by Scott, D. D.
In fact, the entire time we’d now been in gelato paradise, not a single customer came through the still-guarded door.
After finishing our gelato, Roman, who had barely said two words since he’d recommended both the limoncello and coconut varieties, leaned toward me, close to my ear and whispered.
“Just follow my lead. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Trust me. I’m not going anywhere without you in this joint. The ice cream world has suddenly become a very scary place for me.”
Roman’s magnificent smile started to crack across his lips, but then stopped.
It saddened me that his family caused him to not be able to share a full grin at one of my fairly decent jokes.
For the first time, I was catching a clue as to the origins of The Dark Knight aura that often accompanied my Secret Bond.
“Showtime,” Roman said and led me behind the gelato cases, past the sink full of dirty scoops, and behind a door that certainly held a ton of even dirtier secrets.
For what was obviously a powerful operation, the small backroom we were in seemed so wrong but yet so Hollywood set-perfect.
These crime-based underworlds didn’t take up huge, multi-million dollar buildings in Manhattan’s wealthiest zip codes, as say, The Vatican’s Opus Dei does. Nope, they operated and did so more smoothly and discreetly than most organizations of power in the kitchens and back offices of little culinary gems like the Bellesconi’s gelato shop.
When we first entered the room it was empty.
Roman motioned for me to have a seat at an antique, white, wrought-iron table.
I did what I was told. Actually, until I saw my new family members for the first time, and got some kinda feel in the pit of my stomach for their energy vibes and auras, I was going to continue doing exactly what my Secret Bond told me and when he told me to do it.
I know. Not my usual character.
But I had so many roles to play lately — Hollywood Stylist to The Stars, a Stephanie Plum wanna-be P.I. who was now living more of an Angelina Jolie action flick star life, Princess-in-the-making, and soon-to-be Mob Wife Reality TV candidate — I had to pick my battles wisely.
And fighting The Family Don wasn’t wise.
Especially when he was now standing in front of you, a short and wiry wisp of a man.
And how did I know he was our Family Don?
The guy had the same darker-than-dark eyes and intense stare that made my Roman sometimes a Dark Knight and sometimes the hottest thing ever.
I stood-up from my chair. ‘Cause I don’t know…shouldn’t you probably stand-up to be introduced to a mafia don?
Roman placed his hand first in the center of my back then swaddled me with his arm and held me close. I could only hope the gesture was from the fact he cared about me in a close friend and companion kinda way and not because he was protecting me from a new source of danger. But knowing Roman and his world, it was probably a combination of the two, all packed in tight against his arm pit.
“Zoey, I’d like you to meet Don Vittorio Vanvitelli, my grandfather,” Roman said, with a heaviness in his voice I’d not yet heard, as if introducing me to his grandfather was bittersweet.
Vitto cupped my cheeks between his strong hands and did that Italian kiss-kiss, one on each cheek thing.
“Please, my dear, call me Vitto.”
“Nice to meet you, Vitto,” I said, at first holding out my hand to shake his, but then realizing his hand wasn’t out.
What the hell, I thought, and went for an Italian kiss-kiss myself.
I felt Vitto’s body pull back as if I’d startled him then I noticed Roman coughing which I’m sure meant he was really trying to keep from laughing his ass off.
“Sorry, Boys, I’m not sure of the proper etiquette for first meeting a local mob boss.”
And as soon as the flippant remark was out of my mouth, I covered my lips with my fingers, hoping I still had fingers in the near future.
Vitto laughed a hearty, deep laugh that seemed larger-than-life and definitely larger than his body frame.
“I told ya she was a keeper,” Roman said joining in the family joke that I apparently was the butt of.
“You did, My Boy, and oh is she indeed a gem.”
Vitto motioned for us to have a seat at the table, and we did.
“I wish I had more time to spend with you, but you know I don’t,” he said, lowering his voice and tapping his gold-ring heavy, sun-bronzed hands on top of Romans.
