Mafia Trilogy 03 - The Scythe

by Jonas Saul

  Being around each other again after so long on the run, trying to stay alive, had been ecstasy for both of them. It had allowed them to open up about what they had gone through individually.

  Rosina predicted that the nightmares and waking in a cold sweat would be with them for some time. Darwin countered that as long as they had each other, they would learn to live with it. Maybe not get past all of it, but live with it.

  It was late September, the sun setting off the mountainous hills of Umbria. The air was still. The olive tree ten feet from Darwin’s chair, motionless. A car’s engine revved in the distance down the hill somewhere. He estimated it to be a mile away as he tried to find it among the cypresses that lined the road leading into town.

  “Keeping an eye on things?” Rosina asked.

  “Always, baby, always.”

  Rosina brought the rest of the dinner out to the pergola, set it on the table and sat beside her husband. She sipped her wine.

  “Will we ever just be normal people?” Rosina asked.

  Darwin set his wine glass on the table and turned to her. He took her free hand and stared into her eyes.

  “Honey, we are normal people. Our neighbor, Angelo, if you were to ask him, wouldn’t he say we are normal?”

  Rosina nodded. “You know what I mean.”

  “I love you, Rosina. We have been through a lot, but I’m grateful for every day that I get with you. It’s one more than I thought I would get.”

  She set her glass down and smiled. “I agree. There are no conditions on us. We will choose to be happy and grateful. We made it out of a murderous situation and we’re better for it.”

  “Don’t know if I would go that far,” Darwin said, leaning back, a smile playing across his lips.

  “You know what I mean. You can use a fork and a knife at dinner now. I can get you to cut the turkey at Thanksgiving. We can turn all the lights off when we go to bed, too. I love the new Darwin.”

  He leaned close and kissed her.

  “It’s real, isn’t it?” Darwin asked.

  “What?”

  “You sitting here with me. Neither one of us is tied up or having to wonder if we’ll live to see tomorrow. We’re in our own home, alone, living the life.”

  “It’s real, honey. That’s all that matters. But there is one thing that still bothers me.”

  “What’s that?” Darwin picked up his wine and cradled it in his lap.

  “We have no security here. This isn’t a safe house. There are no guards roaming the property, just us.” She tapped her leg with her fingers. “Do you feel this is the safest solution?”

  “Absolutely. People can be bought. Hundreds of thousands of dollars is a huge temptation for any man. All he has to do is drop a piece of paper to someone, get paid and move to Argentina. Then our lives are over. No.” Darwin shook his head. “It’s better that we are the only ones who know where we live.”

  “Then how did that letter get to us?”

  Darwin looked at the letter laid out on the table beside the leftover pasta. It had arrived earlier in the afternoon when Rosina was in the garden, her iPhone earplugs in her ears blasting Dean Martin sing about Roma. She hadn’t heard the delivery man and didn’t know about the letter until just before dinner. They planned on opening it after dinner, together, and then decide what to do with what was inside.

  “It came from Florida. It’s probably from Carson Dodge. Remember on the way to the airport in Toronto? He called Kirk’s line and spoke to us? He knows how to find us.”

  “That’s my point. If he can find us, so can anyone else.” She gulped the rest of her wine back and set the empty glass on the table. “And maybe Italy isn’t the best idea, either. I mean, this is the home of the Cosa Nostra, the Italian Mafia.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s perfect. They would never expect us to live here.” He drank the rest of his wine and set his glass beside hers. “You’ve heard me talk about the media playing up The Blade and then The Scythe. Rumor on the street, from what I can find online, is if I’m alive, then everyone wants me dead because they’re afraid of me and what I can do. That’s why the contracts are out there for my head. None of them wants to meet me in person unless they have a small army to back them up. You and I both know how silly that is, but rumors get blown up.”

  “It’s not rumors, Darwin.” She moved closer to him. “You’re my hero, even with all the scars and the skin grafts you needed.”

  She always teased him about that. But he took it as good fun now that it was over.

  “Gee, thanks, hun.”

  They kissed, the moment of passion welcomed by a soft breeze wafting up the valley.

  When they pulled apart, Darwin picked the envelope up and ripped open the top.

  “Time to see what news comes from the States.”

  Rosina nodded. Darwin pulled the letter out.

  “Read it to yourself first,” Rosina said. “Then summarize for me. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to hear it word for word.”

  Her eyes expressed a sadness he hadn’t seen in a few months.

  “Of course. Give me a sec.”

  Darwin finished the short letter, folded it up and stood. He walked to the edge of the fieldstone patio and scanned the horizon as the sun’s light dimmed behind the hills.

  “Well?” Rosina said.

  He turned back to her.

  “It’s not good news. But for us, I think it is.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Remember there were five police officers who followed me in the ambulance that night?”

