Total and utter admiration radiated from my presence, shimmering in my gaze as I lost sight of the periphery. The pews were no longer occupied. Her family wasn’t murmuring at her beauty. Even the organ music faded away. I saw only her. In that place, at that moment in 1984, with the blessings of men and God, my life’s aspiration was about to come to fruition. It wasn’t riches or fame. It’s true I wanted the first and loathed the latter. Yet my reasoning for the first wasn’t for self-worth. No, it was to provide for her, to be worthy of her. My aspiration since the first time our eyes met was to be the man who could make Angelina Costello mine.
What price had I agreed to pay?
Selling one’s soul couldn’t bring absolution.
That wasn’t the way it worked. The angel walking up the aisle before me was a gift from the heavens; my rational mind reasoned that she couldn’t be related to Lucifer. There were laws governing rapture and torment. I’d been lovingly raised by believing parents. Though I’d lost them too young—for me and for them—they’d set my foundation. We were all here within the cathedral, its stained-glass windows creating a heavenly glow as the setting sun brought pictured scenes to life.
Surely, the devil himself couldn’t survive in this place.
As Angelina came closer with her hand perched upon her uncle’s arm, I reasoned that I couldn’t possibly have been casting my eyes upon both my heart’s desire as well as the architect of my downfall.
They say that love blinds. My thought was that it didn’t blind as much as it changed the hue—rose-colored glasses.
With my pulse racing as I gripped my own hands, I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of my decisions, past or future. It was easier to concentrate on the simplicity of the moment.
Angelina Costello was about to become my wife—Mrs. Oren Demetri, Mrs. Angelina Demetri. I wasn’t a narcissistic man. I wanted her to bear my name but not at the expense of her own. She was a strong, opinionated woman who voiced her mind while bringing sunshine to a tired, darkened soul.
I couldn’t have been prouder that she would share my name. As a Demetri, I envisioned that together we would face life’s hurdles and return breath to my family whom had all but disappeared. Together we would accomplish miracles because that was what someone like Angelina did. She made the world a better place by simply existing in it.
In that split second, I remembered it all: from the moment I first laid eyes upon her up until the moment our lives were ready to become one.
We’d first met nearly a decade earlier at NYU. Prior to that moment, I didn’t believe in love at first sight. We were in a sophomore English class the day my life changed. My attraction was visceral, arising from deep within. It hit like a locomotive, knocking me off balance with simply the melody of her laughter. I’d been rereading the assignment when the infectious ring of her amusement woke my tired soul.
I admit that even I was surprised by my attraction and curiosity. This girl—this woman—whose laugh caught my attention was nothing like the women whom I normally noticed. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I had an affinity for tight sweaters fitting snuggly over large breasts, trim waists, and shapely legs made sexier by tall stilt-like heels. Too-red lipstick and thickly made-up lashes batting seductively made me smile. I saw each of those attributes as unspoken invitations of a woman’s interest and willingness to take my mind off other things.
I knew where to find those women. They were in all the diners and bars; some of them cost money, while others simply a dinner or a drink. Perhaps it was their availability that made them attractive to me and at the same time, forgettable.
The angel in my English course was a contradiction in every way. Her beauty wasn’t manufactured. It was sincere and genuine. Unlike the women I’d known, she was unique and completely unforgettable.
That fateful morning, after only a few hours of sleep, my tired mind was trying to wake when feminine giggles filled the classroom. There were three of them, all huddled around one desk, looking at a magazine, the kind of rag they sold at the drugstore with pages filled with celebrities. I didn’t have time for useless things like that and probably wouldn’t have even recognized the object of their focus. It wasn’t the magazine that caught my attention: it was the laugh. Like a strike of lightning to my exhausted soul, it electrified me. My eyes were drawn to the beauty in jeans and a heavy-metal concert T-shirt.
I wasn’t the type of man who stared. I’d later blame it on my lack of sleep. Whatever the cause, when the professor walked into the classroom and the angel turned from her friends to move to her seat, her eyes met mine.
My breathing stopped as my heart beat to a new rhythm.
Blue as a clear sapphire sky.
I’d never before been awestruck.
Until that moment.
Before I could turn away, she smiled. A simple upturn of her lips, lifting her cheeks that now glowed with a faint red blush. Mine may have looked the same as warmth filled my skin.
For the next few weeks only our eyes met. Not a word was said between us.
None of this was my style.
A second-generation Italian-American, I was blessed with my father’s tall height, an uncommon trait among many of my fellow Italians. My hair was jet black like my mother’s, and my skin held the perfect olive hue. Like the girl whose name I’d yet to learn, my eyes were blue, a lighter shade than hers. My muscles were toned from physical labor. I was what my mother called bello. She would tell me not to misuse God’s gift.
Like any other young man, I didn’t always listen.
I used my looks to meet girls...women. Yet with this blue-eyed beauty, I was tongue-tied, awkward, and unsure.
I heard her friends call her Angel and wondered if it were true. Was she simply an apparition? Was that why I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her?
