Armored

by S. W. Frank

  “It is hardy donna and consumes once the roots are planted solidly in the ground.”

  “Oooh, sounds like you want to scare me away or renege on sending that car.”

  “No donna, the vehicle will be there,” Giuseppe said as the car’s occupants underwent a visual inspection by Alfonzo’s fleet of guards on the strada leading to the property. They were on high alert; he assumed Nico or Sophie had ensured they were. Giuseppe also noticed none of Alfonzo’s soldati was Sicilian born. Their ethnicities ran the gambit from, Asian, black to Spaniards. After Lou, Alfonzo assimilated a new crew without affiliations to any of the famiglia.

  Paranoid?

  Perhaps.

  He chose to send a few of Alfonzo’s guys to fetch his donna after hanging up the phone.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Chapter Eighteen

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  The smell of the sea.

  Stillness except the trees.

  A stunning location in the hills.

  An enchantingly rustic villa, transformed into a chic and stylish living space had been the perfect home for Vincent.

  The place was strategically chosen; far away from crowded residences in the event trouble came. Nico’s property was charming as well; larger because he required a 360˚ visual of his property. He preferred the serenity of the country above the ancient town of Cefalù. His charming property was perched near a hillside also with breathtaking views of the coastline far below and the ocean which stretched as far as the eye can see.

  Vincent wanted the mountainous scenery of the Madonie National Park and access to the charming old town, with its narrow streets and piazzas. He liked impressing the female tourists he picked up whenever they were home in Sicily.

  “Fuck ‘em and then dump ‘em back in town,” Vincent often said jokingly. “They’re only here for a good time, hoping to meet a well hung Sicilian and then dump me anyway. They use me fratello, what has this world come to, eh?”

  Nico missed his other half. If he were here, oh, they’d sneak up on the sniper from opposite ends and double up the lead. Dumb schmuck, didn’t realize the direction he was in was perfect for a clear shot to the side of the head. That’s all it took. A projectile sent from the base of a shrub, where bricks and Italian limestone shielded a man with a gun whose bullet careened toward a human target.

  Killing isn’t a video game. Making sport of it for teens and classifying it as entertainment might encourage the unstable youth to go practice on real people. Professionals understand the game’s a joke. Besides, only sickos want to go around killing for the fun of it or because they’re peeved that a love interest called it quits. Nico had a job to do, simple as that. There isn’t a sense of joy or gloating when it’s over.

  Nico’s bullet served as a sucker punch. The sniper’s feet imitated a person who slips on the ice and goes down, but in fast motion. The amateur didn’t know what hit him.

  Nico listened.

  If killers are working in pairs, a reflex movement from the partner when he notices his teammate fall will occur and Nico would be able to pinpoint his location. It’s a natural reaction, only the best master immobility. Nico’s eyes continued to survey the landscape, certain this was the only shooter, he returned inside to his wife.

  Tony’s mama had decided to call the polizei.

  He heard the sirens.

  He beckoned Tony over. “My wife and I weren’t here. Make sure you handle the talking, capisce?” he said between his teeth.

  “Of course.” Tony answered.

  Ari was already at his side. They exited before the authorities arrived. In the rearview mirror, Nico saw the ambulance strobe lights.

  “Are you alright sweetheart?” he asked his wife.

  “I’m fine and you?”

  “I’ll feel better when I’m home with the children.”

  “Me too.” Ari exhaled as she reclined her head. “That was one wild party.”

  Nico couldn’t resist the temptation to chuckle. “Tony’s mama is hilarious.”

  “And that Uncle Willy, ah, he’s too much.”

  They were laughing uncontrollably when they arrived home, that is until Nico immediately noticed Ari’s vehicle missing. They entered the house and Sophie waited with news neither parent wanted to hear after an eventful evening.

  “The ragazzi snuck out before I arrived. I did not want to tell you until you were home safely.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Ari fumed. Bullets wouldn’t kill her, the escapades of Aaron and Darren would. “Where are they, some party?”

