by S. W. Frank
“Shanda…sister-friend…what do I do now…huh…your dying wasn’t in our plan?”
Her eyes opened and drunken tears turned into a flood. Then sadness met anger; she shook the immovable rack and only moved herself. “Give her back…you’re so powerful…prove it…right now…prove you can raise the dead!” she screamed. “I miss her…don’t you get it…am I cursed…is it me you really want but seek to torture…well come on and strike me but please…oh please stop killing my family and friends!”
Nobody answered.
She hiccupped.
Typical.
Nobody responds when called to answer for their deeds.
Why?
Because nobody wants to acknowledge their wickedness!
Another hiccup and a few minutes later, she spotted a pretty bottle with a screw off cap.
Good.
Twist…twist…and one hard twist later, the top was off and to her lips the bottle went. Low…shit…down and dirty was the goal.
A hiccup and then the cylindrical glass went back to her dry lips in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Selange missed the hell out of Shanda and now she had to deal with Alfonzo's brutality against family.
Guzzle.
To Brooklyn.
To Shanda.
And to every corpse scattered at her feet.
Selange wasn’t aware Anita listened at the top of the stairs, or the worry which prompted an urgent call to Alfonzo to beckon him home. When Alfonzo arrived he was angry. Thank goodness the children were out with Jessica.
“Where is she Anita?” Alfonzo asked while yanking off his jacket, not caring where he tossed the garment.
Anita didn’t like his tone. Perhaps it was unwise to have called Alfonzo but the sentiment came too late.
Alfonzo waited for the woman to finish wringing her hands. That eyebrow was a razor line to match his sharp temper. The distress in Anita’s voice took him out of an important meeting to deal with a priority at home. He was worried about Giuseppe, anxious that his wife might go to jail and feeling like shit for lying with a straight face to everybody he loved. Only Giuseppe, Nico and Tony knew the truth and he wouldn’t have said shit to his brother but the man had guessed. Now, there was a hellfire of a mess brewing that he needed to cut off at the legs all because Domingo opened a door to bring in uninvited guests.
Recently, the U.S. government's Eldorado agents discovered a new center of illegal operations, new, ha; they were late by years in discovering The Cocaine Triangle. The three major players were the Colombian drug barons, Israeli-Jewish money launderers and Jewish-Russian Mafiosi. The Colombians funneled drug money, the Israelis laundered it and the Russian Mafiosi provided the security and muscle. The Italian families in the trade stayed low key, that's how they evaded detection until Domingo's treachery revealed their involvement. Guilty by association, that’s how it is when a dumb cousin of a Mafioso is caught on tape with an Israeli under surveillance for money laundering and drug trafficking. The guy turned up dead only days after Domingo's demise. The agents trained their lens on the Red Mafiya and now La Costra Nostra. The investigation widened. The Cocaine Triangle had now become a Square.
¡Mierda!
There wasn't any way around the fiasco except by making men disappear. Nico had begun hand-picking assassins. Although Tony wasn't fully trained, he had skill and natural leadership ability.
Right now he worried about his wife. Her self-destructive behavior if it were to continue might have her thrown in the pen. He thought she was okay, at least that’s the front she put on, but apparently he was wrong. By the fearful expression on Anita’s face, he could tell Selange’s behavior was out of character. He didn’t want the children to come home and find mommy a mess.
Normalcy is what Selange had established and what the family expected.
Agitated that Anita had yet to speak, he asked again, “Tell me where she is ahora!”
Anita pointed toward the wine cellar. “She’s down there….por favor Alfonzo…por favor be kind…she’s hurting.”
Be kind? Selange was on a rampage of late. The assault on Shanda’s mother and now this, goddamn what’s next?
He had to falsify the passenger manifest, and have video proof showing Selange in Puerto Rico during the assault. But that might not deter Mrs. Johnson from formerly pressing charges. She had the right to do it, besides the legal system for an accused is guilty until proven innocent in the United States. They were leaving PR sooner than later in case the authorities decided to flex their muscle by hauling the wife of a crime lord to prison.
