by S. W. Frank
~
Harold Oliver peered from behind the curtain to the street below. He could see the New York City taxi’s speeding along the avenue, their lime green color easily distinguishable. Umbrellas floated over the wet pavement hiding the people underneath.
He frowned at his foolishness. Nicole was more than a client; she had been a very good friend. He wished he hadn’t behaved impulsively. Maybe, she did not inform him of her husband’s name because she suspected he would judge her and she was right. Nicole deserved better than Giuseppe Dichenzo did. She was classy, pretty and talented. People such as Dichenzo only collected women and didn’t cherish them.
Harold rubbed his bruised leg. The x-rays hadn’t found any broken bones. He supposed Giuseppe’s intent wasn’t to hurt his body but his ego. What he posted on social media was the truth, unfortunately, it went viral within hours and here he stood days later in hiding.
Those darn innocent preset questions on devices can get a person in trouble.
What’s happening, isn’t the name of a TV show anymore, it’s a lure to get those angry fingers typing until you’ve reached the maximum characters.
‘My client Nicole wed a thug, beware if you’re hiring, her hubby might assault you and stuff you in a piano coffin.’
The doorknob turned. “Did you forget something Mike?” he asked before the door opened.
The person who entered looked nothing like his musician friend. This person didn’t wear glasses or have a receding hairline and large forehead. Nor did he carry a cello case; balled fists make a different sort of music.
“Hey Harold, how are ya’?” The intruder with an undeniably Jersey accent asked.
Harold backed up and found comfort with the windowpane. He clutched the curtain, crying in desperation when another brute entered. Giuseppe Dichenzo had sent his muscle. Harold muttered incoherently as one locked the door. He should have hid elsewhere, possibly a graveyard because he was certain to have broken bones –for real.
Chapter Fourteen
Tiffany collected the congratulatory cards, packed them away in a decorative box and then slid it on the shelf in the bedroom closet. Since the honeymoon, Tony had been working non-stop. Every time Nico phoned, Tony had to leave. She assumed that was Nico on the phone at those weird hours. Tony would roll over, give her a kiss and then say he’d be right back before heading out in the dark.
The other day, he said something she never thought she’d hear, especially since he seemed so gung-ho to work for Alfonzo Diaz. This had been a dream job and you know what they say, when it’s too good to be true, beware. Alfonzo was charming but there was a dark edge to him. Nico, oh, well that guy was downright frightening. He tried to be nice whenever he saw her, but she could feel the insincerity.
“Tiff,” Tony had said. “I promised you a dance studio. How about you and I starting the business? I could manage the place or have a gym or something alongside the studio, what do you think?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” she replied. “But, are we talking about opening up something here? What about your job with those people?”
His brown eyes were unreadable; however, she sensed he had experienced a change of heart. Who knows exactly what caused it, but she was glad. Her sister Nicole had always been a risk taker, daring and completely nuts. Tiffany –not so much. Sure, she loved to travel, do fun things, but dance was her passion.
Tiffany put her hands on her hips and looked around the spacious villa tucked among the greenery of Segesta in Trapani. It was an artisan’s dream home. In fact, this wedding present from Nico was beautiful, honestly though, she missed America and the bustling city. The roads here were great, if there’s a positive to it all and having Tony’s last name. She hated the isolation and the line of work, but she stayed because of Tony.
Nicole had visited when they returned from their honeymoon and they drove the beautiful countryside talking, mindless of their escorts that traveled everywhere with Nicole.
Even on their girl’s outing to Erice, the bodyguards were there, standing in the cable car, human bookends to the sisters.
The idea of living that way until Who-Knows-When didn’t appeal to Tiffany.
“I’m just running it past you, I haven’t made a final decision, yet about it,” he had answered.
It’s not what Tony said but how he said it, which stirred her to wonder, if he could really just quit without repercussions.
She warned him, hadn’t she? She didn’t want to rub in his face that she had, but that day she looked at Nico, she saw trouble. She couldn’t explain the alarms ringing or the goosebumps that mottled her skin. Nico gave her the creeps. He was handsome, but in an evil way. It may sound theatrical if she said that aloud to somebody, but that’s what she believed.
That wife of Nico’s had a couple of screws loose, too. That day somebody shot up her dinner party, Ari conversed with Nico as if it was just another day in Looneyville.
“Hurry back honey, I love you,” Ari had told her husband during the shooting. What kind of mess is that? Everybody else pissed their pants, but not Nico or his wife. They were as cool as a summer breeze.
She heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Hey love,” she heard Tony shout. “I’m back early, want to go out and eat and then go to that place you were talking about?”
When he entered the bedroom, she had closed the closet and had a welcoming smile. The place she mentioned was on the Mura di Tramontana, which was a serene boulevard they could stroll along to the Torre Ligny. She had seen the pictures of the centuries old fortification and envisioned a romantic stroll with Tony along the nearby beach.
“You’re in a good mood.”
Tony leaned on the doorframe, his smooth skin –perfection.
