by S. W. Frank
~
Giuseppe stumbled in the house, bumping into walls, pushing aside the soldati who assisted him in the door. He shouted for his donna, aware he had drank too much. That was Yosef’s fault. They were testing the other’s stamina with alcohol, something he did with his brother until he lessened consumption.
Nicole failed to answer. He gripped the railing, tripping during the ascent, sitting and chuckling at his clumsiness. He returned to climbing a mountain and held onto the walls until he fell into the bedroom.
“I am home bella,” he said as he wobbled to the bed and flopped on the edge. He groaned from the heaviness, too liquored to work his tongue anymore. Yosef was far worse than he was. His step-papa was mumbling like a buffoon about his wife’s threats to toss him out, so he had to be good.
Giuseppe had nodded. “Si, be good or she may shoot you!”
The Jew was not as terrible as he thought and had a sense of humor. “Yes, she will do that…the bubbula will put the gun to my groin and fire.”
This he could see his mama do; only his father escaped her ire.
Giuseppe rolled toward his wife’s feet, pawing at her legs, sucking her toes until she awakened.
“You smell like a brewery,” she said.
“No…no…I am fine mi amore,” he replied with a devilish smile.
He sort to undress from a reclined position and after a loud argument with his trousers tossed them across the room. “I need dessert,” he said, parting her legs, licking her with ferocity, getting upset that his mind swam in alcohol.
The taste of her was sweet and he would have continued eating had the liquor not forced him to sleep between her thighs.
Nicole slipped her legs free and his heavy torso dropped to the side. He was out cold. She shook her head, Giuseppe had issues and they were piling up. Tomorrow after he sobered, she planned to have a talk with him about the dangers of intoxication. Then she smiled, stroking his face, finding it hard to stay mad at the big child. The smile widened. He was a juvenile, living as he pleased without anyone’s guidance. However, there’s a stage in life when even the most childlike people must become conscious they are adults. There are dangers for a powerful Mafioso. Staying alert and mindful is what will keep him alive. Yes, she wanted the marriage to work, but Giuseppe had to consider they were having a baby and she would need his shoulder in the months to come.
A slight wave of nausea occurred just as she thought this and then went away before she sat forward. It came again as lights shone from her cell to announce a caller. She hit the screen, holding her stomach and listened to a stranger talking another language.
“Hold on, por favore,” she said, shaking Giuseppe who didn’t budge. “English por favore,” she then replied holding in the wretchedness that fought to leap out.
The stranger spoke in English. Slowly he told her of an accident with fatalities, one her sister. She screamed, or perhaps thought she had but what came out was slippery dinner on Giuseppe’s face.
He leaped up, sobered and wide eyed. “Cosa?”
Nicole had fled to the bathroom, wailing in distress and the person on the line apologized profusely about having to tell her the tragic news.
Giuseppe wiped the sludge from his face. He wasn’t such a drunk that he could not comprehend. To the man on speaker he posed the question as his donna shrieked aloud her disbelief her sorella was dead.
“How did this accident happen?” Giuseppe asked standing and shaking off vomit. Cosa? What did she eat?
“A structural collapse.”
“Dove?”
The bearer of bad news informed him where the deceased were going and he said, “Grazie, I will come to identify the bodies.”
Giuseppe’s eyes surveyed the walls, listening to the piteous cries of a pregnant donna, praying the stress would not affect their unborn. He snatched the soiled sheets off the bed, making a large linen ball. He growled in anger at his fratellino. How dare he sanction a killing without warning him beforehand, especially considering his position? How ruthless to kill Tiffany as well. He wondered what Tony did to receive an execution as the layoff notice.
He grumbled louder as he trekked to the bathroom to console his moglie, sniffing angrily at the foul odor clinging to his skin. He was certain stronzo Nico carried out the murder. He could not wait to wrap his hands around both of their throats for not giving him fair warning.
Maledetti bastardi!
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Amoroso: Alfonzo XVI
a·mo·ro·so, adjective / äməˈrōsō
English translation: amorous/ am·o·rous/ˈamərəs/
: Showing, feeling, in a loving tender manner or relating to sexual desire.
Synonyms: romantic, lustful, sexual, erotic, amatory, ardent, passionate, impassioned.
PROLOGUE
“My fear was not of death itself; but a death without meaning.”
–Huey P. Newton
Ethiopia’s, Addis open-air market appeared to stretch for miles. The Diaz’ walked on ancient land, older than Christ. The variety of items on display had the admiration of tourists who touched mouths in awe at the craftsperson’s skill. They ogled as well, running fingers on items as Alfonzo kept vigilance as did his men.
Women sat cross-legged, near their small scales for measuring spices and grains.
