by Lili Porter
“That idea sucks,” Ray had said boldly, but it didn’t matter. They disagreed and it left him more suspicious of Montovani.
Now there he was with his entourage, waiting for the two Hummers they’d arrived in to pull up and the paparazzi converged on him.
“Ray, have you seen Karisma and her new man?”
“Are you and Karisma really over, this time?”
“Is there a collaboration with you and FutureShock in the works?”
Ray didn’t indulge anyone in answers and his bodyguards smoothly kept the photo seekers at a distance. But even still, cameras flashed from all angles. He was about to enter the first Hummer when one particularly aggressive guy in a baseball cap started shouting at him. “Ray, does it piss you off that the owner of FutureShock and Karisma are making the beast with two backs?”
Ray stopped, and looked at the guy like he had two backs. His bodyguard told him to get into the SUV. He turned to the photo hound, and asked, in a way meant to intimidate, “What’d you say, man?”
The guy was videotaping him as he continued to goad him. “I asked if you’re pissed that the owner of FutureShock and Karisma are knocking boots. They’ve been seen together a lot recently. What did you think of the pictures? Have you seen them? They look pretty close. What do you think?” The photographer sneered, keeping his camera aimed at Ray.
Before his bodyguard could intervene, Ray had rushed his tormentor, pushing him and throwing his camera to the ground. Kicking it to the street, his bodyguards swarmed him. The guy fell to the sidewalk dramatically, holding his head, curling into the fetal position.
Struggling against the hold of his guards, Ray was yelling, “Get your lame ass up, punk!”
He was pushed inside the vehicle quickly and the door closed on him. His driver sped off.
“Shit! That muthafucka got just what his ass was looking for!” Ray roared.
His manager, who was seated next to him in the Hummer said, “He sure did, Ray. Dammit! What he was looking for was a big payday and that’s exactly what you gave him! What were you thinking?” Tom Pacek, the man who had been Ray’s manager for seven years, looked on in frustration.
“What the hell you mean, man? That fool taunted me about some other muthafucka screwing what’s mine. I shoulda broke my foot off in his ass!” Ray was furious.
“No, Ray. He wanted you to hit him and you obliged him. It’s not going away, Ray!” Tom was nearly shouting, now. “You do realize that you are still on probation? Right? Remember? Fuck! And you and Karisma haven’t been together for some time, now! She’s not your girl anymore,” he said emphatically, pinning Ray with a hard look. “We need to do damage control. Shit, Ray! You make my job hard sometimes.”
***
“Don Raffaelo, you always had the best taste in cigars,” said Don Giancarlo Moretti, a small wiry man of about fifty with sandy brown hair and green eyes, as he eagerly reached for one of the Cubans being offered by the waiter, who gave him a light. Puffing, the man closed his eyes. “Yes, this one is good,” he crowed.
“Enjoy, my friend, it’s from my special collection,” Don Raffaelo said. As each of the invited guests took a cigar and settled in, their attention became focused on the man who was teleconferencing with them. All eyes were on the large flat screen television as Don Raffaelo spoke.
From his own computer screen in the comfort of his home in Reggio, Calabria, Italy, Raffaelo surveyed those assembled in the room with his beloved youngest sons. The meeting had been called to handle a situation which had been deemed potentially disastrous to the Montovani empire. This meeting would ensure that there would be no further misunderstandings.
Four Capobastones from Los Angeles had been invited to La Mia Calabria Restaurant to discuss the matter in the private dining room. Aaron Andretti, Paolo’s advisor, sat to his right. On Aaron’s right was Daniel, and immediately on the left side of Paolo sat Davit. The Amatore brothers, sitting side by side, were at the end of the table. The four Dons of the Western States and their consiglieres filled in the rest of the seats at the rectangular table. They had been summoned to the meeting under the guise of discussing a missing Montovani shipment that had been headed to Canada. The culprit had been fingered and the Montovanis wanted the approval and cooperation of the council to handle the matter.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming out this evening, and welcome you to La Mia Calabria. Even though I cannot be there in person, I like this television way of talking my boys have introduced me to—”
“Teleconferencing Papa,” Daniel interrupted and everyone laughed.