  “Yeah.” Rosina moved to the edge of her seat.

  “They pulled us from the canal. They knew we made it.”

  “Go on.”

  “All five were shot down in the street two weeks later. A bullet was placed behind their right ear, execution style.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Someone wanted to know where we are. Since none of those men knew we had gone to Italy, whoever wanted to know executed them.”

  Rosina’s hands cupped her open mouth. “Oh, those men, their families …”

  “I know. Tragic.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Williams was killed a month ago on a raid that proved to be a hoax. They were set up. The investigators concluded that Williams was the target.”

  “How could they know that?”

  “The letter said he was tortured. They found a pen and a pad of paper beside his body. Our names were on it and the names of two cities.”

  “Two cities?”

  “They concluded he was making up names to stop the torture because even he didn’t know where that military plane was taking us the night he dropped us off.”

  “Oh, my …” A tear slipped down her face. “You said this might be good for us. What did you mean by that? It doesn’t sound very good so far.”

  “The only people that saw us alive and know about us are dead except Carson. No one on earth knows we’re alive. They only suspect it. There have been no more police executions since these.”

  “And Carson wrote the letter?”

  Darwin nodded. “He sent it to tell us that everything was finished. Our secret location and our new names are safe. His informants say that the Mafia has moved on. They’re tired of the war with The Blade. They couldn’t find any new information on us after three months and now they’re convinced we’re dead.” He wiped a tear of his own off his cheek. “It is actually over, baby. We can sleep at night.”

  He walked over, lifted his wife to her feet, and hugged her. They said a prayer for the lives of the good men lost in their name and he guided her inside their home.

  At the stairs, he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom in the loft.

  They made love and fell asleep.

  Neither one dreamed.

  The nightmare was over.

  Afterword

  Continue reading after having read the Trilogy ...

  Dear Reader,


  Many years ago I read a piece in the newspaper about a UPS driver that accidentally hit and killed a child who had run out into the street. Some time later--I don’t remember how long--that UPS driver was found dead, murdered. The media reported that the child was connected to a crime family in New York. The UPS driver’s killer was never found.

  There was an undercurrent of darkness to this story--an ominous feeling that at any moment you could fall victim to an organized crime web by accident as was the case above.

  A decade later, while my wife and I were at the Fiumicino Airport in Rome, waiting for our flight to Greece where we would live for the next year, I was hit with a glimpse of inspiration. They were about to call our flight for boarding but I needed to use the facilities. I told her to board anyway and that by the time I ran to the bathroom and got back, I could board and meet her on the plane.

  During the walk to the bathroom the first scene of The Kill struck me. Darwin would find a way to get Rosina on the plane as they were heading to Greece so he could get her to safety as the Mafia were after him for hitting a made man with his car.

  And the rest is history ...

  During the writing of The Kill, I used many of the places in Rome my wife and I visited. The hotel the Kostas’ stayed in with the little balcony was the exact room we had. The train station, Termini, was written as close to detail as possible. Even down to the pay phone Darwin used to call Greg in the States—I used that phone.

  In the restaurant on the second floor overlooking the north access to the train station is where my wife and I had cappuccino. I used this as the location for the scene when Darwin holds a pencil to the gangster’s neck and says, “Move a fucking inch, and the next time you move any muscle will be convulsions from the lead poisoning in your neck.”

  After leaving Rome, the locations got easier as I spent most of my youth in Toronto.

  For this Trilogy, I researched torture (I’m sure you could tell). My goal was to have an innocent enough kid (Darwin), even though he’s in his early twenties, fall into the hands of an ultra-violent boss of the underworld and find a way to not only survive, but get out alive with all his fingers and toes intact.

  To do that, I gave my main character two phobias: aichmophobia, an irrational fear of sharp and pointed objects, and achluophobia, a fear of the dark. When presented with these fears, he would lose his mind, attack when he normally wouldn’t, and generally go insane, causing the Mafia to not only fear his motivations as they start to die one by one, but also need to kill him for their new problem to go away.

  By the writing of the second book, The Blade, they had been unsuccessful. Even burying him alive didn’t work. When the Russians get involved, Darwin is surely done. They’re smarter, stronger, more ruthless, and the most dangerous criminal organization on the planet. When I began research on The Kill, I decided to keep this series to the Italian Mafia--the Reds just seemed too dangerous. (Sorry, La Cosa Nostra. You guys are great as villains, but the Russians are insane).

  In the end, I decided to use them for The Scythe. What a way to end the Trilogy, I thought. They would become the craziest villain that Darwin would have to face.

  Both golf courses I used in the novel are ones I’ve golfed at but shall remain nameless. (Lawsuit avoiding here). There’s no High Hills Golf Course on Highway 50 in Toronto or surrounding area. (I know, I looked it up).