Roman didn’t say a word, only nodded his understanding.
“I called this meeting because I wanted and needed to fill you in on the latest details of our operation. And this time, it had to be in person,” Vitto said, looking around the room then behind him as if he expected unwelcome company any moment.
“Do I need to step out front and let you two talk?”
“No,” Roman and his grandfather said simultaneously.
“You’re about to become part of the family now, Zoey. And for that reason, you’re safest when you’re with us,” Vitto said, then taking both Roman and I’s hands in his.
I know, at that moment, I sure believed him.
I could feel dark energy swirling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right about this empty shop. I’d suspected it from the moment we’d had our helmets and scooter hustled out of sight. And I’d known it for sure when not a soul had joined us as customers in what had to be one of the premier gelato shops in the world. What Italians resisted gelato shops? I would imagine it was only those who clearly weren’t on this family’s pre-approved guest list.
“Bernie is starting to make a lot of noise, claiming the judge made him a human piñata,” Vitto whispered.
“He’s lucky our guys didn’t start swingin’ their sticks first,” Roman said, his Dark Knight set in good.
Every time I saw that Batman-esque mood, good guy fighting the dark side, takeover Roman, I knew an epic battle loomed. Now, having met his grandfather, I also knew he got it honest.
“Bernie wants to die on the outside with his family and not on the inside, and I get that,” Vitto continued with a strange lilt to his voice.
If I didn’t think it was impossible to see a mafia don rattled to the point his hands shook slightly, I might have believed that that’s what I was seeing.
“Then perhaps he chose to screw with the wrong families,” Roman said, his Dark Knight not budging a smidgeon.
“You know, I agree with the judge and the court’s opinion that what McCall did to us and many other families was beyond evil. He more than deserves everything he’s getting in prison, but we’ve got to take care of getting back what’s ours and dealing with the lives he’s ruined on the outside.”
So far, I liked my new mob boss grandpa. He made a lot of sense.
My issues were gonna be with how exactly he and Roman planned to deal with things and carry-out their good sense.
We hadn’t really agreed on all that since the murderous run I’d unwittingly been a part of throughout our Thug Guard adventures.
“I need you both to listen carefully, as I don’t have much time left.”
Vitto pulled us in close to his face and kissed us both on the forehead before continuing.
“You know I think what Bernie did was pure evil. But he’s right in that there are greater evils than him that are still walking away from this scot-free. Promise me you’ll both see to it that the world understands the financial industry and how it works. Go after with all you have the government officials and financial firms that turn their cheeks when it comes to people like Bernie as long as they’re getting monthly returns checks too.”
“There’s still worse than Bernie pulling all the strings?” I asked.
I was unable to believe that with all the publicity his case was continuing to get that it was still business as usual on Wall Street.
“Grandfather is right,” Roman concurred.
“What do we do now?” I asked, even though I wasn�
��t sure why I was so anxious to throw myself back into righting these kind of deadly wrongs.
Before Vitto could answer me, guns were going off in every direction.
Roman flew up out of his seat and turned our iron table onto its side in one huge sweeping motion while Vitto pulled me behind the table then shielded me between himself and Roman.
“Keep your head down, my dear, and shoot to kill,” he said, handing me a Glock of my own from the holster he had around his ankle, while he and Roman both withdrew big ass guns from their shoulder harnesses. “It’s all loaded and ready. Just shoot like you mean it. No second guessing yourself.”
I didn’t have time to second guess anything because the doorway to the backroom suddenly lit up like the 4th of July on steroids. I thought I counted three gunmen but before I could get a clear count, two had dropped to the floor.
“Well done, Son,” Vitto said then slumped to his side.
The last remaining gunmen stood staring at us. And damn if he didn’t look like Roman.
“Shoot him, Zoey. Now.” Roman said moving behind me towards Vitto who was now gasping for breath.
I said I was going to do as I was told.