“Yes, whatever you call it. I can see you, and that’s what matters,” Raffaelo waved his hand and chuckled. “Anyway, we all know one another; there is no need for introductions. But I wanted to make it clear that I am in agreement with the decision my son Giampaolo has made. He has my full support and I ask that you all support him, as well. You have been loyal friends to me over the years and now I want you to extend your friendship to my son. Now, my friends, I must take my leave. So, without further ado,” he said, pointing at Paolo, “I leave you in Giampaolo’s capable hands.” The connection was severed.
Turning to the men at the table Paolo addressed them in Italian. “You’ve been called here this evening because one of my shipments has gone missing.”
All of the men at the table watched Paolo intensely as the young man commanded the room.
Paolo scanned the room and pierced everyone’s gaze before continuing. “The freight was expected in Canada, but never made it. It disappeared,” he snapped his fingers. “What we lost in cargo was not only worth millions, but what we lost in respect cannot be recovered.”
There was silence. The only thing that could be heard was the light whirring of a fan that sat on a heavy buffet sideboard table.
Punctuating his words as he continued to speak, Paolo said, “Whoever is responsible for this must pay.”
Again silence.
Daniel narrowed his eyes on the men, but said nothing. Davit, who was watching their guests as well, looked to his brother, as he knew Paolo was ready to continue.
As the men smoked their cigars and drank their whiskey, the man seated to the right of Aaron, Don Salvatore Ambrosi, a compact, solemn man Raffaelo worked with at times, but never trusted, looked at Paolo and replied, “What are you saying? Are you accusing someone in this room of sabotaging your shipment?”
Paolo locked steely eyes with the man, who weighed over 300 pounds and was known to crush bones with his bare hands. “Not in this room, Don Ambrosi. As you can see, someone is missing. Don Barone, the so-called Boss of the Western States, was not invited tonight. Because of the sensitive nature of this meeting, it was necessary that it be conducted in private. It is his interference that has caused my family to lose our shipment. He laid claim to what is mine and it cannot go unpunished. This is not the first time he’s interfered with what belongs to me. But it will be the last. We have asked you here to secure the approval of the council to deal with him. Your cooperation in this matter will assure that we can all continue to work together and prosper. The recent actions of Don Barone has assured us that if no consequences come of his actions, life as we know it will change drastically for us all. We must act swiftly.”
Don Miguel Cerrucchi nodded. “The actions of the Barone clan are abhorrent. I want to assure you, Paolo, that my own family had no prior knowledge of this. We are well aware of the far reach bad choices can have should the punishment not be swift and sure. It is necessary.”
Paolo nodded and said, “Then if the entire council approves, we will move ahead. Are we all in agreement?”
Don Philip Abbatelli, who had been quiet up to this point spoke out. “Paolo, what compensation is your family prepared to give in exchange for the cooperation of the council?”
Paolo stared at the older Don and waited a moment before responding. Finally, he said, “As usual, when all is said and done, and the Montovani family controls the Barone fami
ly interests, you will each be given a piece of the pie.”
“An equal piece?” Don Giancarlo asked.
“My family will retain sixty percent of all capital. You all will split the remainder. The risk is ours.”
“Sixty percent to the Montovanis. How is that fair to your friends?” Don Abbatelli asked.
“The risk is ours,” Paolo repeated, without emotion. Then he turned back to the men. “Are we in agreement?”
“And what of his position as Boss of the Western States? Do you expect to inherit it? You’re not Capobastone yet,” Don Abbatelli interrupted.
Taking a sip of the liquor in front of him, Paolo said, “I expect that you gentlemen will work that out amongst yourselves. As you have pointed out, Don Abbatelli, I’m not Capobastone yet.” Paolo looked around at the men gathered and asked again, “Are we in agreement, then?”
