Aftermath

by S. W. Frank

  Ariana Mattheson laundered money. One payment was from the Three Kings. Paper money’s traceable; all you need is a starting point. There were arms dealers and smugglers who might catch wind of Alfonzo’s involvement in the deaths and it could incite a full-blown war. Then there were the files from the District Attorney’s office she’d swiped for Nico. She’d been careless when she stepped away from her husband after the divorce by leaving the document in sight for someone to find. Who leaves a document like that around identifying an ex-husband, a mafia enforcer by his true name?

  Ariana was mafia, she may not have seen it that way, but she was nonetheless. She should’ve considered the consequences and covered her ass. Instead, she got mixed-up with a scumbag who kidnapped her son and if it wasn’t for this mistake, he would not have to deal this hand.

  Ariana brought this on herself. The evidence tying Nico to the woman would eventually lead to him. No, Ariana Mattheson was far from pristine. Selange wasn’t privy to intimate business details. Ariana Mattheson was. That knowledge could land him on death row or an eternity in jail. And that was not a fucking option!

  No, Alfonzo refused to bend. Ariana Mattheson was a liability and a lawyer. Attorneys cut deals. He was cutting her out of the picture. Erasing her to protect his family.

  “You said babe, you’re with me.”

  She hiccupped.

  “You told me once to do what I have to and stay alive.”

  Her crying hiccups turned sharp.

  “You said we’re forever…remember…babe...remember you said that?”

  Her sobs were panted breaths and tears of guilt, believing his decision was harsh vengeance for what she and Nico had done. It was only business, not anything personal until this intervention from her caused them to merge.

  “Did you lie…did you lie when you said you love me no matter what...come on…mujer…tell me…did you lie…have you been lying to me?”

  Her eyes were running liquids and it saturated his shirt. He reached to God as a conscious sinner. He clutched Selange; she was his symbolic rosary beads. He did not genuflect, for his spirit was bowed instead. He refused to offend God, and request a favor. He allowed his mind to drift; it became silent. Still as death.

  Forgive me father, for I have sinned…again.

  He confessed to a higher authority his sins, but on earth he feared the loss of his love. She held the power to slaughter his spirit and kill him with the flick of her hand. 

  He saw happiness floating by. He could never hold on to it and at times he wondered why he tried. Selange brought peace to his spirit, she calmed him down. He was a grown ass man with a hyper activity disorder and she was the Ritalin. She had a serenity of spirit and didn’t have a warring soul. She was the broker of peace, the goddamn mediator, his goodness, his post. One of the reasons he loved her was because she wasn’t bad and corrupt like him?

  But they were at that place; would she stand, break or bend? He had to know.  Which road would she take and with whom would she stand? 

  Ari or love.

  Trust or lack thereof.

  Life of a tainted woman or impart death on a tortured man.

  Did she truly possess faith in him or were the words of fealty spoken during sweet moments, simply a lie?

  The squeals of laughter emanating from their home were torturous sounds to a broken-heart. He opened his eyes and they were ice.

  An anguished soul demanded, “Are you with me; tell me babe where do you stand?”

  Selange became silent.

  An eternity was only a second for her to answer. “I’m not going anywhere. I can love you and disagree but beside you I’ll stand.”

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  CHAPTER THIRTY

   

   

   

   

  The dark van drove behind the compact car with its four passengers as it sped west on the Long Island Expressway. Traffic during four in the morning was extremely scarce. The van raced alongside the vehicle and the man in the van looked over for a positive identification.

  There were two boys asleep in the backseat. Up front a woman’s head rested against the male driver’s arm in what appeared to be a peaceful slumber.

  What a wonderful family portrait.

  Togetherness.

  They traveled to their destination, confident in the man taking them there. A person only sleeps in a car when they have trust and confidence in their driver. Obviously, their faith in him was in their action to doze without cares.

  The day after Thanksgiving.

  A family of four.

  A unit on the road.

  Accidents occurred frequently around the holidays.

  The cargo doors of the van opened.