  The Russians are into strip clubs and restaurants and it is true that Toronto is too large a territory for one family, but fiction is what I do, so most of what you read was made up.

  I used the Barrie Hospital because it opened September 22, 1997. My first born daughter was delivered there on September 29, 1997. I will often give my respect in this unique way to past events and locales. They have a highly visible Helipad right by the highway. Although it’s mentioned in the story, it remained unused by my characters.

  Barrie is a nice city (lived there for a few years), but Toronto is my hometown, hence numerous projects of mine are centered there.

  This Trilogy couldn’t have been completed without the nurturing care of my lovely wife and fellow author, Brenda Grate . She is my first reader and I hover near her as she reads each and every manuscript of mine. Every gasp, laugh and tear needs to be talked about in great detail. I know I drive her mad with this defect in personality but that is what you sign on for when married to a writer who opens a vein when I write to produce words written in blood.

  I would also like to thank my editor, Robb Grindstaff who is also a fellow writer. His new wonderful novel, Hannah’s Voice is out and available on Amazon. Grab this masterpiece. You’ll love it. What a writer ...

  In the meantime, I need to say goodbye to Darwin and Rosina. May they enjoy their time in Italy, sipping wine, making love and looking over their shoulder ...

  Happy reading,

  Jonas Saul

  An Excerpt

  An excerpt from The Specter.

  Chapter 1

  Aaron Stevens stared at the ferry and wondered if it had any connection to his sister’s disappearance.

  She had been missing for two days, and the police had said there was nothing they could do. One cop even went as far as saying she was probably still with one of her “customers.” Comments like that were commonplace since Joanne started dancing at the House of Lancaster strip club. Aaron detested what she did for a living, but she needed the money.

  The ferry lit up, the lights on both levels turning on. A moment later, its engine came to life.

  As the sun rose in the east, Aaron put on his sunglasses. He hated getting up this early, and today was worse than usual as he had pulled an all-nighter. He’d gone over the message from his sister in his head dozens of times.

  Aaron, I’m in trouble … after me … ferry … David Hornell … vodka … weeks …

  When Joanne left the message on his machine two days ago, the connection had been bad. She said she was in trouble. Someone was coming for her. The only other words he caught after that were ferry, David Hornell, vodka, and weeks.

  At first, Aaron thought she was referring to some guy named David Hornell who was gay and drank vodka for weeks and now he was dangerous. But after using Google, he discovered that David Hornell was the name of the ferry that ushered people back and forth from the mainland to the Toronto Island Airport. It was only last night, after following up with the ferry and Toronto Island, that he figured out weeks probably had nothing to do with a seven-day period. He had done some checking on the little airport and discovered that Frank Weeks and his brother, Gary Weeks, worked there.

  Vodka was the only word he still hadn’t figured out.

  As the airport employees entered the 5:15 a.m. ferry to the island, Aaron reasoned that he might never figure out the vodka connection. It could simply be the drink of choice on the night his sister called to ask for his help.

  He checked his watch. The ferry would depart in two minutes.

  As the airport workers boarded the ferry, he scanned their faces from the wall he leaned against twenty feet away from the docks. At 5:30 a.m., another ferry would begin the process of taking the regular passengers across every fifteen minutes until midnight, when the ferry service would retire for the day.

  He recognized no one. Not a single individual looked at him either. Another nameless face in the big city of Toronto. Had anyone noticed him, they would probably assume he was homeless. He wore his white wife-beater top with a light, collared shirt unbuttoned over it and loose shorts to combat the early summer heat.

  The ropes were thrown off and the ferry pulled away from the dock. The employees stood around zombie-like in their early morning stupor, waiting to cross the short four-hundred-foot expanse of water.

  Aaron pushed off the wall and stepped out into the light as the sun crested the edge of Lake Ontario. His polarized glasses reduced the glare off the water.

  He saw nothing suspicious. No one watched him. Although he had no idea what he was looking for, he had to be her
e. He had to do something. His sister was missing and he would do whatever it took to get her back.

  Joanne, what happened to you? Where are you?

  It had been almost three months since they had talked. When he heard her message on his machine, the fear in her voice was unmistakable. Her pleading came through the static on the line. It drove a wedge in his heart that wouldn’t come out until he found her alive.

  The police had said they would look into it. They told him to let them do their job. They also said if she didn’t return home soon, an officer would be in touch to get a statement from him.

  The 5:30 a.m. ferry was pulling in to load passengers. He moved toward the access point on the dock and waited. As people gathered with small pieces of luggage, he took in the whole scene, just as his sensei had taught him years ago. Monitor everything around you, paying close attention to any possible threats.