“Looking at you puts me in a good mood.”
“If we’re going out, I suggest you put on walking shoes.”
Tony looked down. He had on rubber sole boots. The footwear was necessary in the field. A knife and small firearm fit snug and secure.
“I’m good,” he answered as she walked over and gave him a kiss. “Ummm, now keep that up and we won’t make it out of the house.”
Tiffany’s hands rubbed his spine. “When we return home, don’t worry we’ll pick up right where we left off.”
Tony grinned when she went to put on comfortable shoes. She was as graceful as he was cumbersome. The grin slid away. He had wanted to give her expensive stuff, provide for a family without worrying about money. The tradeoff for financial freedom cost too much. Tony frowned. He had told Alfonzo this is what he wanted, stood and looked the man in the eye with such conviction at the time, Alfonzo acquiesced.
The fulfilment he imagined hadn’t come.
Nope.
The fullness he sought was in his dancer’s smile, the serenity of sleeping beside her and her girlish laughs aloud.
“Okay ready!” she said cheerfully.
His heart thumped.
“Okay, lead the way.”
Tony followed his wife out the door, hoping the sun did not fade.
He prayed what he was about to do wouldn’t extinguish its rays forever.
>
Chapter Fifteen
“We have been mobsters for almost 100 years,” Torino Visconti said to Alfonzo as they walked through the heartland of Sicily.
Alfonzo agreed to meet the Don a few days after the debacle that occurred with Nico. He disliked what transpired and ensured the Don understood his treatment of Don Serano had been an insult that he would not tolerate in the future.
Nico was silent, murder always in his thoughts.
Trust isn’t a two-way street. Alfonzo made certain the old geezer was checked for wiretaps, not giving a fuck about whether he considered the action an offense. Don’t shake my hand, or accept my money, insult my cousin and then talk shit isn’t how a person survives on the street.
“Good for you,” Alfonzo stated with an irritable kick of a gait, an electricity of impatience that had manifested in his lower limbs.
“My father’s uncle, whose name was Santini, was the first to kill a cop in Palermo,” Torino bragged. “He was corrupt.”
“I wouldn’t speak family secrets too loud. There’s no statute of limitations on murder and killing officers isn’t why I’m here.”
The self-assured Don grinned. “That would only be a concern if I spoke to a duplicitous man. Are you that?” he asked.
“I would say kiss my ass in your language, but then that’ll be a sign of respect.”
The Don’s expression hadn’t changed. The insults flowing from the younger Don’s mouth were intended to rile him in a verbal retaliation for his disrespect to Nicolo Serano. He rather appreciated the foreigner’s honesty is refreshing company when accustomed to dishonest speech.
“Your father and I often disagreed on many things.”
Alfonzo hated listening to these old people and their tales. They were as stale as bread. “Get to the point. Walking around this dirt is ruining the polish on my shoes.”
“Luzo did me a favor. A pentiti in America may have given the authorities a list of our distribution outlets.” Torino coughed; the night air was not good for his emphysema. He used a monogrammed handkerchief to wipe the tiny drop of spittle from his wrinkled lip. “I have not interfered in your doings and despite the difference in our business models; you have been respectful of mine.”
Alfonzo stopped. “Then you understand that won’t be the case if you side with the families seeking to pressure me into compliance by fucking with my money.”
Torino peered at Nico who had remained silent and then back at Alfonzo. “I am curious; tell me, what do you know of me?”
“Other than you’re a cold bastard, not much.”
Torino Visconti chuckled. “Ah, Nicolo, you have held secrets, eh?”
“What secrets am I missing?” Alfonzo asked. Obviously, there was deception at play.
“Luzo was a clever man. The exchange of favors that garnered me this prestigious reputation I owe to Don Palazzo.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Murders, butchery in streets were sanctioned by Luzo. Favors for favors are what ensured the rising of our clans.”
“Your depravity is your own. Killing a boy and raping his mother isn’t something a person does unless he wants to.”
Another chuckle. Alfonzo wanted to break the jester’s neck. If his father authorized such deeds, then he was less than gutter trash.
“That boy worked for a rival famiglia and twenty is considered a man. The story, which circulates is horrid and inaccurate. Nonetheless, it serves a purpose. Fear is useful. Eh, Nicolo?”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Ah, Nicolo you on the other hand –you have done more heinous deeds than I. Those tales are not lies.”
“Why am I here, to hear you take potshots at Nico?” Alfonzo interjected.
“To personally say your money is not required Don Giacanti.” His eyes returned to Nico. “You do not remember me at all giovani?”
Nico frowned. “No, should I?”
“I visited when you were but a peon. I guess time and wars can make children forget. I am your father’s Zio.”
“Which one?” Alfonzo asked.
“The one who raised me,” Nico answered. Alberti was his biological father but The Butcher, was the man who fed and housed him.
“You are Il Santo Oscuro, the Dark Saint’s fratello?”
