Il Bestione (The Golden Door Duet Book 2)

by Susan Fanetti

  The door was open on this hot day, and the heat and lingering aroma from the ovens gusted steadily out. George Benedetto, young son of Elio, the baker, was working in the shop, sweeping the floor in this hour near closing. He turned, saw Paolo standing outside, and froze. Paolo could see the boy pale and shake.

  This morning, Joey had reported that Benedetto had been short on his payment. He owed for protection and for a loan he’d taken to update the kitchen, and he’d paid only enough to cover the loan payment.

  He stepped into the shop. The boy stumbled backward, but Paolo only looked around. Another man might have given the boy, about twelve years old, a smile to ease his discomfort, or to pretend to, but Paolo wasn’t that man. A smile did not come naturally. He walked to the case nearest the register.

  Most of the cases were empty, and a rolling rack stood near the door at the back, ready to collect what was left. But a few forlorn-looking loaves remained among the crumbs.

  “I’ll take that loaf. How much?”

  “It’s … I …” the boy stuttered, looked to the closed door to the kitchen, returned to gape at Paolo.

  Paolo kept his gaze steady until the boy steadied. “Five cents,” he squeaked.

  As Paolo slipped his hand into his pocket for his coin purse, the boy shuffled quickly behind the case to pull out the loaf.

  “It’s … It was … It’s been …”

  Paolo waited.

  “Stale,” the boy gasped. “Baked first thing this morning.”

  “Fine.” He held a nickel across the case, and the boy took it. “Tell your father I was here.”

  “Y-y-yes, Don Romano. I will. Th-thank you.” He wrapped the loaf in paper and handed it over. He bobbed his head in a bow.

  Outside again, Paolo continued on his way. He handed the bread to Mamma Favero, the blind old beggar lady who spent her days perched on a crate at the corner.

  “Grazie, grazie,” she croaked when she felt what he’d offered.

  Paolo walked on without comment.

  “Don Romano, you honor me.” Fredo Montanari shook Paolo’s hand warmly, but his acute discomfort was obvious in the sheen across his forehead and the rush of red over his fleshy cheeks. “We make the best table for you, of course. And anything you wish to eat and drink, it is my treat, per favore.”

  “We need to speak, Fredo,” Paolo said, softly but with an edge on the important words.

  The flush drained from Montanari’s face, but he nodded. “Sì, sì, yes. Of course we do.” Turning to face the candlelit restaurant, he waved over a waiter in a white shirt and bow tie. “Tony, Tony, sbrigati. Seat the don and his friends at once!”

  The young waiter goggled at Paolo, Aldo, and Nello but led them calmly to a table far from the kitchen and near the small stage, where an upright piano and two empty stools stood.

  Montanari’s was a simple restaurant that offered simple Italian foods made in the ways of home. The décor spoke of home, as well. Not Paolo’s home, exactly—his tiny village hadn’t had a restaurant at all—but like the little places he’d seen in Palermo and Napoli. A little rough around the edges, but in a way that made a calm space of familiarity in Paolo’s chest. And the food was good, untainted by New York and the bland tastes of the uptown people who called themselves its culture.

  It was hardly the first time Paolo had taken a meal at this trattoria, but it was the first time he’d done so when Montanari was behind on his payments. Seriously behind—far enough that he was out of warnings. He’d been shorting for more than a month, inventing excuses, making promises. This past week, he’d failed to pay at all, but last night he’d been at the tables again, losing more money, falling deeper.

  It was time to realign his thinking about his priorities and responsibilities.

  But first, they would enjoy the meal the man offered.

  They’d gotten their first round of drinks when Joey slid into the empty chair at their table. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Trouble?” Paolo asked after a sip of his whiskey.

  “No. Well, not new trouble. I got the latest tally on Fredo. He’s into us for eight hundred and thirteen.”

  “Sweet virgin,” Nello muttered. “He’ll never make that right. He’ll have to give us the restaurant.”

  “I don’t want the restaurant.” Paolo focused on Joey. “How’d it get this far?”