And then, halfway through the semester, our professor called out her name: Angelina Costello.
As she rose to retrieve her paper, the air was sucked from my lungs.
“Dude?” my friend sitting beside me asked. “You sick?”
“What?” I asked, turning from my angel to him.
“You look like you saw a ghost. You’re pale.”
His name was Franco Testa. We had a few classes together. He wasn’t one of the stuck-up elitists who were thick at NYU. He’d grown up more like me. We’d gotten in the habit of meeting up for our classes and eating lunch together. We were both working to put ourselves through college. I guess you could say we’d become friends.
“Did you hear her last name?” I whispered.
His smile grew. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“Tell me she’s not...not of those Costellos.”
Franco laughed as others were called to the front to reclaim their papers.
“Oren Demetri.”
I rose, pushing myself up from the desk at my side. It was the first time I avoided her gaze. During the walk back to my desk, I pretended to be enthralled by the comments in my paper’s margin, but the truth was that I was scared shitless.
And suddenly hollow.
Sometime during the last six to eight weeks, I’d come to anticipate this class. Not because I loved the English language. On the contrary, the language as a whole was plain and unimaginative compared to Italian. No, the appeal was seeing my angel’s blue eyes, hearing her glee of life, and watching her cheeks fill with pink as our gazes met.
How had I been so stupid?
If she were really part of the Costello family, not only was Angelina out of my league, but flirting with her could be dangerous to my health.
When I was a boy, I hadn’t understood the pier boss whom my father and I would visit. And then I grew older. I saw the capos. I knew them by name and sight. They were revered throughout the neighborhoods...respected. There were always tables waiting for them at the best restaurants. The bills for their food never came, or when they did, they were paid by young, willing soldiers doing their best to move up the ranks.
&nb
sp; The family protected those who gave them what they deserved. Quid pro quo. They kept the Irish and Russian crime out of our streets. They were our first line of law enforcement, our community’s men of honor and respect. The men who frequented the docks were small potatoes compared to the don, underboss, or consigliere. Though their names may be different, they were all connected. Everyone belonged. Where I was raised, everyone knew who they were. When I was very young, there had been a war. Not one they describe in the history books. Jersey and Brooklyn. The boundaries were set. The end result was the agreement between the Bonettis and the Costellos. Those were names everyone knew.
Of course, there were others that ruled other areas of the city. Together they made up the commission.
As a child, I’d asked my father if the well-dressed man was part of the government. Now, as a young adult, I knew the truth. He and all of those over him were higher than the government—above the government—FAMILY.
Upon learning Angelina’s name, I gave up our stolen glances. Knowing I wasn’t worthy of her, I concentrated on school and work. I watched and learned.
On more than a few occasions, she spoke to me, knowing my name. I was polite and respectful, as any good life-loving Italian would be. “Miss Costello.”
And then tragedy struck. My parents passed away.
The grief of their loss couldn’t be soothed by life insurance money, but it helped. It gave me a small nest egg to begin my plans. My father paid into his union for most of his life. They came through when my mother died, though if you asked me, it was the least they could do. Their hands were red with her blood. I could take it a step further, but it wouldn’t do me any good.
My mother was first. A year after her body was recovered, my father took his last breath. The loss of his soul mate was more than he could take. My hero wilted away under the cloud of mourning and alcohol.
Again, the union paid.
I sold what was left of their belongings and moved closer to NYU. Finishing my degree was my mother’s dream. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail her.
The nest egg helped. I bought the clothes I could afford. I used what I’d learned to achieve the white-collar career my parents never could. But even there, in the glass buildings, I saw the influence. I watched as money changed hands, as contracts were given to contractors—not with the best bids or skill, but with connections.
I had connections. I’d been raised in the mix. Even my friend Franco was connected. Giving up on NYU, he pursued a lucrative career within the family. A small-time numbers runner, he knew who was who.
Though I’d never forgotten Angelina Costello, I gave up the fantasy that she would ever be mine and concentrated on making a name for myself, on making the name Demetri mean something.
The capos from the docks and the ones from the restaurants—I knew all of their names. I had an inside track working in real estate. I revived old acquaintances. I paid for meals, for drinks, and for meetings. I helped orchestrate deals until the deals weren’t for another contractor, but for Demetri. The infrastructure of Manhattan was in constant need of upgrade. I invested in raw materials, those brought to the island via the shipyard. I arranged to pay taxes—not the ones that went to Uncle Sam, but the ones my father had paid.
Money begot money. It’s power only exemplified in the eyes of those who wanted more.
I moved up quickly. My businesses paid their dues and were noticed.
Five and a half years after my graduation from NYU, while in Manhattan for a dinner meeting, I was once again derailed by the most beautiful blue eyes. It was an unplanned encounter, a soft laugh drawing my gaze across the restaurant. No longer wearing jeans and a rock band T-shirt, Angelina was the epitome of an angel. With her dark hair pulled up and a white dress that revealed nothing except the promise of her curves beneath, I was once again awestruck.