  The male driver of the car peered in its direction. The stare of cold indifference sent chills across the men. To look into the face of Nico Serano was often synonymous with death. He was a Sicilian. The features were strong. The angular jawline. The slightly flared and sinister nostrils. The mouth too sensual for a man, yet loved by women. But, it’s the eyes. They were dark brown, almost blackish in appearance like his hair. His quick maneuver didn’t occur with panicked surprise of an amateur. He’d watched them from the time he entered the expressway and surmised why they were there.

  His switch-up was as smooth as a pro; you didn’t see the movements of his hand. The van clumsily adjusted and then straightened. It was led by the infamous Serano twin who showcased why he was master of lethal games.

  They were aware of Nico’s reputation. Every mafia enforcer aspired to imitate him and most fell short. There was only one Nico Serano when it came to assassinations, he was a legend.

  They were given explicit instruction by the Big Boss’ Capo, “Complete eradication and leave nothing identifiable.”

  Incinerate!

  They maintained pace and it’s at the junction where a curve leads to the Grand Central Parkway and the vehicles were temporarily obscured from view where the action took place. In the frame of a picture, the scene moved and the audio was ear-shattering thunderous booms. Whatever winged animals were asleep in the darkened trees scattered to safety.

  Drivers racing in opposing lanes saw metal flipping and crashing from hood to trunk, bending and breaking upon the hardened cement. The car became a ball of metal fire, and by then the mysterious black van was gone.

  The compact car plummeted to the south lane of the Whitestone Expressway barely missing vehicles as it crashed atop its hood and exploded.

  Motorists swerved, their tires making sickening screeches as rubber gripped the asphalt. A car maneuvered around the wreckage and when it safely passed, the driver pulled to the shoulder and dropped his head on the steering wheel, thanking the heavens, he was so scared. He narrowly avoided a head-on collision and his heart wanted to fly out of his chest. He promised to attend church and thank God that he hadn’t perished on this day. He was going to visit family while on leave from Fort Benning and drove all day and night to get to New York. How tragic would it have been he’d die in a civilian car accident and not in a conflict abroad?

  The heat from the twisted metal deterred any Good Samaritan who considered aiding the occupants. The car crackled as it burned. A second combustion sent pieces of shrapnel flying into the air and a tire struck a car with such force it crushed the grill of a Mercedes.

  The horrific accident caused traffic to stall, completely shutting down the entire north and southbound lanes of the expressway as emergency vehicles rushed to the scene. When the fire trucks arrived, they were met with the charred remains of metal and flesh. Even the roadway where the vehicle collided was scorched black.

  No one survived the crash. Only a miracle from God could have saved the four occupants. The police and firemen surveying the wreckage he
ld their mouths pursed tight in sympathy and frustration. There wasn’t anything they could do to have saved the family. What lay before them was a horrific sight. The human remains were scorched beyond recognition nearly to the point of cremation.

  The tragedy was compounded because it was the day after Thanksgiving and a time of family.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  EPILOGUE

   

   

   

   

  Selange flicked through the satellite news channels for anything out of the ordinary involving a woman and children.

  Nothing.

  Channel after channel her eyes scanned in desperation, praying nothing of interest continued. But, in New York sensationalism is entertainment and at any time of day the shocks of tragic reports soon became a daily way of life. Apathy became the New York coping mechanism to avoid the fear.

  A news reporter came on the screen suddenly. She clutched the oversize mike with the station logo and looking more like a model than a reporter her face squint in earnest as she spoke with practiced journalistic skill about a vehicular accident that happened on the Whitestone Expressway several hours ago.

  Behind the woman was twisted wreckage, flashing lights from emergency vehicles and trees on the outskirts. She knew the area. She’d driven its roadways and frowned because this is the route Ari traveled from Long Island to the city, except the GCP is above and the Whitestone is on the lower section from Queens to the Bronx. Maybe, this wasn’t Ari. She listened and watched, anyway.

