Animosity

by S. W. Frank

  She squinted. “Are you a cop?”

  “Nah,” he scoffed. “Nah, I only came in for a drink and a dance to celebrate living chica.”

  “Your wife is lucky.”

  “I’m the one that feels lucky. Have a good night, and be safe.”

  “You, too.”

  Her friend appeared and she slipped the money in her purse as she observed Alfonzo squeeze by people filing in.

  All the good ones were always taken, she opined.

  Dang!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From a darkened corner of the street, Alfonzo kept his eyes peeled on the club door. Two fucking hours sitting with men belching and farting wasn’t a pleasantry.

  Ricky, the youngest of the trio had his phone in hand, pretense texting, but in actuality, he operated a drone with a camera scouting the location of police cruisers and DT’s in unmarked vehicles.

  Every so often, he might say something like; “There’s a Ford at six o’clock two minutes out.”

  James would roll from the curb, and sit at another location until the police vehicle faded into the busy night.

  Alfonzo decided to stretch his legs. He stayed in the shadow, and stepped into the street with the intention of going to buy a bag of plantain chips from the 24-hour bodega when lo and fucking behold, Rubio decided to emerge from the club.

  Now he comes out, Alfonzo snorted, as the dude strode in the direction where the brothers were parked, completely oblivious to his presence. Maybe, Rubio was too drunk to care about the person turning around. His strides were casual but brisk as he surveyed the pedestrian traffic. The end of a workweek meant a night of partying. Dudes hung out on corners, smoking weed and kicking it with friends before heading to the clubs.

  Alfonzo briskly followed the murderous sonovabitch that killed Marisól.

  The brothers watched his back. The brothers were told not to harm Rubio when they caught him. Alfonzo wanted the honor. Therefore, they didn’t intervene as he walked behind an unsuspecting Rubio.

  Apparently, Rubio didn’t have a car or cab fare. He walked in the direction of the overhead train in the distance.

  Then he stopped to duck behind the back of building to take a leak.

  Stupid.

  Alfonzo observed the car pull to the curb, blocking any view of what was to occur.

  Rubio had chosen the perfect spot to die.

  A stream of pee struck the bricks, sending a cat scurrying from the overflowing trash. It was dark. The moon witnessed Alfonzo’s arm clamp around Rubio’s throat and his biceps harden.

  Rubio released his penis to grip Alfonzo’s arms. He pulled at immovable flesh as Alfonzo's blade smoothly entered his chest, stuck in the heart and then was yanked out.

  “Puta!” Alfonzo spat, with a death hold on Rubio’s neck, sending the blade in again, making sure Rubio felt his anger. “This is for Marisól maricón.”

  The sputter of spit and blood hit the face of his expensive watch as he thrust several times until Rubio’s hands fell to his sides.

  Fitting, that Rubio knew his time was up.

  A flexion and twist of the wrist cleaned the blood on the dying man’s shirt. Alfonzo shoved Rubio with such force, his head cracked on the urine-covered brick.

  There wasn’t the boom from a gunshot.

  A long conversation never happened.

  He hadn’t engaged in any bitch ass popping shots from a distance while in a moving car or that reckless fake gangsta’ mess that happened too often in the ‘hood.

  His hate for Rubio hadn’t cut short the life of any innocent child or bystander, nah; up close and personal was how Alfonzo dispensed with the sneaky motherfucker.

  No good people out for a night of fun got caught between Alfonzo’s anger at a lazy coño that would kill a decent person...a working mother…so violently…for green paper he hadn’t earned.

  Anything Alfonzo needed to say about that he told directly to the murderer.

  He stepped around Rubio’s feet. Blade low to his side as he climbed in the car and James took off.

  The car’s occupants were quiet.

  After a kill, adrenalin’s pumping and silence is best.

  Alfonzo wiped the Bowie knife clean with a bacterial wipe, and returned the blade to its case.

  He thought about Anita’s reaction when she learned about her son’s murder. She would cry. Mothers love their children, bad or not. They never wish death upon them. Even Carmen, his beloved Tia, cried. Her tears were relief that her son was at peace.