Africa’s beauty was seen in its people, their bone structure strong and chiseled like the wares from expert hands. Blue eyes saw his wife in the many faces, his children and himself, proud to be of a heritage long survived despite the evils of men who defiled the Motherland, which birthed them. Domingo was dust as all men.
Last night Selange had sampled the Wat, a hearty stew and Injera, the unleavened bread prepared as it had been thousands of years ago. The children loved the custard apples, a delectable tropical fruit, and their dad purchased a large bag to take to the hotel.
After the foray to the market, his family was secured in private rooms of a hotel, occupied not by tourists but extended family, Ethiopians traced by DNA to Selange in celebration of her roots. He traveled as family reveled, letting his Queen be praised by love and understanding of woman’s hardships, leveled more so on those of darker skin. His short trip was to Eritrea for a special view of secretive artwork he learned through a journal existed. Bodyguards on the ready, curiosity the motivation to see through an artist’s eyes such as Nico, beauty.
He arrived at his destination, emerging from a military style vehicle, flanked by men with arms. The person waiting in the distance had expected his arrival and in the stance of a soldier, although he was a long time curator. The man’s complexion was dark mahogany, chiseled with grooves to form cheekbones, and a prominent cleft. He glistened under the sun, a figurine of melting chocolate. He stood on the paved sidewalk in front of a modern building in a land in stark contrast to the images perpetuated of a non-existent primitive civilization. He waved at the golden skin visitor emerging from a car with burly guards. Each step the guest took toward the Eritrean resembled themovements of a panther with cobalt eyes set in a state of complete alertness. He appeared at home
in the hot environment, mostly natives were able to endure such heat and wear a suit without discomfort. The visitor however was accustomed to many climates, his body temperature seemed to acclimate to any weather, and thus there was not the running sweat visible on most foreigners’ skin.
The colorful clothes were swaths of rainbows on people as they zigzagged across the visitor's path; yet never once did the eyes waver from the curator's face. When he reached his host, they exchanged polite greetings, no hugs, no handshakes, but nods and clipped words.
"Selam kemey aleka."
"Hola, selam -tambien."
The Eritrean said. "You are habesha."
“If you say so," the foreigner scoffed, unaware of what the word 'habesha' meant. People loved assigning titles to classify people; he tired of the falsity, a birth name is enough.
"It is good that you have finally arrived cousin."
"I'm not your cousin, now let's cut the chit-chat; it's too hot out here."
The host merely smiled. "Ah, I would not have guessed. Please come inside cousin."
The curator then escorted the irritable visitor into the climate-controlled Royal Conservation Museum in the commercial district of Eritrea where heavily armed security stood in the building’s lobby with no-nonsense expressions similar to their guests. However, they did not frisk the trio of visitors as they passed over metal detectors concealed in tiles beneath their feet. The illumination on the figures' soles identified those packing; each of the foreigners had a light; the curator was exempt. The men walked on, unconcerned about the high tech system. The bodyguard's charge was a leader of dangerous men, which carried more weight in their minds than bloodlines of a deceased King and revered African Princess, named Semira Afizwusi.
They entered a private gallery where priceless artifacts were on display, some on walls, and others in clear cases on ornate pedestals.
The curator walked to the wall where a large oil painting hung. He glanced over when his guest stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets and gazed upon the artwork done by an Italian master. “She is beautiful, is she not my cousin?” The curator asked.
The cool blue eyes cut to the Eritrean. He grew weary of relatives emerging from baseboards like cucarachas. Last time one of them did, he laid a bunch of nasty eggs at the family's door. Then, there's his primo he knifed in the heart, and the cousin who boned his wife and then saved his life more times than he could count. The sensual mouth sneered at the thought of another damn cousin. "Call me Alfonzo, say cousin one more time, well-meaning or not and I’ll knock your ass to the floor, pendejo."
The curator grinned wider. "I see we will be great friends." He barreled out his chest. "Now, that you and I have established a wonderful relationship –let us talk of art."
"Talk."
In a conspiratorial tone he said, "There are special paintings that your father entrusted to my father that he was told cannot be shown to anyone but his son. He wanted his son to see the beauty of a royal woman who organized criminals to save her heirs."
Alfonzo had heard from Selange this very statement and he exhaled. Why couldn’t Giuseppe be part of these big reveals, just once, couldn’t that butthead get half the headaches since he shared in the wealth? "How do you know that's me, he has another son and he’s older than I am?"
The curator nodded. “But he does not wear the ring of a King, marked with the sign of the Queen Semira, or married to a descendant of Ethiopia, does he?”
Glossary
Italian Words/Phrases:
Look, I wear the ring of Giacanti- Guarda, io indosso l'anello di Giacanti.