  Then the unexpected reply from Sophie, “The ragazzi went to attack Yosef.”

  “Cosa?” Both parents exclaimed, dumbfounded.

  There was more. “And there was an attack on Giuseppe’s casa.”

  Nico barreled out his chest and stormed outside to his painter’s shack to get supplies. The minute he got there, he pulled out a laptop and once it booted, he initiated the tracker for a satellite visual on his goddamn sons. They were flying down the road, heading to home. He hated to give away his secrets, but hell he didn’t have a choice.

  He spoke into the microphone. “You guys okay?”

  On the screen he could see his son’s clearly. The rearview mirror had a camera and video communication capabilities. They appeared shocked to hear their dad, but Darren sort of figured out how it was done. Surveillance isn’t a mystery to a techie, some things are elementary.

  “Yeah dad, we’re fine but Yosef’s hurt. He’s bleeding all over mom’s car.”

  “What did you guys do to him?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Keep your damn eyes on the road Darren!” Nico chastised.

  “Alright…geez!”

  “I want to know what the hell you did.” Nico repeated.

  “We didn’t do anything. Some guys showed up and started shooting. He was shot but not by us.”

  “What do you mean, not by you, did you take guns?”

  Another clueless exchange between the identical twins occurred.

  “Sei in un casino di guai!” Nico shouted.

  Whenever Nico cursed in another language, it was a sign he was beyond angry. He could wring their fucking necks. They were hell-bent on rivaling him and Vincent at that age, except the boys weren’t as skilled. They were green; slightly atypical teenagers without a clue.

  He waited near the entry to the gate until the car’s headlights appeared. He put out his hand to stop the young fool before he ran him over. He peered through the window and saw Yosef dripping blood on the backseat.

  Yosef slid up, clutching his neck. “You send boys to do a man’s job, eh Nico?”

  “Injured and talking shit, shut-up!” Nico said and then addressed his sons. “Go in the house and tell Nonna Sophie to bring water and towels.”

  The boys scurried from the vehicle. Darren looked back. He hoped Anna was sleeping because she might freak if she saw Yosef. But Nico wasn’t letting the likes of Yosef in his house. Once he tended to the man’s wounds, Yosef and Sophie were receiving armed escorts to Anna’s until Nico had the mess sorted out.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Chapter Nineteen

   

   

   

   

  Amelda closed her eyes. Her lip trembled with sadness as she looked upon her reflection. There was a glow to her cheeks set there by a joyous beginning of life sprouting within. She saw herself in the bright lighting; revealed was a donna whose ha
ppiness was killed by truths she had failed to see.

  Her husband waited.

  Oh, how she adored Matteo. Such a wonderful dream she had lived throughout the murderous years. Tonight she would tell him of the bambino and he was certain to smile with conceit. She would smile at his expected reaction despite the sadness she would feel.

  Amelda wiped her cheeks, blinked to remove the extra shine of mourning and went to her husband who lay reclined in their bed. His eyes were bright as the stars when sheemerged in the form-fitting gold silk negligee she’d worn on her honeymoon.

  He raised his torso, leaning on his elbows, between his thighs desire’s head showed also. “You are beautiful,” he said as she crawled between his legs and lifted the hem of her gown.

  Her buttocks ascended over her Don’s thighs as they stared in each other’s eyes. Matteo took hold of her waist, his mane of rich hair caressing her cheek as he kissed her neck, grunting from the slick micio windshield wipers of flesh on his rod.

  They moved in unison, a lover’s dance with synchronization that is perfected over time. His hands caressed her spine, concealed by silk. He kissed her lips and she opened them hungrily to drink of his natural milk. Tear ducts oozed liquid upon his chest and his mouth detached to inquire why she cried.

  “We are having another bambino mi amore,” she answered.

  His response was what she hoped, joy. “Bellissimo…ah…ti amo…ti amo bella.”