  “…an entire family died in the horrific accident early this morning. Witnesses describe the accident as the worst they’ve seen. Fire and debris were scattered everywhere and the occupants we’re told were killed on impact. We’ve learned the family killed in this tragic collision was a prominent attorney who once worked for a former Manhattan District Attorney and her two sons. The male driver of the vehicle has not been identified.

  It appears the vehicle was traveling at a high rate of speed westbound on the GCP, lost control, struck the rail and landed here on the lower roadway. This tragic death is on the heels of another terrible series of events involving the attorney. Her boyfriend and friends were killed during a home invasion a few months ago and police in Suffolk County only yesterday made an arrest in that case. Two men with extensive criminal records ranging from robbery to aggravated assault were taken into custody. Evidence linking them to the crimes, we’re told was found in their possession along with other incriminating information.

  Once again this is Tiffany Nicole Andreas reporting from…”

  Selange clicked off the flat screen TV and gave a forlorn sigh. She couldn’t cry anymore, she didn’t have any more tears. Her heart was too sad. Shanda said she always saw through an optimistic lens. Yet, at this hour of the day, she didn’t see anything good.

  Then Alfonzo stirred, his legs kicked away the thin spread. He sat forward, ran a hand down her spine and she turned to see him smiling as if nothing happened. Her heart caved to her feet at his callousness. Yes, she loved him and would never betray him, but it was hard to reconcile he’d killed a mother and children then rejoice in the morn.

  “Holá, bonita.”

  “Morning,” she answered crisply.

  “I’m excited. We’re tying the knot again. This shit is crazy.”

  Her eyebrow rose cynically, “That’s all you can think about after what you’ve done?”

  “What did I do?” He asked.

  Selange frowned, did he have amnesia or did he drink too much last night? She tossed the remote control at him, “Ooooh!”

  He drew back and grimaced, “Damn somebody’s mad.” Then his dumb-ass cell started talking and he moved to the nightstand to retrieve it, putting his feet on the floor and giving her his muscular back.

  He was talking, first in Spanish then English. He did that a lot.

  “Yeah, it’s for the best.”

  Selange rolled her eyes. He had no remorse. Nothing!

  Then he laughed. “Yeah, fuck you too cugino. You get to retire whether you like it or not, besides you’re a goddamn chameleon you can travel anytime you want. No one’s the wiser. Just remind Ari and the kids, no contact with their former life. That parts done.”

  Alfonzo was laughing at a joke. She could discern the differences in pitch and tone. “Yeah, cugino. The Mafia Protection Program is where your ass belongs. I’ll be visiting when things cool down…ha…ha…of course…” Alfonzo took a breath and he remembered Alberti asking him once, “You got everything you want, right?”

  He repeated the question to Nico, his former guardian, the savior hand of the family and the answer came in a swift bass, “You damn straight kid and then some. Ari’s pregnant!”

  “She’s pregnant…oh man…congratulations…there must be something in the air, Geo might be having one.”

  There was roaring laughter and Selange scrambled across the bed and jumped on Alfonzo’s back, planting kisses on his neck as he talked. Of course, goddammit, of course he tested her love. He allowed her to believe the worst to find out how she’d react. Would she walk away or stay?

  Alfonzo got off the phone and spun the clinging woman around to the front of his body and down to his lap. She smiled through tears, “You didn’t do it…you saved them…oh God thank you...I can’t wait to marry you…I love you so much…you’re the man…my honey!”

  He kissed the salty tears and caressed her throat. She trusted and chose him. Blind and ignorant of the truth she stood on his side and that’s fucking ride or die.

  Alfonzo withdrew from her lips and his mouth glistened from her saliva. Even in the morn she tasted like cinnamon. In solidarity he pressed a fist to her heart. It was an AFFIRMATION of his commitment. “This fist, it’ll always protect the heart of mi familia and that’s you babe…that’s you!”

  ‘Yes, he’d always protect her…everyone…whacko Geo…even Nico’s infuriating ass. Now, what’s this crap Nico said about expecting my heritage in a box?’

   

   

   

  ****