The Amaratti

Guillame was unquestionably the greatest car thief of all time, and when he had agreed to accept a protégé into his life, he had demanded adherence to three simple rules. The first of these rules was to “never smile during a job”. Years on, Macri let the words of his former mentor reverberate around his head. Guillame had claimed that it welcomed arrogance and sloppy mistakes. Macri however noted that there was a more practical purpose; rich people never smile in sports cars. They pout and frown so to do otherwise would appear unnatural and could arouse suspicion. On a quiet road, such as the one Macri was currently on, there was little or no risk to smiling. So he indulged in one, it felt odd but satisfying. He slipped the gear stick into fourth and the engine hummed a little higher, shuddering goosepimples into life all over his body. What a beautiful car the Amaratti was; cobalt blue and sexy as the summer sky. It glided through the winding olive groves haughtily, as if aware of its own rarity.

Guillame’s second rule was “never to gloat”.Over the years Macri had seen too many people caught after bragging after one too many a drink in the local saloon. To become as good as he was, you needed to be arrogant, and bragging came with that as far as he was concerned. He’d kept it in check in Guillame’s company at first, but as long as he kept his successes limited to an elite crowd he saw no problem. What was the point in being the best if nobody knew about what you had achieved? He wasn’t about to get caught like those idiots in the saloon, he was too clever for that, he thought as he lifted his sunglasses on top of his head. Once it became obvious that his style clashed with that of his mentor, they had drifted apart into an intense rivalry, and for the first time Macri had the upper hand.

Macri drove with his left hand on the steering wheel and somersaulted his mobile phone with the other. His smile grew wickedly wider. Right now Guillame would be lying, ignorantly sunbathing on a boat in the twinkling Mediterranean. Then his phone would ring, and seeing Macri’s flashing name Guillame would decide not to answer, but curiosity would get the better of him. By the ninth or tenth ring he would answer the call. On hearing the news the phone would fly into the water. The boat would roar back to the port where Guillame would get a taxi to the airport and get on the first available plane to Italy. Macri could imagine him sitting in first class in his trademark fashion, legs casually crossed, moustache cupped with his hand in deep thought, seemingly controlled while a fire raged within.