  His playboy smile was as brilliant as the day he confessed his love. He reclined with her, kissing her hard as her hands reached to grip the headboard. The wondrous sensation pushing within elicited a sad moan she could not silence. The thrusts were her wants and the loving flow which showered her husband was genuine.

  Matteo’s quivers of flesh and grunts in the throes of ecstasy were delightful but the gasp that followed canceled out his pleasure. To the heart for his betrayal is where Amelda smoothly inserted the knife.

  Matteo’s eyes squeezed shut, a choking bark of a cough emitted from his throat; then they opened in awareness to stare in the lovely eyes of a devoted wife.  His hand slipped from Amelda’s spine where the family motto was etched near bone to clutch at the knife sticking in his heart. He did not pull it out, to do so would accelerate hisdeath. Thus he prolonged the painwith a beautiful smile of acceptance that his wife had been kind.

  Amelda cried as she caressed his cheeks. “Ssshhh mio amore...die in honor…die knowing I have loved you with all of my heart.” Her lip quivered violently as tears spilled in her mouth. The deceptive husband she worshipped had given her a wonderful life of pretense.

  With his dying breath, he croaked. “Ti amo, mi dispiace…ti amo bella.”

  Amelda believed the death confession, of all his lies, his soft eyes confirmed this truth. Her tears did not cease when Matteo’s head fell heavily to the pillow, or when she placed a distress call to her brother. “Por favore fratello…help me...oh…grande fratello…I need you…my heart is sick.”

  The racking cries persisted as she slumped in misery beside her husband, holding her mouth to stifle the wails.

  She killed her love, but he had caused papa, Alberti and many others to die because he loved money and gambling more than he loved famiglia.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Chapter Twenty

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Giuseppe and Nicole sandwiched Carlo in his brother’s huge comfy bed. The donna had an arm protectively around his son who wore Vincent’s pajamas. She had gushed over the luxurious satin linen and the classy décor.

  “A couple who make love’s room,” she had said before dozing.

  If Carlo were not present he would have given a physical reply.

  Her fingers touched Giuseppe’s waist as she slumbered, causing his skin to warm from the contact. He heard the phone and reached for it. At the sound of his sorella’s woeful plea, he slid carefully from the warmth of what home should be to stand and hastily don his clothes as he listened.

  “I am on my way sorella. I am coming.”

  An eye opened as he shoved the cell in his pocket and buckled his belt. Nicole whispered, “Another emergency?”

  “Sí,” he answered quietly seeking to avoid waking Carlo.

  Tony and Tiffany slept in the spare bedroom. Alfonzo would return to find his castle full. But he could not secure his donna and disregard her sister or fiancé.

  Her eyes were on his chest. “Thank you for allowing my sister and Tony to stay, too.”

  “Eh, famiglia takes care of each other.”

  “Who looks after you Giuseppe?”

  “I look after myself.” A weary sigh. “I have a loving famiglia.” He slipped his foot into a shoe.

  “I’ve been asked to perform in Japan in a few days. But when your emergency ends, you and Carlo are invited to my next performance in Brussels.”

  “Che suona bello.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  He nodded. “Yes, that sounds nice is what I have said.”

  “Bene.” She smiled.

  “I may not want you to leave donna. I am beginning to wonder if you were sent to me.” He omitted by Shanda who sensed he needed a good woman to care for him and Carlo.

  “Only time will tell. Stay safe, you have a son, remember.”

  “Sí, donna, I am aware of this.” He smirked, leaned over the boy and his lips fused tightly in a reluctant farewell. He watched her eyes flutter, and sadly smiled. He then retracted to kiss his son’s rosy cheek and departed.

  Giuseppe arrived at Amelda’s grand estate. The place was a mansion. The property boasted landscaped fields with marble birdbaths and gardens which aptly represented Amelda and Matteo’s flamboyance.

  A suitable wedding gift from her brother.