Turncoat/informant- pentiti
One mistake and I will cut out your tongue! -Un errore e farò tagliare fuori la lingua!
Are you listening to my heart, love? - Stai ascoltando il mio cuore, amore?
Let’s eat!- Andiamo a mangiare!
Yes, let’s eat. Later, I eat mama. -Sí, andiamo a mangiare. Più tardi, mangio mamma.
Are you okay?- Stai bene.
Damn bastards!- Maledetti bastardi!
aunt- la zia
boy- il ragazzo
brother- il fratello
brother–in–law- il cognato
cousin (female)- la cugina
cousin (male)-il cugino
dannazione- damn
daughter- la figlia
daughter–in–law -la nuora
family- la famiglia
father-il padre
father–in–law- il suocero
girl- la ragazza
grandchild- il nipote
granddaughter- la nipote
grandfather- il nonno
grandmother- la nonna
grandparents- i nonni
grandson- il nipote
husband- il marito
mother- la madre
mother–in–law- la suocera
nephew- il nipote
niece- la nipote
parents- i genitori
relative- il parente
sister- la sorella
sister–in–law- la cognata
son- il figlio
son–in–law- il genero
stepfather- il patrigno
stepmother- la matrigna
step brother; half-brother- il fratellastro
step sister; half-sister- la sorellastra
uncle- lo zio
wife- la moglie
Spanish Words/Phrases:
Y tu tambien Mami eres los mas importante para mi, te amo con todo mi corazon.
And you too mom, you are very important to me, I love you with all my heart.
What about? - ¿Por qué?
Many years of marriage- muchos años de matrimonio.
Get up. I want to know how he fucked up!- Levántate. Quiero saber cómo lo jodido!
Yiddish Words/Phrases:
Bubbula- wife, darling
Tokhis oyfn tish: Put up or shut up
Ikh hob dir in drerd: Go to hell
Alter kaker: Old shit (Old fart)
Mamzer: Bastard
Schmuck: S.O.B.
Tsatskele: Bimbo
Tokhis leker: Ass-kisser
Shtup: Have sex. Screw. Boink.
Tokhis: Derriere
Zaftik: Stacked
Alivay: It should only happen
Farshtinkener: Rotten (awful person)
Svanta- penis
French Phrases:
You like this?- Vous aimez ce?
Yes, can I have more sweetheart?- Oui, puis-je avoir plus chérie?
Were you a good boy today? - Étiez-vous un bon garçon aujourd'hui?
New York City Police Department Radio Codes (Summarized)
Common Codes:
10-1 Call Your Command
10-2 Return To Your Command
10-3 Call Dispatcher By Telephone
10-4 Acknowledgment
10-5 Repeat Message
10-6 Standby
10-7 Verify Address
10-10 Possible Crime (prowler, suspicious person/vehicle, shots fired, etc.)
10-11 Alarm (specify type)
10-12 Police Officer/Security Holding Suspect
10-13 Assist Police Officer
10-14 License Plate Check - Occupied & Suspicious - Verify If Stolen
10-15 License Plate Check - Verify If Is Stolen - Occupied or Not
10-16 Vehicle is Reported Stolen
10-17 Vehicle is Not Reported Stolen
10-18 Warrant Check Shows An Active Warrant
10-19 Warrant Check Negative
Final Dispositions:
10-90 F1 Domestic Incident Report (no offense of domestic violence is alleged)
F2 Domestic Incident Report (unfounded report of domestic violence)
J1 Domestic Incident Report (no offense of child abuse is alleged)
J2 Domestic Incident Report (offense of reported child abuse is unfounded) or Unnecessary Alarm
U Unable to gain entrance
X Unfounded
Y Unnecessary
Z -Gone on arrival
About the Author
I’m a city person and enjoy the diversity of cultures, the beauty of languages and contrasts. Concrete, parks and boroughs connected by a walk, train or bus where serenity of a lake in Central Park sits amid skyscrapers. I support adult literacy, anti-bullying and a host of other causes.
The arts and all that it encompasses are my passions. They’re a representation of the beauty of the imagination and freedom of expression. There is a never-ending inspiration from living.
A tree is a fiery twisting multitude of sharp fanged serpents; a bird is a –mystic messenger from Orpheus. Children are best at this and I suppose I have maintained a portion of that inner child. Play is fun; laughter is healing and love is fulfilment for a novelist, especially when it is the soul story, to which I inhabit.
I write on in celebration of living!
Other Novels by S.W. Frank
Dr. Nebojsa
Missing Person
Man Made: A Novella
Luzo: Reign of a Mafia Don
The Sisters of Cain and Abel
For updates on novels, contests or more from the author go to Facebook or Twitter: Author S.W. Frank.