by S. W. Frank
"What do you want Geo?" Alfonzo asked.
"To learn what is troubling you."
"Nothing. Look I'm half way to New York. I'll talk to you later."
That was the brief conversation.
He settled back in the lawn chair and contacted Nico.
"What's wrong Geo?"
"Is my son alive?"
"He's buried under covers. He's fine stronzo. You miss him, eh?"
"Sí, very much."
"You should've called earlier. He's out cold. Matter-of-fact, why are you calling at midnight?"
"To speak to my son –cazzo."
"Have you been drinking?"
"Not a drop."
"I saw the news. Don't sweat it. Let the press die down, stay low-key and wear dark shades whenever you venture out."
"Dark shades?"
"Yeah, that's to prevent those behavioral psychologists from analyzing whether you’re lying. Gotta go, but hang in there cugino."
"Nicolo, un momento prego!"
"Make it quick, I need to use the loo."
Giuseppe snorted. "I am glad I am not near." He scratched Gee's head. "Is Alfonzo ill?"
"Not that I know of, perché?"
Giuseppe’s lip curled. Nico had been evasive.
"Cugino, I have known you all of my life."
"Like I said. I don't think he's ill. Did something happen, butthead?"
"He is acting strangely."
"Well, someone shooting you at point blank range might have you acting strangely, too."
"Nicolo, for once treat me as an equal."
"I don’t consider you my lesser, except in age. An asshole, a troublemaking brat, maybe,"
"Nicolo, on your Papa Alberti and his fratelli, break a confidence, but to blood nothing leaks."
"You're overdramatic as usual."
Giuseppe heard what sounded like flatulence. He waited; glad he was not the cell phone.
"Selange was diagnosed with breast cancer yesterday morning."
Giuseppe blinked, ignoring the shadows traversing the property. They were the personal security specifically chosen by his cugino. Dumbfounded, he replied, "Grazie Nico -grazie. Ciao."
He pulled the joint from his pocket and lighter to sit quietly for a smoke. It was true; the effects were calming. He took several long drags and settled back to relax.
Long into the night, Giuseppe observed the stars, reliving the past, remembering when he first met Selange. She'd walked downstairs and he thought her lovely. However, beauty alone hadn't surprised a man acquainted with scores of gorgeous Donnas. He'd witnessed her genuine kindheartedness. With a conceited sorella like Amelda and acquainted with harsh superficial prima donnas like Giovanna, he supposed Selange's most endearing quality was her sweetness and lack of vanity.
He hadn't meant to bully her over the years.
The cranial instant replay highlighted her dimpled smile that greeted Carlo on every visit.
"Ah, this is terrible Gee," he said to his companion. "She has been good to us, staying true to the oath of godmother, never once turning me or Carlo aside. As usual, I have taken the strong one for granted. She must be tough to put up with me, si?"
Gee barked.
"You understand me, I believe I must change and be nicer to her."
Gee howled.
Giuseppe scowled. "Cosa? You do not believe me. It will be difficult, especially when I enjoy making her cry. Ha...but I must stop...she does not deserve the animosity. She has behaved herself. Tell me Gee, do you think I am selfish?" He frowned to contemplate the question. "Anyway, Alfonzo did not share this with me and I am heartbroken. Ah, Carlo might lose another Donna he loves."
He balled his fists, reclined his head and stared at the sky changing from black to a reddish glow as sunlight appeared. In school, he learned the sun does not change positions. The Earth rotates, passing through the sun's light. However, many believe the sun moves, thus the references to 'a rising sun.' His mouth twitched into a weary smile. To the firmament, he made a silent pledge to curtail his errant behavior toward the women in his famiglia.
His hand went to the antique watch Luzo had gifted to him on a birthday when the boy Giuseppe thought of childish wants, cars and such.
Too many were dying, Nico and Alfonzo were holding back death and he understood he had been preoccupied with himself.
The rays of sun were diminishing in a sulfuric macho atmosphere.
