all rights, the sound of Camorra’s fingers should have been completely inaudible. However, it was not. The soft, insistent click pierced the noise, and for a long second there was complete, stunned silence, as the patrons found themselves inexplicably silent, not knowing why. The stillness was broken by Camorra’s voice, deep and smooth, as he leant over the bar slightly and asked for a glass of water. A clean glass of water, moreover.

The noise of the bar flooded back in a frenzied wave, and within seconds, the only indication of anything strange was the occasional confused look from some of the more sober patrons. With an odd shiver, the barmaid found herself washing a glass and presenting it, along with a water jug, to the handsome gentleman she didn’t remember requesting anything.

Nodding slightly in acknowledgment, Camorra picked up the glass and jug in one hand, his top-hat in the other, and began to wend his way through the crowd to find a suitable table. It wasn’t hard. Thee crowds parted at his approach, drunk people who just happened to stagger away from him, sober people who decided to take that moment to adjust their position. He made no motion to part the crowd, they just found themselves out of his way.

As he approached the table he desired, one with a good view of the door, the man sitting there seemed to decide he was drunk enough for the night, and lurched off as Camorra approached. Smiling subtly to himself – centuries-old presence still had its uses – Camorra seated himself down and relaxed.

His reverie was broken by the curtain at the door being brushed aside and a crowd of young men stumbling in, all clearly somewhat merry. Camorra raised an eyebrow to himself, and studied them under his lashes, his face wreathed in shadows by his hair and the cowl of his coat. He dismissed them one by one as they jostled past, until the last one stumbled and almost fell onto the table. Reaching forward and catching the boy’s arm, he steadied him, and said softly, “Have a care, young man, for you know not who you may offend…” Again, his words carried perfectly through the din, and the boy’s eyes widened, flicking, terrified, to meet Camorra’s.