  The bad acts that Alfonzo committed at times hurt. They shred pieces of his soul, but nothing would devastate him more than killing Anita. That would be like losing his mother. But, he had to suffer the pain in order to protect his family. He could never tell his wife or anyone his plan. He pondered how he would commit the act, concluding it would be loving and humane.

  The brothers hadn’t said a word until they reached the borough of Manhattan.

  “Reminder, chocolate chip frappe for the wife.”

  Alfonzo slid up. He had dozed. “What?”

  “You walk in the house without that frappé; she’s going to wonder who you were fucking. You have lipstick on the sleeve of your shirt.”

  “What?” Alfonzo tugged on his sleeve. Sure enough, there was a smudge of lipstick on the thing and he tried to clean it with a hand wipe.

  “You’re making it worse,” James said. He pulled into the drive thru of a fast food chain, ordered four chocolate chip frappes, paid and smirked. “Maybe, she’ll forgive you if you’ve brought more than one.”

  Alfonzo frowned. They were a block from his street when he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it to the backseat. “Someone gimme a shirt!”

  “No, male strippers allowed in this car,” James said.

  The trio guffawed.

  “I like my shirt.” A voice in the rear chuckled.

  “Me, too. You’re loaded buy a shirt. Do like those rich people do and have the store open up just for you.”

  “How badly do you need it?” Another inquired.

  “Um, your shirt smells good.” A brother teased, and then someone slapped Alfonzo in the noggin.

  They were at the tip of the block. Rows of brownstones, unoccupied vehicles lined the curb. There weren’t any pedestrians on the sidewalk at two in the morning except a stray canine foraging in a neighbor’s trash.

  The auto slowed when it reached the vehicle in front of Alfonzo’s place. That car had cameras in the four lights and rearview that fed into surveillance devices. The satellite view of an entire three-block radius was an additional feature of the upgraded security.

  Alfonzo noticed a light on upstairs. His wife hadn’t gone to sleep. Likely, she read to stay awake until he returned. The chica meant what she said.

  “Give me a fucking shirt!” Alfonzo fumed. A vein protruded from his neck that raised a line in his skin straight to his temple from the thought of Selange questioning his fidelity.

  The dudes were poking fun at his expense. He couldn’t go in the house with lipstick on his shirt. Selange would flip.

  “Go shirtless. Tell the lady you were mugged.” James chuckled.

  “Nah, how about saying sweetheart, see what happened was I went partying and things got hot and I lost my shirt.”

  “No, Al, just go in the house and hope she don’t notice the stain.”

  Alfonzo twisted, to peer at the deranged speaker. “My wife notices everything.”

  “I’ll trade you for that watch.” The youngest bartered.

  “Fine,” Alfonzo replied, unhooking the band. “You guys play too much.” He tossed the expensive chronograph to the backseat and a shirt flew to the front, bringing a musty wind. He grimaced as he slipped the nasty thing on. “A bit of soap and some deodorant is basic hygiene, word.”

  They laughed as he grabbed one of the frothy sweets and booked out the car, leaving behind the extra drinks.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Giuseppe twist
ed the cell as he contemplated.

  Perhaps, he should inform Nico of his whereabouts.

  Call –not call.

  He shoved the cell back inside his suit pocket.

  Not call.

  To hell with the stronzo.

  His head reclined on the seat. Music emanated from the speakers to fill his mind with haunting lyrics. He had never fully embraced music, he realized, or art, only external beauty.

  ‘Say something I’m giving up on you,

  Sorry I couldn’t get next to you.

  Anywhere I would’ve followed you…’

  It was true.

  He would have followed Shanda and his Papa to death’s home. They were chosen to travel alone.

  Sky blue eyes as clear as the firmament went from the interior of the car to the forestry beyond the window. Armed men carrying Kalashnikov’s observed his arrival. However, he focused on the thick tree trunks everywhere, as if they were wooden tombstones carved with his name.

  Don Giuseppe Dichenzo died in a hated place. He imagined it would read.

  Russia.

  Ugh –yuck!

  In a lucid moment, the injury at his loves departure dissipated and he sighed. He tapped the window and the door opened. Muscular legs held a torso with bulk and a Giacanti in heart.