  “It’s my fault. I brought in a couple of the new guys to start dealing, and you know how Fredo looks, all slick and shiny and fat, like he shits gold doubloons. The kid at his table let him roll too long, didn’t know how deep in he was already.”

  “You’re right, Joey. It’s yours. If we can’t get Montanari to pay, you will owe me, and he will owe you.”

  Joey swallowed hard, but he nodded. “Yes, don. That’s fair.”

  A man in a black suit growing shiny with wear climbed onto the stage and took a seat on one of the stools. He had a guitar, and he set it across his legs and began to strum. The tune was familiar, an old song from the old country, but Paolo didn’t pay it much mind. He kept his attention on the conversation. “You and Montanari have one week to settle his book. Tonight, we take a down payment.”

  All the men sitting with him knew what that meant, and they all nodded solemnly.

  Then a swirl of something dark caught the corner of Paolo’s eye, and he turned to see what it was.

  A woman, stepping onto the stage. He’d noticed her hair, loose and long, a thick mass of wild black curls that seemed far too big and heavy for her small frame. She was dressed plainly and not in any way like the women of New York dressed. Only a simple long skirt in a dark color the candlelight obscured, and a loose white top, tucked in at the waist.

  She was dressed like a girl from home.

  Then she turned to face the crowd. She was young, with a smooth complexion that seemed free of weariness or woe, but her face belied that idea. It was all angles—pointed chin, high, sharp cheekbones, thick black slashes for brows, a thin nose like the blade of a knife. And dark eyes that seemed thoroughly disgusted with all she saw.

  She was so thin her collarbones stood up like dowels tenting her skin, and the shape of her ribcage showed across the top of her chest, where her peasant top left her skin bare. She seemed so frail Paolo thought she might simply topple over, overwhelmed by the weight of her own hair.

  When she began to sing, however, he found himself stunned. Her voice was rich and sweet, with a powerful vibrato. It could easily be described as angelic, but there was a sharp point to her tone as well, a little devil dragging the notes downward.

  The song was ‘Ciuri Ciuri.’ It was a song for a man to sing, pining for the woman he’d lost. But in this woman’s voice it became something else entirely, somehow both mocking the man’s heartbreak and exposing her own.

  The whole restaurant was quiet, transfixed by her performance. Not even the chime of silverware on china dared interrupt her.

  Paolo had never laid eyes on this woman before. “Who is she?” he asked of anyone who’d answer.

  But no one did. When he, with irritated reluctance, shifted his attention to his men, all three were looking at him as if he’d just announced his intention to abandon the life he’d built and enter the priesthood instead.

  He waited until one of them stopped gaping and answered his question.

  “Montanari’s niece.” Nello finally said. “She and her father just came over. I don’t remember her name, but her father is Fredo’s brother, so her last name is Montanari.” He paused. “It might be … Miriana. Something like that.”

  “It’s Mirabella,” Joey said. “Mirabella Montanari.”

  Mirabella. A beautiful old country name. Paolo turned back to the stage.

  She was looking right at him, that same disgust in her eyes.

  III

  Fredo Montanari’s fleshy face was pale and shiny as melted wax. His wild eyes shifted to Paolo and then, seeing no salvation there, he began to weep around the cotton towel shoved into his mou
th.

  They were in the pantry of his own kitchen. The restaurant was closed and his staff gone. Only Fredo, Joey, Aldo, and Paolo were here, all of them crowded into this small room. The single electric bulb dangling from the ceiling threw long shadows with its harsh glare.

  In addition to the gag, Fredo was tied to a barstool brought in from the bar for this purpose. One arm was extended onto the butcher block table centered in the pantry. He was bound tightly to the block with a rope across his forearm.

  Joey drew one of Fredo’s cleavers across a whetstone, slowly, letting the blade sing as it rasped over the stone.

  Fredo wept and tried to speak, but they’d left speaking behind some time ago.

  Paolo stepped from the shadows at one corner of the racks of food and stood across from Fredo at the butcher block. Though he didn’t bother himself with the mundane workings of daily business, and left that to the few men he trusted, he was always the one to oversee this kind of work. He wanted it done in his way, and he wanted everyone to be sure that was true. That way, when a warning or a threat was made, it had the full weight of his intention.