“Yes,” they all concurred.
The associates were thanked and the Montovanis escorted them to the double doors, shaking hands. On the way out, Don Giancarlo said, “Would you mind if I took another Cuban to go? They are heaven.”
“Please do,” Paolo said, offering another cigar from the box to each guest on his way out.
When the men had all gone, Aaron said to Paolo, “You did very well,” and then turned to the others, “did he not, gentlemen?”
Michele Amatore, one half of the Amatore brothers, or, Gruesome Twosome as they were known in their circle, said, “Indeed he did, Aaron. This was the only way to ensure there will be no opposition to Paolo’s leadership in Los Angeles.”
“Si,” his brother Alberto replied.
“Quite necessary. The Boss of the Western States is a title held by only one, but coveted by all who were here this evening,” Aaron said. “The move we made tonight was bold, and sure to elicit some hellish backlash, but it was highly necessary to the family’s pursuits.”
“Are you sure the smoke is not harmful?” Michele asked Paolo.
“No danger. The cigars they were given on the way out are poisoned,” Paolo said.
“Very clever. It’s basically guaranteed that each man will kill himself with the added cigar flavor, shall we say,” Aaron said.
“That’s right,” Davit said.
“What if they don’t smoke them?” Daniel asked, showing his skepticism.
“They will,” Aaron assured him with a wink. “It’s guaranteed. Don’t worry.” Turning his attention to Paolo, Aaron said, “Your father will be proud.” He patted him on the back.
“When will they realize what has happened?” Michele asked.
“If they find out, it’ll be too late for them to do anything about it,” Paolo answered.
“It can take a few days, but once poisoned by ricin, there’s no recovering,” Davit interjected.
“Sono morti,” Paolo said.
“Very well,” Aaron said, “Michele and Alberto will accompany you to see it to its end.”
Paolo looked at the men and said, “Then let’s finish it.”
9
Daniel snapped the neck of one of the guards patrolling the grounds from behind like the string of a fiddle. Once dropped, the body was dragged near the perfectly manicured bushes and placed there, face up and arms crossed on his chest, to lie beneath a somber, spectral tree. Two others were shot between the eyes, both by Paolo in two swift, silenced pops.
Accompanied by their family enforcers, Paolo and his brothers entered the home unseen rather effortlessly. Clothed in black paramilitary gear from head to toe, they moved stealthily through the second floor sleeping quarters, securing doors and other entrances, assuring that no one would prevent them from locating and taking out their intended target. Even though Don Barone had his own army of men guarding both his estate and his person, he was not protected that night. The Montovani family had been trained for situations such as that their entire life and the other families didn’t know a fraction of their skills. It gave them the edge that kept them alive.
The last thing left to do was disarm the security system, which was Davit’s specialty, along with being Paolo and Daniel’s attorney. Davit walked up to it, already having studied the model before that night, and went to work, snipping the correct wires while pressing the few buttons at precisely the same time. A faint beep sounded out and then faded away into the silent night.
As the three made their way to the main target, they left behind a trail of death. Three of Don Barone’s men lay dead, silently killed by the deadly hands of Vito Pantucci, Don Raffaelo’s most trusted and ruthless enforcer. For years he had been the man the Don looked toward to carry out sensitive missions such as this. Now men were lying dead in the home where they had previously thought they were safe.
Paolo placed his gloved hand on the door to Don Barone’s bedroom, knowing that his wife was out of town, and slipped into the room, followed by his brothers. Raising a steel-toed boot, he kicked the foot of his family’s enemy. The older man sat up abruptly, startled and uncertain.
Lifting his gun, Paolo aimed it at Don Barone’s head.
Wiping his eyes, the old man saw the glint of the weapon, but was unsure if he was indeed seeing the assassins at the foot of his four-poster bed. The Don spoke. “Who are you?”
“I’m the angel of death,” Paolo said, “here to send the devil back to hell.”