  Of course she would love it and so did Matteo.

  To Giuseppe, ostentatious was a definition of the couple.

  Giuseppe instructed his Capo to remain with the automobile.  He had no idea why Amelda summoned, but he must go alone. He walked the glistening path made of colorful rocks to the door, used his passkey, eh, his sorella fussed that he had too much access, yet she did not request the card.

  He loved his sister, although she was a meddlesome irritant.

  Giuseppe spotted a shadow near the kitchen, undoubtedly, a hungry watchman foraging for a late night snack. His feet continued across the marble floors, up the stairs to the couple’s bedroom and knuckles tapped lightly on the heavy door.

  Amelda’s cry granted him permission to enter and when he did the vision before a Don’s eyes was tragedy. A lover’s haven was death’s chamber. The emotion the sight elicited from the surveyor may have come from the gaze of a student studying a piece of art. The scene reminded him of the 1856 painting by Louis Gallait, ‘Jeanne la Folle,’ except more macabre.

  Amelda was not kneeling alongside a divan mourning her beloved; instead she cradled Matteo’s head upon her lap sobbing above his lifeless body. She stroked the silky hair, stylishly cut; the dapper man in death could be a male model for corpses.

  Amelda looked at her brother from the rose colored bed.

  She cried pitifully, a broken spirit. Only once when their papa died had he seen such vulnerability. She had sequestered herself in her room for days to grieve. His mama worried because Amelda was papa’s princess. Their father gave her everything. Amelda was his softness and she wielded her royal hand with indiscriminate influence over him and papa bowed to her every whim.

  To Giuseppe, he did the same, although Amelda never received a whack, he had.

  Giuseppe’s heart broke because Amelda loved Matteo equally or perhaps more than their papa.

  “Fratel
lo…I have killed him…I have killed my son’s papa,” she cried in utter despair as she beseeched Giuseppe to take care with Matteo and give him honor in death because in life he had gone astray.

  A brother dropped at the foot of the soiled bed. He did not ask what brought her to this lethal crossing because these roads he traversed on numerous occasions. Whatever, she needed, her fratello would give to his sorella…his heart…his famiglia.

  “Amelda, where are the guns?”

  She pointed to the large armoire and he stood. But first he fetched a cloth from the bathroom to open the latch of the antique wardrobe. He examined the assortment of weapons encased in the base, chose an Italian weapon, slapped in a clip and screwed on the suppressor found with it.

  “I will be back sorella,” he said over his shoulder. “Do not exit this room until I return.”

  She said nothing as he departed. He peeked in on his nephew. Thankfully Ignacio slept.

  Swift strides without touching the railing took him to the foot of the stairs where he peered toward the rear of the large home where soldati were on duty. Quietly, he walked in that direction.

  He encountered a guard inside the kitchen he knew by name. The unsuspecting man nodded respectfully at the Don. Giuseppe’s reply was a quiet bullet to his throat, he dropped a sandwich. Each determined gait Giuseppe took was for his sorella. He stepped over the corpse to stroll to the outside patio.

  The moon was a crescent chandelier above a manicured garden which balanced a child’s swing set and slide. Yard furniture where a couple lounged in happier times to observe a boy at play sat empty; the cushions were shiny with evening dew. He found another watcher leaning against the balustrade enjoying a smoke and he received an acupuncture of lead to the rear of his skull.

  Giuseppe focused in the distance on the shadowy figure making his rounds.

  Giuseppe waved him over. He approached, his eyes observed through the stone railings a body before being pelted with piercing metal.

   The grass softened the fall unlike the times when they were young boys and had scraped their knees on the asphalt during rough sports.

  The execution of soldati came with a sunken heart. Men he had known, sat in backrooms with, shared drinks and laughter at family gatherings were eliminated for security purposes. He did this horrible deed because he could not risk the Peglesi’s waging a bloody vendetta. Like a poison spreading throughout the body he was forced to cut off a limb.