The descent to the cellar occurred with a short jog. Alfonzo smelled the liquor; damn it was strong. He looked down the aisles filled with bottles, bought to suppress the senses and for occasional celebrations. His shoes did not make a sound as they contacted with the floor. He realized his wife was doing what he often did; dull the pain with drink, except she couldn't hold an ounce of liquor without becoming a piss talking drunk. He suddenly slipped, but immediately righted himself. He cursed because he nearly busted his ass and would’ve toppled on shards of glass.
He then spotted Selange, inside the storage closet, kneeling in front of the chest with a bottle to her lips. Alfonzo hopped over another spill to walk to the door. He frowned. “What are you doing babe?”
Like Anita she feigned mute, but at least Anita eventually talked, Selange simply shrugged.
“What happened today nena…talk to me…we have a pact, remember?”
Slowly she began to rise. The hazel specks were twinkling menacing stars from booze’s influence. This Selange was not his wife; this woman who tossed an empty bottle at his head was a horrid apparition. He ducked and rushed her ass as she screamed. “Pact…don’t talk to me you sonovabitch!”
Selange was two sheets to the wind, oh yeah.
He squeezed his babe tight. She couldn’t move, not even her head could twist. With a husky bass he said, “Get your shit together because when you start throwing bottles at me there's not a conversation in hell we can have.”
Without another word he had her over his shoulder, stepping carefully over the spills mixed with glass and up the flight of stairs. Anita was nowhere in sight when he reached the landing, she’d gone to start dinner because he could smell the delicious aromas. Selange wiggled around demanding that he put her down, but his lips only pursed tighter in anger. His answer was to clamp hard on her waist. Then the damn woman began screaming and pummeling his spine like a maniac. Now he was pissed.
Loca!
He told her to pipe down when he ascended another flight of stairs. He almost dropped her butt when she tried jerking free and she didn’t even realize it. The verbal warning he’d given received a response in assaultive words.
When liquor talks what might flow from a sweet woman’s mouth are strings of obscenities that can make even a vulgar man blush…oh hell yeah…Alfonzo turned red.
Selange beat at his head. Under different circumstances he may have laughed, but today he didn’t. A fist too many connecting with bone caused him to break a cardinal rule. That soft ass exposed right near his face received a really hard smack.
The painful sting brought a scream from Selange’s filthy mouth, “Ow…you hit me…you asshole!”
Yeah, she was shocked, because her husband didn’t believe in hitting women. She quieted. Her ass was on fire from one whack, yet Alfonzo absorbed each of her blows without missing a stride.
Alfonzo finally reached the bathroom and turned on the cold water. He frowned because he had to go there with his very belligerent wife.
Loca Anita barged in yelling just as he stuck Selange under the water fully clothed. “You do not hit her. No…no…no…I will not tolerate that!”
Selange attempted to slither along the tiles to escape, but Alfonzo’s hand held her immobile as the other deflected a hard rolling pin. “Tranquilo Anita, callate!” Alfonzo cautioned.
Funny, where was Anita when Selange attacked him on the stairs? Las
t thing he needed was to have his skull cracked open by wood. His head already began to throb from Selange’s fists. A loca Boricua and violent drunk make a lethal team.
Selange sputtered under the freezing stream of liquid. “Damn you Al, my hair…I just had it done!”
“To hell with your hair. Both of you better calm down!”
Anita did that tsking nonsense and continued to swing the rolling pin similar to someone squatting flies. “Leave her…ahora…go back to work…I will sober her up…you go Alfonzo…ahora!”
Alfonzo declined the generous offer, besides she was a staircase too late. “Put that away Anita and go make Selange coffee but the kids get here, por favor.”
“You better not touch her again or I will injure you…ah…Dios help me…this is madness…aye...I cannot take this!” Anita fumed as she scurried to do his bidding.
“Loca!” Alfonzo growled when she finally exited stomping in those chancletas she loved.
