Читать книгу Ailanthus - Antonio De Vito - Страница 5

Prologue

It was deep night, almost dawn and the lights of the city fairly illuminated the streets. The headlights of the few cars still around fought through the streets in the Flatbush district, in the heart of Brooklyn. A black Corvette, so much brilliantly beautiful and flashy that alone could give light to alleyways and palaces, was going fast near the Brooklyn Center Cinema. By that time the theater had already closed the doors and the over one thousand people who had been there until a few hours earlier had already left that place. Immediately after the theater, a traffic light, careless of late hours, gave the red signal to the Corvette. The driver, though irritated by having to stop his run, pushed the brake pedal and stopped the car. In the meantime, he lit up a cigarette and rolled down the window to let out the smoke. With the fingers of his left hand he nervously drummed on the car roof, while with the right hand he was bringing the cigarette to the mouth. A noise on his left attracted his attention, just as the long-awaited green light was about to reappear at the traffic lights. First, he looked into the rearview mirror, then into the side-view mirror to his left, but he saw nothing. So he leaned his head out of the car. But as soon as he was out of the window, two arms clasped his neck tight and, before he could whine, a blade cut his throat sharply.