And I did.
I pulled the trigger and watched the Roman-look-a-like fall to the gelato shop floor.
Chapter Eight
Roman and I each held one of Vito’s clammy hands. I took off my cardigan and wiped the sweat from his forehead. This wasn’t looking good.
“Vinnie,” Vitto said several times between large attempts at gasping for air. “Vinnie knows.”
“Who’s Vinnie?” I whispered to Roman.
But before he could answer, a pig…yes, you heard me…a pig, one of those miniature Portuguese or Philippine, I never could remember which country they came from, came trotting into the room, squealing for all it was worth.
The pig circled us, hysterical, then nestled in beside Vitto, and I swear started to cry. At least that’s what the tiny whimpers and wails sounded like to me.
My heart broke for this little critter, although he or she wasn’t real tiny. Hell, he or she was about the same size as Vitto, now that they were laid side-by-side.
“Meet Vinnie,” Roman said, caressing the pig to try to calm his crying.
“I love you, Don Vittorio Vanvitelli, and I’ll make this right again,” Roman said, a single tear tumbling down his iron strong face.
“I love…you…too, Son. Please tell…your Granny V I…still love her too. Take good care…,”
Vitto’s eyes shut.
I thought he was gone.
.”..of your…Princess too.”
My soul ached. I’d never watched a man die.
Seeing Roman struggling to hold it together, I was completely strung-out and hurting bad as if knotted balls were forming amongst all the torn-out strands once part of my heart.
“Vinnie knows,” Vitto said once more then died, there in our arms, with Vinnie at his side.
“We’ve got to get out of here and fast,” Roman said, running his fingers through his hair.
I wiped away the tear that was still holding tight to his cheek. I’d never seen a tear do that. It was as if it had frozen on his face, on a body that simple didn’t know how to deal with that kind of emotion.
“Can you grab Vinnie?”
I looked from Roman to Vinnie who was still softly whimpering, if pigs whimpered, but that’s certainly what it sounded like.
“Sure.”
I have no idea how you’re supposed to carry a pig so I figured I’d just act as if it were a dog.
I gathered the rather large bundle into my arms, which earned me a great big ‘ole pig kiss, smack on the lips.
“Yummy.” Roman said. “Follow me.”
Roman moved toward what looked to be a wall locker of some sort.
“Oh I get it. Let me guess. An escape tunnel.”
Roman grinned.
“You learn fast, Witherspoon.”
He pressed the third bar down on the row of metal strips ventilating the locker. The doors swung in at his command and we hustled down another staircase and wound our way to a door that surprisingly opened up into the very same empty piazza like entrance where our scooter and helmets had been absconded.
But what was once an empty piazza was now a tiny space filled with a bunch of black sedans and SUVs.
“So that’s where all the full-sized cars and SUVs are in Positano. Only the mob gets access to those, right?”
“Hey, if you want to take Vinnie here for a ride on our scooter, have at it. But if you think he’s a handful now…”
Roman opened the door to the closest SUV and motioned for me and Vinnie to get in.
“Where to, Boss?”
It was R.
Somehow I knew he would be right there for us. He was always one step ahead. Or one SUV or private jet or scooter shy of our next safe-house destination.
“Back to The Spa. We’ll be safe there for awhile. And I’ve got to talk to Granny V.”
R hung his head.
“I’m sorry, Roman.”
Evidently he already knew about Vitto too.
“Are you okay?” I’d wanted to ask him when we were still there with his grandfather but the words just wouldn’t form. “What about Granny V?”
“She knew this day was coming,” Roman said, letting Vinnie settle his pudgy body onto his lap and root his snout into his neck.
“But it still won’t be easy for her. She loved him very much. So much so she’d spent her life without him, only able to see him come and go from the sidelines.”
He snuggled with Vinnie while he talked.
A grown-up Bond Boy, taking sweet refuge in the love of a swine named Vinnie.