  Giuseppe emerged, leisurely fastened the button on his finest jacket. He met the intense gaze of the host and spat on the ground.

  He strolled ahead of his two guards across the patches of dirt in the lawn. He was angered he'd been summoned to the home of a cazzo that his Papa Carlo despised.

  Powerful strides brought him face-to-face with his Papa’s rival in the Vor V Zakone.

  “Zdravstvuj Don Dichenzo. Welcome to Russia.”

  Giuseppe detested the guttural language, equally as much as the leader of the Red Bratva. His reply revealed that disdain. “If Hell is low, I believe Russia is its welcome gate.”

  An insult was traded. “And your country is its satanic mistress.” Viyachov sneered. “Everyone has assembled inside. I suggest you remember, offending those that you have sought a favor may find your asking equally distasteful.”

  Viyachov turned his back and ordered his security to relieve his guests of their weapons before they were allowed entry to his precious home.

  Once the preliminaries were complete, Giuseppe was ushered into the spacious parlor of the modern house. He noticed the numerous windows, the polished wood floors and rustic furnishings that were as hard as the owner was. Seated beneath the large paintings of landscapes were the descendants of families that dared to think he would bow a knee in fear of threats.

  His eyes searched theirs, finding only a strange amusement behind the iron glares. What use did Viyachov have for the man in fancy garments, standing, clasping a thick book, seemingly ill at ease in their midst?

  A priest, sí, the person was a cleric, Giuseppe realized.

  Viyachov occupied a high-back hair. His henchman stood behind him with a contemptuous curve to his scarred mouth. The width of his chest, nearly matched that of the seat. His neck was thick. His shoulders were broad and his stare a bold challenge to the Don, judging by the sneer on his mouth.

  The lone woman of the bunch greeted Giuseppe.

  “Thank you for coming. We understand your family wish to annul our latest contract?”

  “Sí.”

  Viyachov spoke. “Don Dichenzo respectfully seeks to repeal only one of the terms, the monetary transactions in the foreign bank.”

  The African countered. His name was Assim. “This may not be feasible. I have already begun preparation to redirect funds there.”

  “Begun?” Giuseppe asked. He noticed, he was not offered a seat. Who the fuck did they believe they were, a judge and jury? “Change direction, the African bank has closed.”

  There were flares of nostrils, glares of derision, like those he'd seen many times on the faces of greedy criminals. He refused to budge until his family was released from the codicil.

  “The Don is offering a substitute to cover the inconvenience. Cash.” Viyachov interjected, recognizing Giuseppe’s inability to act diplomatically. “And he has agreed as a sign of faith to enter a binding marital contract with my daughter Kenya.”

  The room fell silent.

  Giuseppe hid his surprise. The presence of the cleric now made sense. He thought to break Viyachov neck and storm out. Instead, he stood as solid as the tree outside the windows of the vile Russian’s house. To debate the lie in front of the others would then undermine his reason for coming. A fake marital agreement can be annulled. It was a small thing, he argued internally.

  “Is this true?” The Asian smuggler inquired.

  Giuseppe hesitantly nodded. “As a sign of good faith.”

  Viyachov gestured to a man near the door and a very young woman with fiery eyes was ushered inside followed by Katia.

  The girl’s skin was an unhealthy pallor. Her hair lacked sheen and the shadows beneath her eyes were reminiscent of a zombie movie. Ah, and that white ostentatious gown was atrocious. Giuseppe laughed in disbelief. Only to a Russian were hideous things attractive.

  “Dai. This…this…is the bride? How old is she?”

  “Twenty-one.” Viyachov snorted. “This union will prove you are a man of your word.”

  A guard strong-armed the girl to the center of the room. She spat on the floor. “I am twenty-two. Trev is my husband and you are nothing to me but a killer!”

  “Shut her mouth!” Viyachov ordered.

  The feisty girl incurred a backhand slap from the guard. The sound jolted Giuseppe into action. He seized the cazzo, punched his temple with such force, the abuser crashed with a thunderous explosion to floor and did not move.