Far from bashful, after our eyes met, she approached me. “Oren Demetri.”
Though my mind had been on my impending meeting, I forgot it instantly as my smile blossomed. With a nod, I replied, “Angelina Costello, I believe. Or has someone changed your last name?”
“You have it right.”
I was no longer tongue-tied though my concentration wasn’t on words but on searching the depths of her eyes, wondering if there was any chance I could again make her blush. Though I knew I would never deserve her, I’d made a name for myself. Would it be enough?
Angelina Costello was the only woman to ever take my breath away. I couldn’t not speak to her. “I haven’t seen you since NYU.”
“I’ve been living overseas, studying history and architecture in Italy.”
“Italy! Molto bene. And now you’re back?” I asked.
“I am.”
“To stay?”
“I believe so.”
“Perhaps we could see one another,” I proposed, all the while hoping that she would say yes and saying a prayer that she would say no.
Her lips curved upward. “I see you now.”
“Si, and I would like to see more.”
With a glint to her gaze, she said, “I never forgot you. I thought at one time...” Her head tilted innocently as her lip momentarily hid behind her teeth. “Are you sure you aren’t still scared of me?”
“Angelina, I’m quite certain that I’m terrified of you.”
Her smile grew. “Bene. Then let me give you my number.”
Chapter 2
Nearly a year later, I found myself standing in Carmine Costello’s inner sanctum, perched and ready to ask the question that I wasn’t confident in how he’d answer.
My successes were plentiful. My name had clout. Demetri Enterprises was growing with a bottom line that only years before would have seemed outside my realm of imagination. And none of that mattered. Beneath the expensive suit—custom-made, unlike the first ones I purchased after my father’s death—I felt again like the nineteen-year-old schmuck who’d just heard Angelina’s last name, rather than the mildly successful entrepreneur. With my heart on my sleeve, I contemplated again how I’d planned to speak to one of the most powerful men I’ve ever encountered. CEOs and CFOs fifty stories in the air weren’t as intimidating as the man before me.
With graying hair and a dark penetrating stare, Carmine Costello wasn’t Angelina’s father; he was her uncle.
One of the most powerful men in Cosa Nostra was the uncle of the woman I loved. Until her eighteenth birthday, he’d been her guardian. However, from the expression on his face, I wasn’t confident that he was aware that the title held an expiration date.
The war between the families that I’d heard about as a child held more meaning for Angelina. Her parents were taken when she was young. Overpowering the family’s guards, the killers slaughtered her mother and father in their own bed. For reasons unbeknownst to anyone, she’d survived. Carmine’s oath as he held his dead brother was that he would raise Angelina, watch over her, and keep her safe. He and his wife Rose, sometimes known as Rosa, would raise her as their own.
And they did. Angelina never lacked for anything, including love.
My neck stiffened as Carmine’s dark eyes met mine. The old saying came to mind—if looks could kill. The difference with sayings and reality was that the right look from Carmine Costello could be deadly.
“Talk to me, Oren,” Carmine’s deep, gravelly voice bid me.
I’d been inside his office a few times and knew it held all the necessary amenities to exhibit his power: the heavy ornate wooden desk, large chair, walls of bookcases, fireplace, and absence of windows.
On more than a few occasions, Angelina pulled me into the depths of her aunt and uncle’s home to introduce me and attempt easy conversation. I’d sat in their dining room at their table and eaten Sunday dinner. However, for a man who’d learned the art of sales where conversing was my forte, I was too easily rendered inarticulate in the presence of Carmine Costello.
First, he was rarely alone. Talking to him meant talking in front of others. Second, thoug
h I’d thought I had a grasp of the art of conversation, Carmine was a master where I was merely an apprentice. His arsenal was well-stocked, but words were reserved for the right occasion. Silence was his greatest weapon; he’d insert it into the most unlikely of places. When his lips didn’t speak, his eyes took over, speaking volumes.
“He’s just testing you,” Angelina would say. “He wants to be intimidating.”
He didn’t need to try.
“He’s really a big softy,” she’d assure me.
In the span of time that we’d dated, I’d yet to truly witness his softer side.
In the newspapers and reports about him, the reporters had also failed to mention his softer side.
Untimely disappearances. Interesting financial dealings. The speculations ran rampant, yet the reality of the offenses never made their way to Carmine. There was always someone else to blame, someone else to take the heat, or someone else who when discovered was no longer able to dispute the evidence found on or near their remains. I thought of them as the Redshirts on Star Trek—the one person wearing the wrong color. He or she never made it back to the ship. Sometimes that was voluntary, other times not. Throughout the history of the American Cosa Nostra many people received the Teflon moniker, but not many were as deserving of it as Carmine Costello.
The large young man who’d followed me into Carmine’s office closed the door, leaving the three of us alone.
“Sir.” My tone brimmed with confidence that I didn’t feel.
“Sit.” He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.
I took a breath as I worked to walk and not stumble. Sit and not tremble.
I fought the urge to clear my throat. “Thank you, Mr. Costello, for seeing me. I know you’re busy.”
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