Selange spat water. Curtain of water ran down her face. She whimpered pitifully, ceased the profanity and that’s how Alfonzo knew sobriety approached. His arm relaxed a bit; he felt bad for the chica’s hair. “If I let you out, are you going to chill?” he asked.
Selange nodded. Her eyes were extremely red, liquor and tears were the culprits; he refused to accept blame. He shut off the tap, snatched a towel, wrapped it around her shoulders and she shivered.
Selange did not meet his gaze, she was furious. Alfonzo ruined her hair, her butt smarted and her lovely dress which was the last present from Shanda was damaged!
Alfonzo received the silent treatment afterward. Yep, he even got the cold shoulder in bed. The silence lingered for days. Inebriated people have amnesia. While under the influence they can do a lot of mess but never remember. Despite their faulty memory they seem to recall when they’re wronged…at least in their fuzzy heads.
When he attempted to speak with her about the incident, she walked away swearing never to forgive him. When he asked why, she said some nonsense about he abused her. Um-hum. Her exact words were, “You hit me really hard with a rolling pin for –no reason!”
Huh¿Qué dijo?
CHAPTER FOUR
Giuseppe grumbled and turned in bed. His head was on fire due to over consumption. He had returned home earlier than usual because he couldn’t look in another person’s face without seeing Shanda. Today was the worse, because Matteo had come by the office, happy as a lark with his talk of Lucia’s wedding and his mother’s excitement of more bambini. Take out the pene and urinate on a man with reminders of what he didn’t have. That is what Matteo inadvertently did.
Afterward, Giuseppe had gone to the backroom of his office and sank on the sofa to drink. Intoxicated he began to fumble with his phone. He laughed at his lack of coordination when he pressed incorrect keys. He disconnected and then began again, squinting to concentrate on the right symbol to press on the screen. 911 is family; they are his lifeline. Sal would understand his plight and so would Allie. He needed more soldati to assist in battling against despair. Light-hearted laughter was a mighty weapon during moments like these.
Hormones are in control at Sal’s age; a stage an Uncle knew firsthand because he was still a boy himself in many ways. Listening to the sleepy youth recanting escapades at school and the shenanigans of his siblings brought a howl and then more liquor burning a path along Giuseppe’s throat. But then the boy had to go and passed the phone to his old man.
“Where I live the time is five a.m. You have my kids jumping on my bed telling me your ass is on the phone. Ah, hombre what am I going to do about you, eh bro?”
“Tell your wife I am very sad…Shanda is dead.”
“Yeah, I will,” Alfonzo said in a condescending tone.
“I am glad you are coming to Sicily. The villa is ready…come now…this is where you belong.” Giuseppe sighed and then said, “Today is not a good day fratellino. It is very bad. The Russian stuff has made me irritable, I believe I am poisoned. The Russians have finally killed me.”
“Is Carlo with you dead man?”
“No, my mama has kidnapped him. I have been replaced fratellino, I am upset with her for taking my flesh. I am to blame he has no mama…the car was too fast.”
“Geo you’re talking out of your head.”
“What does that mean…is that true…can that be done?”
An exasperated sigh from a sober brother reached his ear. “Are you at work?” Alfonzo inquired.
“Sí, of course stupido.”
Alfonzo groaned before he chuckled. “Tread carefully on my feelings. My ego misled me to believe I am somewhat intelligent, don’t shatter the delusion.”
“Work and famiglia is all I have fratellino to distract my grief….eh…did I call my fratellino stupido?” Giuseppe burped and then pounded the gas out of his chest. “Mi scusi.”
The drunken lisp and the slurred speech told of Giuseppe’s condition.
He was completely smashed!
Alfonzo’s advice sounded reasonable to a big brother’s ears.
“Let Carlo stay put for a day or so until you’re better. Get some coffee, never-mind you’ll probably burn yourself. I’ll call your secretary to do it and make sure you get home to sleep the shit off,” Alfonzo said affectionately.
