The Stray. Alessio Chiadini Beuri

and lowered his chin until the brim covered his view of the Chevy's high beams. The trucker cursed in panic: the steering wheel was pulling his arms off.

      Mason stepped back sharply. A dull thud preceded the clang of scrap metal. The bumpers of the Ford and Chevrolet had engaged. The engine in reverse was at its rev limit. The Ford pushed away HollowCheeks’ car which was pushing it towards the crash. The tyres of both cars groaned. Then the truck's trailer collapsed, taking the load and the tractor with it, just as the space Mason had created became enough for him to shift into first gear and drive to the right. On impact with the kerb, the Ford spun upwards, but it was in that way that it was barely grazed by the lorry, losing only a mirror. A cloud of steam rose from the truck's radiator like the mushroom of an explosion. The dust and goods scattered on the ground enveloped the truck and the bystanders.

      Mason Stone overcame the incident and pulled over to the other side.

      A huddle of curious onlookers and alarmed good citizens gathered. At the windows there was a luxuriant flowering of heads. Mason left the car mumbling in neutral and opened the door to get out. He only had time to get an inkling of a rapid movement behind him, but it was enough for his instinct to lift his foot. One more moment and he would no longer be able to kick anyone. The green Chevrolet, which had made its way as far as he had since the disaster, had missed him and the Ford by a whisker.

      HollowCheeks nailed it sideways, blocking what might have been an escape route for Mason. Through the Chevy's rear window Stone saw him moving to get out, so he mounted the wheel cover and leapt off the Ford's bonnet.

      He threw away his cigarette. The two faced each other with a hard grunt in the midst of the commotion. The guy reminded him of a big dog: the drooping cheeks on his skinny face, the deep wrinkles, the big sad eyes, the long-crooked nose. The grey suit fell over him, as if dressed by an old hanger. The long raincoat fit him like a corpse. HollowCheeks e towered over him by more than half a span. His hands were not those of a starving runt, they were strong.

      As soon as he got a better look at his attacker's face and breathed in his garlic breath, Mason Stone knew who he was up against an Italian-American named Frankie D’Angelo, a soldier in the Colombo family, under the direct orders of Dominick Petrillo, a man of honour in the New York Mafia.

      "What's wrong with you, man?" Mason chose to attack. That tone had the impact of a slap: Frankie's yellow eyes widened and his lips revealed long, crooked teeth. Cursing aloud, he clapped both hands on Mason's chest. They were too close for him to reach into his coat and pull out his gun as he wished. He had to back off at least a step, just enough for Stone to pounce on him.

      "Do you know who you're up against?" growled Frankie D'Angelo.

      "A bad driver?"

      "You see this car?" the mobster asked, pointing to the Chevrolet that had kicked him out.

      "I've been eyeing it ever since it tried to push me into a truck-sized headache."

      "That's Mr. Profaci's personal car. Look what you've done!"

      "If he cared so much, he shouldn't have entrusted it to such primates."

      “What?"

      "What, did I talk too fast? One whinny for yes, two for no."

      "You don't seem to care much for life, clown."

      "I like to keep it light." Mason gave him a sardonic smile, almost an invitation to reply. But Frankie D'Angelo wasn't that kind of man: he was a doer, an arm, he didn't need dialectical skills. "'So, nothing brilliant to say? Do you want to get back in the car and try again?" he pressed him again.

      Mason felt himself being lifted off the ground; Frankie had grabbed him by the jacket. The ease with which he'd managed it confirmed that he was all brawn underneath that long amount of clothes. But Mason was also quite massive and did not let himself be carried around like a puppet: quickly, the strong hand passed through Frankie's arms and closed around his neck. He tensed his muscles, making it harder to sink into the carotid artery. Under his fingers, the beating of his heart. Frankie gritted his teeth; Mason increased the pressure.

      "Finished flexing?" asked Mason through gritted teeth.

      D'Angelo loosened his grip on the lapels of his jacket and Mason came back firmly on his legs.

      "You'll regret this," whispered Frankie breathlessly, filled with rage.

      "Are you threatening, you wop?" Mason shoved him against the Chevy after making him half turn around. "Do I let you go or do you want to dance some more?"

      "You better finish me now."

      "I'm very tempted." Mason released Frankie D'Angelo. On his neck, his fingerprints would turn purple. "But you're not worth my time, mister."

      Before leaving, Mason gave him a long look. He decided he wasn't going to take any chances by turning his back on him. Frankie D'Angelo was a bloodthirsty mobster, but he wasn't going to kill some poor guy in front of dozens of people and with help on the way. It wasn't even his turf: it was the Lucchese's turf. If they had been on Staten Island, Mason Stone would not have met a better end than surfacing a week later in the net of some fishing boat. A soldier, not yet affiliated, who killed a policeman, or one who had been one, would have found no place in any Italian-American family. He might still have made his way into the Irish or the Jewish ghetto gangs, but there was no honour in those. And he wouldn't have lasted long.

      "Laugh now while you still can! We'll take everything away from you!" retorted Frankie, adjusting his suit.

      "Let me give you an advance!" Stone didn't turn to look for her face, but his fist still found the tip of her chin.