He removed the watch, read the initials and accepted he was also Luzo's son.
He rose from the seat, as a guard approached. Giuseppe didn't care to ask his name.
"Excusi, but there is a reporter's van approaching the property."
The corner of Giuseppe's mouth descended. "Shoot it!"
The guard recoiled and then recovered immediately.
Giuseppe waved his hand at the guard. "Never mind. Stop the van beyond the barrier, search it and the reporter and then send him up by foot!"
"Sí."
Giuseppe took Gee inside, fed the hound and then hurried upstairs to freshen up. When he returned to the entry, the uninvited guest had begun trudging along the steep walkway to the villa. The reporter's hair bounced, she stopped with a huff and then recommitted to navigating the incline.
Giuseppe chuckled at her frustrated body language, aware that Nico was correct about subtle clues. Of course, an inattentive person might miss blatant signs.
In this instance, the newscaster was dedicated to her job, however, she also was quite anxious, perhaps sexually frustrated. Chasing leads, meeting deadlines and ambition can take a toll on a career driven person, not to mention strain a relationship.
Entertained, he observed her knees twist and then dip when her heel stuck in the cobblestone. He noticed she discreetly loosened a button, also and he smiled, preparing for the amateur seduction. After short minutes, the figure came into focus and he recognized the news reporter from the International News Network.
Ah, this will be interesting, he opined when she halted beside the chrysanthemums.
"Ciao Signora Cuossini," he said omitting a smile, in an attempt to appear saddened.
"Buongiorno Signore Dichenzo. Grazie Signore for agreeing to this interview during this difficult time. May I ask you several questions about the allegations from your in-laws?"
Giuseppe folded his arms. His home was usually off limits to outsiders, but today he granted entry. "Por favore, we will talk inside." He gestured toward the door and when she walked there, he hand signaled the guards to remain outdoors and alert during her visit.
"So," Signora Cuossini began the moment his foot crossed the threshold. She had turned on a recorder, which he found humorous.
"Scusa," he said, closing the door, "but I must ask that you only record when I have given permission."
"But, this is standard practice."
Giuseppe strolled close to the journalist, glaring downward. She was pleasant on the eyes in a plain sort of way, nothing remarkable in the piggish snout and illusion of cheekbones sharpened cosmetically. She possessed nice legs and a hefty bosom. "I must search you before we proceed."
He noticed her collarbone protrude more as she inhaled. "Signore, your security has checked with the metal detector. I assure you I have no weapon."
"I am not assured." He pointed to the door. "If you are uncomfortable, you are free to leave."
She exhaled. "No. Go on, check!"
An interview with a Giacanti was a rare coupe and she would do anything to secure a scoop, Giuseppe surmised and for a romp with the Don, the press once pegged a woman connoisseur.
"Undress."
"Cosa?"
"Signore, this is -"
"Not standard procedure," he finished for her. "The door is unlocked."
The reporter hastily unclothed, fussing in Sicilian, yet compliant.
Giuseppe sat, crossed his leg and visually examined her from head to toe.
Too skinny.
Too narrow-hipped.
Too ordinary
.
She was more attractive clothed. Ah, but who was he kidding, he had sexed many like her. Smart is sexy, too.
"You may now begin with the questions," he said with bored detachment.
She switched on the recorder and unabashedly closed their gap. "How do you feel about the accusations of your in-laws?" she asked in Sicilianu.
"They are grieving. Sometimes mourners look for someone to blame."
"Did you murder your wife?"
"No. My wife was my joy. I am highly distressed, yet I have not blamed my wife's parents for not confiding to me that she had tried to have children in her previous marriage or that her first husband abused her. They are confused. I am not an abuser."
The reporter's mouth twitched.
He waited for her to issue a naked rebuttal, but none surfaced from her thin lips.
"Is there any validity to their claim of foul play?"
"Of course there is."
The reporter's eyes widened, waiting for the juicy confession. "There is?"