“Sí. That Nicolo is the reason you were allowed to leave my home without a bullet in your eye.”
“Blood doesn’t account for shit when someone’s actions against family are vile.” Nico retort.
“Yet you live thanks to the heart of the cugino you defiled.”
“My personal reasons for Nico to stand at my side are not your concern.” Alfonzo spoke in defense of his cugino. Many on the outside had little influence on his decision whether to kill or not. Despite Nico’s past foible, they’re relationship was far more complex than others surmised. Alfonzo's act of mercy had been his sign of love for Nico that the hard man had not been shown often enough in his life. Deem him compassionate to a fault perhaps. Although, Nico was chiseled from stone, cold as winter, and breathed fire, yet Alfonzo had experienced firsthand Nico’s warmth. There was a fraternal affection for his protector that only he would understand. Nico had saved his ass too many times to die because his dick left his pants. In the ‘hood thugs had forgiveness for their brothers, and that’s what he did –forgave.
“You mafia motherfuckers speak about death as if every sin deserves a killing. You’d probably off your own mothers for the sake of twisted egos of honor. Don’t comment on my affairs or the blood ties with Nico unless you want the contents of your corroded stomach to spill on your hoes pendejo. The thugs I knew had more honor than most of you pompous gangsters. Several mistresses, bastards without father’s present are in the world over. You have a few mutts scattered about Europe and last I checked your sins were super long!”
Nico checked the perimeter without moving. Alfonzo’s defense of his actions steeled his resolve about their family. Standing strong when he had been wrong wasn’t as hard knowing Alfonzo’s trust in him was renewed. He’d burn Lucifer’s dwelling to protect his cugino. That is what he had always been sworn to do.
Torino nodded. The Don who wore the leader’s ring spoke truth. He found there is a measure of a man in his words, Alfonzo’s held wisdom acquired in hardship. These attributes were lacking nowadays with instant gratification and the ability to hide behind devices catfishing people. The son of Luzo was his own person, brash, yet honest and he gained an elder’s respeta.
“Put aside your animosity Don Giacanti, save the weaponry of emotion for your enemies. Whatever, financial impediment that is occurring are in the banker’s house, not here with men such as us who are children of ghettos. Of course, I have made my requests known. Open the doors to me as Luzo promised, keep your life on the path that it is, but that is not my desires.”
Alfonzo was exasperated. Torino had a one-track mind. Now, he beseeched with promises made that he was not privy. Luzo, his dastardly father always arose in conversations with these seniors and he wondered what more lay beneath the mind of a father he hadn’t known.
Thankfully, his mother had detached from the complex Mafioso or who knows what sort of childhood he may have had in in the constant turmoil on Italy’s soil. He missed America more and more.
“The cartels are violent without cause.”
“Their violence has a cause,” Torino rebutted.
“Killing women and children isn’t a cause, it’s cowardly.”
“They are the casualties in wars.”
Alfonzo’s eyes flicked blue lights under the moon. “Then what gain is there to have wealth and not the comfort of enjoy
ment of familia if our women and children are slaughtered? Who carries on our legacies, the euro or the dollar? They are hollow and made of wood with splinters that can lead to infection.”
“You cannot cure violence Don Giacanti.”
“But I can practice restraint in its use.”
“Ah, what we do is not always right as you previously highlighted. These donnas, our bambini are our symbolic hearts. We believe that who we are protect what we love, but it does not. An accident or an illness may visit our villas and what protection can we offer then? In your country, unarmed boys with dark skin are shot for looking suspicious or wearing hoods on sweaters. Their famiglia must bury many each month and those who should protect them are powerless to halt the genocide because the self-interest of their nation is commerce and land, not its citizens. There is violence giovani. However, the deadliest form is that which ‘so-called lawmen’ or purist use to cleanse what has always been dirty –men. The odds of a fatality are higher for Giacanti sons at the hands of a proclaimed lawful person than in Italia.”
Alfonzo conceded the uncomfortable reality. As a Latino, he experienced the bias and his sons were certain to as well, nevertheless, to allow a ruthless faction of dealers into his ports was inviting those same officers into his home.
“There are no assurances with some of these cartels. They operate in worship of money, not honor of familia.”
“There are assurances Don Giacanti that they will not encroach upon our soil unless entry is granted, even then they are watched. You see in Italia we take care of our citizens, foreigners are not allowed carte blanche to roam.”
“I am a foreigner.”
“Sí, but you are a Sicilian’s son and a Giacanti. You will have safe passage in many countries if you aligned with allies and were not so stubborn.”
Nico’s eyes darkened. He was reminded that there are words; potentially harmful and unsubstantiated that was concealed in a book. Alfonzo had joked about how Selange kept her head in one every chance she got. Nico needed to find a way to talk to her, urgently now. The old man was speaking riddles of a generation passed down.
“Think it over Don Giacanti. See the wisdom in embracing an ancient brotherhood,” Torino concluded. Nico trailed the pair as they began walking up the grassy knoll to the awaiting cars.