  “You’ve had all the chances you can afford and I can abide, Fredo,” he said. “You’ve made promises to Joey, to me, and reneged on them all. I can’t abide such disrespect. The time has come to make you feel the debt you owe, so you know its weight and remember it.”

  A muffled jumble of sounds erupted from behind the gag. Paolo nodded, and Nello plucked the cotton from Fredo’s mouth.

  “Per favore, Don Romano!” Fredo blubbered. “Per favore! I will pay! I will make this right!”

  “So you’ve said before, yet your debt grows. You go back to the tables again and again, and your debt grows. Maybe it’s like an illness, and you can’t help yourself. So I’m doing you a service. Without your hand, you won’t be able to cast the dice.”

  “But I need my hand! Please! Don!” Fredo sobbed. He was getting loud. Though the restaurant was closed and dark, and they were alone in this room, Paolo nodded at Nello to gag him again.

  Before he could, a woman called from the other side of the pantry door. “Zio? Stai bene?”

  A sudden tide of emotion washed over Fredo’s face, and his expression reshaped from desperation to shock and terror. “Mira!” he called “Va via! Velocemente!”

  Paolo opened his mouth to agree with Fredo and tell Joey to get her away, but the door swung open, and Mirabella Montanari stood there, still dressed as she had been earlier in the evening, singing on the little stage, her long hair all around her like a black cloud.

  On stage, she’d seemed jaded and disgusted. Now, the look on her face shifted rapidly from surprise to confusion to shock and terror, mirroring her uncle’s.

  “Joey,” Paolo said, and Joey set the cleaver and stone down and lunged for her.

  She tried to avoid him—but she didn’t run from the room. She tried to stay with her uncle and not get caught, her head flying back and forth as if searching for a weapon—probably exactly that.

  Paolo admired her courage. But of course she failed, and Joey had her, one arm hooked around both of hers, pinning them at her back, and the other across her chest and hooked to hold her head.

  She struggled with a strength that seemed greater than her slight body should have held, but she didn’t scream. She stared straight at Paolo. The shock and fear was gone.

  “Cosa stai facendo?” she asked, her voice a sneer and her dark eyes full of hate and fury. It wasn’t Sicily in her voice; her accent and usage was northern. Tuscan.

  “No, please,” Fredo pleaded. “Per favore, buon signore, lasciala andare. Let her go. Don’t hurt her.” Though his usage, too, was northern, his accent was Sicilian. If he was Mirabella’s uncle, the brothers had been far flung.

  Paolo did not hurt women. He was a better man than that. But he was perfectly willing to let them learn by the example of the men in their lives.

  “Nello,” he said, and his man shoved the gag back in Fredo’s mouth.

  Paolo looked into Fredo’s eyes, made sure he was focused and listening. “You and I will speak again, Fredo. We will come to terms, and you will pay what you owe. This is the collateral I claim to ensure it. Do not make me claim more.”

  He took off his suitcoat, folded it, set it on a shelf. He removed his cuffs and set them on the coat, pocketing the links. He folded his sleeves back. Mirabella watched him silently, hatred burning from the black pits of her eyes.

  “No,” she said when he picked up the cleaver. Not a cry, not a plea. A demand. “No.”

  “Yes,” he answered. He raised the cleaver and brought the blade down over her uncle’s wrist, severing the hand cleanly from the arm. It was a good knife.

  Behind the gag, Fredo shrieked—one sustained, garbled note until his breath ran out. He sucked in as much air as he could and shrieked again.

  Paolo picked up a kitchen cloth from a stack of them on a nearby shelf and dropped it over the gushing stump. Fredo screamed once more and then passed out, his head landing on the table with a thump.

  Paolo picked up the hand and wrapped it in another towel. He gave it to Nello, gathered up his coat and cuffs, and walked to the door.

  To Mirabella, in Italian, he said, “Dr. Goldman will see to him and bill me for it. His office is at the corner of Prince and Lafayette.”