The old man kissed his rosary and looked Paolo in the eye when he pulled the trigger. It was a close range shot that revealed itself with a small whizzing sound from the silencer and connected with the old man, exploding his brain and sending bits of it splattering across the headboard of his bed.
And as the life drained quickly from his body, his dull eyes stared accusingly at his killer. Paolo lowered the weapon, placing it in its holster and assessing his work. Satisfied that Don Barone was dead, he looked to his brothers, who were at his side, and led them from the room, leaving the dead to reunite with his maker.
***
Maria Elena felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. She couldn’t breathe. There, in full living color, was Paolo on the internet with another woman. Not just any other woman, either. Quite possibly the most famous, highly photographed, and most beautiful singer in the world. She scrolled to the story to read it further, hoping that her suspicions wouldn’t be confirmed.
Karisma Montgomery, lead singer of the musical group, Goldust, spotted out dancing recently with FutureShock Records owner Paolo Montovani. The two have been seen kissing and canoodling with one another at The Trapeze and other spots. By the looks of things, they seem to be quite close. Neither side is commenting on the relationship, but we must say, they make a pretty pair! We can’t wait to find out what’s going on between these two. And what about Ray “Alleged” Bryant? We don’t have to allege about that relationship being over!
She glared at the pictures taken of Paolo and Karisma in a nightclub kissing and holding each other close. What was this? There he was, her fidanzato, with the beautiful, man stealing bitch Karisma Montgomery. He looked like a man in love and it shamed her. She stood up quickly, her heart racing. She grabbed a desk chair with her tiny hands and tossed it back with a force stronger than what she appeared to possess. Hot tears scalded her face and she hadn’t realized she’d been crying. She ran from her room in search of her mother.
With Maria Elena screaming her name loudly, her mother, Carlotta, ran from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her maid was right behind her standing in the doorway. “My baby, what is it?” her mother asked, eyes wide.
“Mama!” she yelled, choking from the tears that clouded her vision. “Mama!” she cried again.
Carlotta Bianchi asked, “What’s going on, Maria Elena? What’s the matter?”
“Paolo…” Her voice trailed off, unable to speak.
“What about him?” her mother asked, frightened by the intensity of her daughter’s tears. Carlotta grabbed Maria Elena by the shoulders looking her in the eye. “Has something happened to Paolo, Maria Elena?”
Maria Elena was sobbing now and couldn’t form words. Her body shook and her fists were clenched. Her mother put her hands on hers and forced her daughter to look at her. “Get a hold of yourself, sweetheart. Talk to me. Has something happened to your intended?”
Maria Elena nodded.
“What?” Carlotta asked, gently shaking her daughter.
“He… has…another…woman,” she sobbed.
“What are you talking about?” Her mother’s frown indicated that she might believe her daughter was being dramatic.
“Their pictures are on the internet,” she cried. She fell on her mother’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably at saying those words.
Holding her daughter by the back of her head, her mother pulled back and said calmly, “Maria Elena, please, try to tell me what you mean. You saw Paolo on the internet with another woman?”
The young woman nodded. Her mother thought for a minute, and then asked, “What were they doing?”
The maid handed her a tissue and Maria Elena blew her nose. She cleared her throat. “Kissing, holding hands, hugging,” she replied. Angrily, she threw the balled up wad of paper against the wall. “How could he do this to me!” she shouted. “I have waited patiently for him to be ready to marry. He needed time in America, so I gave it to him. Now, he does this.” She pulled away from her mother and went to the kitchen table, plopping down in a chair and placing her face in her hands, her elbows propped up to support her.
“He finally called back early this morning. We talked only briefly. It was almost like he was rushing me off the phone. He said, ‘We need to discuss our marriage plans.’ I asked him if he loved me. You know what he said? He said, ‘Since when was any of this about love?’ It took him forever to agree to a wedding date. Now I see why! He’s been doing this all along, I know he has!” She began crying harder.