  Nobody reacted, except Kenya. She laughed sadistically. Giuseppe’s eyes narrowed as he questioned her sanity.

  Giuseppe snarled. “You put abuse on display in my presence Viyachov. I find nothing amusing in cowardly behavior!”

  Katia occupied the space beside her sister, taking her hand as Giuseppe's booming voice echoed in the room.

  “Kenya, no more outbursts. Trust me sister, you will be free and with a good husband.”

  Kenya clutched her sister weeping quietly. “Please leave with me…Ivan will hurt you…please.”

  Giuseppe heard the whispered plea. He understood the language and preferred to let others believe he lacked proficiency. The ruse was beneficial in business.

  He wondered what horrid crimes the savages committed upon the women. He confirmed Katia was related, and questioned her with an inquiring brow about the blood relation of Kenya.

  The sack of shit at his foot stirred.

  Giuseppe was lawless; but he’d never marry anyone related.

  Like a ventriloquist, she said, “You are unrelated.”

  Giuseppe glanced at the panel. Something was amiss.

  “Remove Yani so the ceremony can commence. My daughter Katia is witness!” Viyachov exclaimed.

  The guard was dragged out, and the panel then settled in their seats to observe the farce.

  The cleric hurried over on quaky legs. He sought to hand Giuseppe a gaudy ring, which he slapped to the floor. He sensed the women were anxious he might have reconsidered.

  However, the pinpricks to Giuseppe’s skin were anger that he’d been lured to a masquerade ball instead of a serious meeting to discuss business. To play along, he yanked his Papa’s ring off his finger and held up the jeweled band. “I have my own ring stu ’cazzo!”

  Then the Priest rushed through the ceremony, speaking in Russian. To Giuseppe’s ears, the vows were strings of profanity.

  A traditional wedding with famiglia and friends brings blessings on a couple.

  “You must say I do,” Katia urged.

  “Si,” the Sicilian replied and then lifted Kenya’s thumb to seal the buffoonery.

  “I will record the marriage,” the Priest said to Viyachov. Beads of sweat slipped from beneath his ceremonial hat.

&nb
sp; “Go!”

  Relieved that he was given leave, the Priest made a rapid exit.

  Bored with the shenanigans, Giuseppe addressed the audience. “Ora, since that is done. I would like to return to my beautiful country before nightfall. Here are the new terms. My family will deposit a large sum into each of your accounts. Forward the information to my office.” He dusted his hands. “Our business will then be concluded.”

  Giuseppe prepared to leave when a shot rang out.

  His foot twisted in the shoes he’d worn to Nicole’s funeral days ago. Giuseppe spun to face the seat where Viyachov lay slumped.

  The women had not screamed.

  Extreme hatred must be the reason, daughters failed to wail for their father’s violent ending.

  Brain matter dropped from the exposed skull.

  Plasma drips were a human faucet leaking sewage atop material. The shooter was his second in command. Apparently, Viyachov had enemies disguised as friends.

  ‘Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat, until he eats them.’ The quote by Samuel Jackson resonated.

  “This negotiation is null and void Don Dichenzo. You may leave with your new wife and a message for Don Alfonzo. Tell him, I am also from the ‘hood as they say in America. If he is not afraid to come to Russia, we can settle a larger than life reputation he has as a fighter and then perhaps if I am impressed we may renegotiate the agreement. But, if he does not I will deem the talk of his honor, an urban myth.”

  “You want to fight?” Giuseppe scowled. “Fight me.”

  “That is similar to fighting myself.” He laughed and then motioned Katia forward. “Come Katia.”

  “No, she is leaving with us!” Kenya screamed in a nervous timbre.

  Katia released her hand. “It is okay. Go.”

  She walked bravely to Ivan, tilting her head defiantly to stand at his side. He raised his gun. “This is my wife, therefore we are family.” He sneered mockingly as he hugged Katia.

  Giuseppe witnessed Ivan’s depravity as he pressed the nozzle to her heart.

  “Do not make an enemy of me cazzo.” Giuseppe seethed and then rushed forward like a bull, but Ivan turned Katia in front as a shield, which stopped Giuseppe in his tracks when he put the gun to her skull.