"Sí, suicide is foul. It is a permanent solution to a problem. My wife's depression has left my son and me with deep scars. I urge anyone suffering long sorrow to seek professional help. I am donating a large sum of money to the facility in Palermo for Health and Mental Services, as well as to music education here."
"Your wife was a classically trained pianist, si?"
"Si." He smiled. "She had a special gift. To hear her play was bellissimo."
Her eyes softened with sympathy. “Had you seen any signs of depression, Signore Dichenzo?"
"I am not a shrink. What do I know of signs? We lost a bambino, she was sad and I believed that eventually we would try again. I did not foresee this happening."
"Is there anything you would like to say to the parents?"
Giuseppe took a deep breath. What would he say to Shanda's parents if they were alive? There was genuine emotion in his voice that resonated as sincerity. "I loved your daughter. My son has lost two Mamas under tragic circumstances. What you are doing is compiling the anguish. Por favore, for the sake of famiglia, cease this campaign to injure my son and me. I wish I could have saved her, on my life, I wish she were alive. We grieve, but let us grieve together and honor her memory respectfully. She would not want this...that I know of my bella."
The journalist shut off the device. "Grazie Signore Dichenzo for talking to me during your grief. Once again, I extend sympathy to you and your famiglia."
"De nenti," he replied as she rose after putting away the recorder. She stuck her ass in his face when she bent to retrieve her blouse and he watched, searching her finger for a wedding ring.
"Tell me, when will this report air?" he asked, rising with her purse in his hand.
"This evening."
"And, what are your thoughts Signora -of me?" he asked as he handed her the purse.
He noticed her blush beneath the rouge. "I am a reporter, my opinion is irrelevant. I report the facts."
Giuseppe moved closer, dwarfing her with his bulk, peering at the valley of flesh beckoning as she donned her blouse.
"Ah, let me assist." He reached to the cloth, traced the outline of her nipple and received a wanton gasp. "May I kiss you Signora?" he asked in a seductive bass that seemed to cause her to swoon. "Perhaps it is not standard practice to touch an interviewer." He bent low and kissed her parted lips anyway and she moaned desirously, yielding to him with ease.
She dropped her purse to hold onto his thick neck as if she wanted to climb his knees. He turned her to the sofa, smirking as she grunted wantonly, jutting her butt out to him, although his trousers were on.
He thrust her over, unzipped and teased her with a sexual promise of a tryst. He covered her spine, crushing her with his frame, rubbing his flaccid staff between the slit of her ass and she began to moan lustfully. However, he lacked an erection.
He straightened suddenly and she panted in disappointment.
"Mi dispiace," he said, zipping closed. "I cannot...accept my apologies. You are such a delight to my eyes, but I cannot betray my wife. It is wrong of me to do this when I have yet to say farewell."
She gushed in shame, struggling erect from the canine position, stuttering an apology as well. "No, no, you did nothing wrong Signore Dichenzo. You are a good husband. I should not have tempted you."
The reporter dressed quickly, rushing out and he sank on the sofa, cupping his pene.
An irritable grumble escaped.
True, he had acted as an innocent grieving husband; however, he was dissatisfied with his dick's performance. He had an opportunity to fuck a well-known journalist. However, that required an erection, which inexplicably had not occurred.
That was a first for him.
Don Giuseppe Dichenzo had failed to rise to the occasion.
Cosa?
Chapter Nineteen
Nueva York has a special vibe. A native embraces the dichotomous atmosphere, however that can be overwhelming to newcomers. There's a stamp of originality on a New Yorker, their walk, and their attitude has a non-nonsense logo etched on their soul. The down to earth celebrity, the tech mogul and hustler carry the marker. They talk and walk with confidence, which might offend someone with insecurities.
The specialist hailed from the city, Alfonzo recognized that by his demeanor. He broke it down to Alfonzo and Selange, telling them without sugar coating anything what lie ahead.
"Surgery is the only option. We remove the cancerous tumor and follow-up every three months to check if we've gotten it all."
"Will I need to see an oncologist?" Selange asked with worried eyes.