Slowly, with each little pig grunt, my heart began to heal from the day’s events.
“Ahhh. Know I’m getting it. Vitto watched over you both from a long row of black sedans, right?” I asked, now understanding that when those sedans appeared, danger was near and by warning them in such dramatic fashion, Vitto ensured their chance to find a safe place to hide then escape.
“Something like that,” Roman said.
Which meant yes in Secret Bond speak.
So this is what life was like on this side of these black sedans and SUVs. Windows with a view to a dangerous world. A world full of evil that was out to bring down your family.
If me becoming this family’s princess would provide the cover we needed to free them from the sedans, then I’d better start reading-up on all those magazines and princess diaries Granny V had given me.
Chapter Nine
Turns out Granny V owns Le SirenMuse. It was once the summer home of she and Vitto’s pre-Gomorrah-esque life.
And it also turns out that it’s the perfect sanctuary and spa to study-up on becoming a princess.
Roman and I, Granny V and R, and our little Vincent van Gogh, lovingly called Vinnie for short, settled into a couple weeks of Royalty School 101.
I can more than handle the US Weekly-style responsibilities of “What’s in her clutch?”
Trust me. I have no trouble with packing a day-to-day bag containing blotting papers, lip balm, a compact and handkerchief. These are the staples of a Red Carpet life. My forte.
The Princess Diary-esque requirements of 40 outfits for 11-day tours would also be a synch for me. I knew my way around, and both off and on, Red Carpet lives.
Only this time, I’d be my own client.
I knew about lifestyles for which every new city served as your next catwalk. I knew how to travel in style. I knew how to rock the old reliable in my wardrobe, as well as explore new fashion from today’s hottest designers.
But appearing as a normal person and a People’s Princess was sooo not going to be easy for me. I’m just not a lovely, easy to talk to kinda gal.
Blame it on my childhood. Yeah. That should pretty much cover it.
When going home for the holidays means schmoozing with a mother and father who swear th
ey’re St. Nick and Mrs. C, as in Mr. and Mrs. Claus, going home should consist of a visit to a mental facility.
And I’m not joking.
My parents think and live as if they’re Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
Oh yes. There’s an actual name for the condition.
It’s called Delusional Disorder. Or what I like to refer to as St. Nick Schizoid.
And they’ve got it.
Does Roman know they’ve got it?
Hell no!
And I plan to keep it that way as long as possible.
And no, Santa and Mrs. Claus don’t talk trash like I do. But damn those elves. Those dudes are the ultimate potty mouths. So you can blame them for my colorful vocabulary.
So unless being a Princess means riding in reindeer-drawn sleighs instead of horse-drawn carriages, I’m in a wee bit over my extremely large-elf-size self.
And you see, that’s the other issue.
Y’all know I was a Rachel Zoe-esque Hollywood Stylist to The Stars, and now People’s Princess-in-the-making. So, that said, you’re thinking I should have either Rachel or Princess Kate’s to-die-for body, right?
Wrong again.
Now that you know I come from North Pole royalty, you guessed it. I, Zoey Witherspoon, Stylist to The Stars and Princess-in-the-making, About-To-Marry-the-Mob, inherited my father’s bowl full of jelly and my mother’s cookie-baking-centric, mother to the elves, pleasingly plump little shapes.
What?
You didn’t know fashion’s elite made plus-sizes?
Listen…when you’re the one responsible for dressing most of their high-class clientele, they sure as all-hell do make clothes to fit you too.
Think about it…
All that left-over fabric?
After the ultra-small pieces they cut-out to fit my clients, there’s a shitload left. Plenty to make me something resembling what my Twiggy Pixies wear.
Now you know why not-so-little I, propelling out of skyscrapers on thin cables with Roman on our Thug Guard escapades, was way more than a wee bit risky.
Although, I have to hand it to my Prince Roman. He must be totally into pleasingly plump, ‘cause he keeps me hangin’ around.