Sick, ah, the pain from inside did not relent. Giuseppe had not felt such utter desolation from a death. He’d seen many and some he had caused. The death of his papa, cousin and uncle had not left him this infirmed. Maybe, it is because, he had been better prepared. Shanda’s demise was sudden, worsened by the knowledge that she was in the beginning stage of pregnancy. So, the loss was two-fold.
He had handled the pain admirably –at first. Ah, cracking knuckles on men helped; seeing Carlo soothed the anger but there are times of weakness, like today due to Matteo. Another’s happiness sparked his misery.
After the conversation with Alfonzo, and a cup of coffee, Giuseppe was promptly escorted home and wobbled to his bedroom, stripped naked and sank in bed. Twisting from side to side, he sought comfort but found none. Alcohol had not dulled the pain, and produced hallucinations.
Again he rolled over, Gee whined and blurry eyes traveled to the door at another apparition. The rapid beats of his chest drummed loudly. Coming toward him was a beautiful dream carrying a gift to share with a wicked soul. He slid up against the headboard and tried to smile but the effort failed. “Bella, mi dispiace, I have missed you. Have you come for me, I am ready?”
“Geo, are you all right?”
When the figure reached the bedside he grabbed the beauty’s arms and pulled her on his lap. “Shanda…ti amo…let me prove how much I love you.”
The kisses to his dream love’s neck were firm and gentle. Kisses of tenderness were bestowed because Shanda considered him a hardened man unworthy of change. When she tried to wiggle free, slapped at his face, and stood, his head dropped limply to his chest. He could not make her love him, she remained adamant about going away. He hiccupped the hurt and belched out misery, another death, like Kefilwe.
Then womanly hands were on his cheeks. The eyes he saw were of love, his Shanda. “Geo…oh…I hate to see you like this,” she said.
“Then love me as I love you, give our children a loving and peaceful home bella.”
“Geo…por favore….we cannot…this is wrong…I…”
The words trailed to nothingness. Giuseppe’s mouth had silenced her voice. Such strength even when alcohol is consumed is what Don Giuseppe had. His hands rubbed and caressed the curves bestowed upon women. He had sampled plenty, yet his heart had only found one which pulsed in unison. He licked her like food as he maneuvered his dream to the mattress. With clumsy hands he found the zippers and latches concealing her glorious figure. He did not bother with her shoes; in fact he cared only about pleasuring his donna. Make her
remember their love is strong, an inebriated man decided. Their bond was formed through an act that birthed a son and another seed flourished in her belly.
Sliding along his arms were soft hands. Moans so sweet combined with salty tears formed as he caressed his love in return. When the obstruction of clothes was removed, he touched her face and a bass carried to the silent room. Even Gee lay quiet when he said, “Te amo…I will always love you, damn me for having my brother’s curse!”
The woman beneath him held tightly to his bulging biceps as he slipped within her and the passion of a man in mourning filled her completely. Fire ignited during a broken heart’s hallucination and molten liquid scorched a woman to cinder.
The shimmer around her neck, a sparkly crucifix told him he’d found heaven.
For one glorious evening he had his love requited. In the darkened room she brought him alive, turning the tables to ride him hungrily. She cooed and smiled while suctioning his fluids into her micio until she overflowed.
What a wonderful dream.
But then morning came. Heavy eyelids lifted. Blue eyes scanned the walls and furnishings before he turned on his side and found emptiness’ greeting. Shanda was gone. He had to accept the reality.
He grumbled and then kicked the covers away.
Sobriety begins today, he pledged as he stepped to the floor and a foot contacted with a lace panty. Onward he walked, unobservant and oblivious, however determined to proceed with his life.
Death is a wedding ring worn by the living.
***
The heat was unbearable. The figure hanging like a rack of meat wiggled to get free but his effort was futile. The man holding the blow torch knew this as well. Sweat poured from the human meat’s forehead, perspiration saturated the white shirt worn beneath the fashionable jacket. His trousers were by his excrement and liquid ran down a leg. Yes, he actually shit the pants his mistress bought during a visit to Milan.