"Not at this time. Let's take this one step at a time."
Alfonzo leaned back, sullen and silent.
Selange held on to his arm. Yes, she needed his strength. He smelled so good, seemed so calm, but he worried, she could ascertain –the vein –yeah and the tightening of the jaw held the fear inside the handsome man. "Okay, let's do it -today." She replied hurriedly, eager to be done with preliminaries. There was a resolution and she wanted to be home, well, and cancer free.
The Specialist chuckled. "We need bloodwork; a surgery date and then we’ll proceed."
Alfonzo’s tone had force and bass. "My wife said today. Schedule the surgery. Get her in under an alias; assemble your top team with an incentive of a million dollar bonus –each. I'll also throw in a feel good donation of a hundred million to the cancer research center."
The smile faded. "That's generous, but I’m afraid extremely unethical."
"Let's not debate extremes or ethics Doctor." Alfonzo replied with a sharp brow that cut through the rhetorical bullshit. "There's an extreme lack of ethics when medical professionals allow the indigent sick to perish when there’s meds or treatment that alleviates ailments and lessen suffering." He scoffed. "You don’t want my money; I guarantee there’s someone equally skilled that’ll get around your profession’s selective ethics."
The Specialist's mouth descended as he pondered. Alfonzo suspected he considered the benefits of a hefty donation in the area of cancer research. He also thought of the patients needing treatment that were unable to afford the expensive meds.
"Okay. I'll make the necessary arrangements. The Nurse will draw your bloods Mrs. Diaz and I will contact you this afternoon with a date and time.”
“Today,” Alfonzo insisted.
“That may not be possible. I’ll need to review the lab reports, have –“
“Today.”
“A night surgery may be a viable alternative.”
“Tonight is today.”
“I'll contact you this afternoon when I have the team ready and an operating room." He then stepped outside the office, returned with the nurse who then drew blood, reiterated he’d call and that was the gist of their visit at the renowned cancer facility on Long Island.
“What are you thinking?” Alfonzo asked his wife as she removed the Band-Aid from her arm as they sat inside a diner on Union Turnpike.
T
hey were regular patrons without crowns on their heads. They were a distressed couple, talking over breakfast.
Selange’s pouty mouth opened. “I just want this over.”
Through the tinted glass, the stream of cars traveled north and south. A large bookstore across the street had a flow of traffic through the doors. He noticed a big sign that read, ‘Everett Harper, Poetry Reading at 11 a.m.’
He removed the expensive watch from his suit pocket. The leather strap gave the appearance of simplicity; however, he was far from the average patron. Judging from the inattentive diners, he was nobody. That’s another thing about New Yorkers; they’ll play it cool even if they recognized someone important. He supposed that’s because New Yorkers understand they’re important, too.
He glanced at the time.
10: 33.
He dropped the timepiece in his pocket, finished his hash browns and reclined against the seat as Selange chatted with the kids. When she finished she stuffed the cell back in her purse.
“Are you satisfied they’re okay?” he asked.
“Yep. Sal said Lorenzo is taking them all to dinner.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
“He’s nice. I’m glad they’re visiting. It must be hard to lose your entire family.”
“I’m sure it’s hell.”
“What do you think about his girlfriend?”
“I don’t think about her at all.”
“Wow, what a statement,” Selange replied with a wrinkled nose.
“Your food is getting cold,” he replied as he observed Selange poking at the items on her plate.
She severed a tiny morsel of the wheat pancake but then pushed it around in the liquid strawberry instead of eating the damn thing.
“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked when she dropped the fork and then took a sip of herbal tea.
“I’m not hungry.”
Alfonzo frowned. “Keep saying that and cancer won’t kill you, starvation will.”
“I guess I’m sick to my stomach over what happened to Nicole.”
“Babe, she killed herself; a hunger strike can’t bring her back.”
She sighed. “I just wish I had a chance to know her better, I mean, she must have felt alone after losing her sister and then her baby.”