  Still trapped in Joey’s hold, Fredo Montanari’s fascinating, furious niece spat directly in Paolo’s face.

  He took out his handkerchief and wiped it away. When he looked at her again, there was fear in her eyes, but he could see her fighting it off, pulling rage forward like a shield.

  That feeling, that impulse, was more familiar to him than any other. Hate and rage were pure, uncomplicated, energizing emotions. There was tremendous power in the endless black of rage. Enough power to take over a world.

  With a glance at Joey and at Nello, he departed the pantry, and they followed, leaving the Montanaris to tend to themselves.

  Paolo woke from the dream drenched and gasping. The faces of his family faded into the dark of his bedroom along with the echoes of their pleading voices and his impotent shout.

  Fuck, it was hot. He slammed his hand on the bedside table for his pocket watch and popped it open, turning it toward the window and the indifferent gleam of a moon obscured by too much city.

  Half past two. He’d barely slept an hour, but he knew there was no use trying for more. Besides his sweat-soaked sheets, his blood churned with the powerless frustration of the dream—and he could feel it lurking in the dark, waiting to catch him in its claws again.

  He untangled himself from the binds of the linens and went to the bathroom. He didn’t bother to turn on the light; he didn’t want the mirror staring at him.

  When he was done, he went to the narrow table in his sitting room that held several decanters of liquor. In the dark, he guessed at one of the crystal bottles and pulled its stopper. The aroma wafted up: brandy. Good enough. Using his sense of touch, he found a glass and poured.

  The first hit warmed his belly, and he was already choking on the night’s heat, but this fire calmed him and he drank again.

  He shouldn’t have tried to sleep so soon after Montanari’s. Work like that always stirred his blood, made him pace like a caged tiger. He needed to do something—fuck or fight—to expend that violent energy. But the presence of Montanari’s niece had thrown him. The hate in her eyes, the fight. It unsettled him, even the memory of it.

  There was no reason she’d needed to see that. He hadn’t needed to teach her a lesson; he should have had Joey take her away. Why hadn’t he?

  He didn’t know. But now those dark eyes burned in the black before him.

  She reminded him somehow of his sister.

  She was skinny as Caterina had been, like a sack of twigs collected for kindling. But she was like his sister in no other way—of that he was certain. Caterina was good and sweet. He’d never, not once, ever seen her show rage. Sorrow, he’d seen that almost da
ily. And fear. But never fury or hatred. He doubted she was capable of it. She was strong, his little sister; after they were attacked, she’d kept him alive for weeks on the power of determination alone. But she was no fighter. Caterina could endure on her own, but to prevail, she needed a champion.

  Paolo had tried to be that for her and had failed. The man she’d married had succeeded.

  Mirabella Montanari was a fighter.

  He should have made Joey take her away. He should not have made her watch what he did to her uncle.

  Paolo slammed the empty glass on the table and dragged his hands through his wet hair. Why did it bother him so much that she’d seen him for who he was? Why did it matter?

  It didn’t. No reason it should. So she hated him? Good. Hatred and rage were the best companions one could have to survive in this new world full of promises unkept.

  Knowing there would be no more sleep for him tonight, Paolo went to his bedroom and slipped into his trousers. Wearing nothing else, he went down to the basement.

  As it had been in Fausto’s time, the basement was built out like a dormitory, with a large room arranged with bunk beds in rows for the boys, a smaller room where the young men, who were responsible for supervising the boys, slept in two rows of cots, and the rest of the space devoted to other activities—eating, playing, and so on.

  It wasn’t luxurious, by any means, but it was comfortable. Warm in the winter, cooler than any other part of the building in the summer. Dry and secure. The boys had clean linens, decent clothes and shoes, filling food. Companionship and amusement. Medical care when they needed it. For all of these boys who’d been left to fend for themselves, this was a better life.

  In exchange, the young ones ran simple errands—nothing dangerous or dark. The kind of errands any of them might have run if they’d been lucky enough to have a blood family. When they were old enough to understand Paolo’s work, they were given low-level tasks, jobs where they might see the dark but not touch it. So that they would truly understand. When they were eighteen, he offered them a choice.