by S. W. Frank
She frowned. “I will leave, but I am not leaving you.”
Giuseppe seized her, holding tight, apologizing profusely in Italian, but she disengaged, and said, “I’m going to get Carlo. Don’t try to force me to stay Geo, accept that you screwed up and work on fixing it.”
He shook with impotent rage. He grabbed the nearby lamp, flinging it across the room and then overturned the sofa in an adult temper-tantrum. She walked out, determined more than ever to teach her husband a lesson. Sometimes tough love is required for a roughneck.
Giuseppe punched the wall, scraping his knuckles, shouting that she go and never come back and then retracting the statement with a plea that she reconsider her cruel act.
He wrecked the den, smashing furniture because he needed to strike at things until they died. His heart was breaking like the splintered wood and glass. The anger inside had erupted into a maddening howl that had the guards fearful for the woman and child.
They were unaware Giuseppe’s rage was sorrow. He would never harm his moglie or slaughter her as he had done to those at his sorella’s estate.
He was the bull again, breaking everything in sight to rid himself of the pain in his head that tore at his mind.
Nicole descended the stairs with Carlo who was dressed in a child’s attire and not a suit. He jumped and she spun around at another loud crash that shook the floor when they reached the landing. The small hand clutched hold to her leg. “Mama, mama!” He cried with fearful eyes caused by his asshole of a father. Giuseppe was having a hissy fit and pissing her off.
More guards rushed inside as Giuseppe stood in her path, cursing and causing mayhem to the living room. He kicked his foot through a wall, shouting that she never loved him, telling all their business and embellishing his innocence.
None of the people progressed toward their boss instead they looked to Nicole. Giuseppe tossed a broken chair with his angry rant. He was out of control and she had enough of his crap.
Nicole gestured for the Capo, instructed him to take a frightened Carlo to the limo. The boy hesitated and she brandished a reassuring smile as his father swore with such foul language, she considered striking him in his filthy mouth.
"It's okay Carlo; go on, daddy is in pain. He did not take his headache medication but I will make sure he does...go ahead...he'll be better soon. I promise."
The boy exited with the guard, looking worriedly over his shoulder at his new mama.
Once alone in the company of a raging psycho, she marched to where he pound the wall. As stern as a teacher, she told him, “Throw another piece of furniture, tear down this house, go ahead and I swear I’ll have you committed."
Winded, he panted. "You cannot go. You will not dare walk out on me like Shanda did so many times!" His fiery eyes were sparks from an internal gun, which did not cause her to flinch or run. Instead she folded her arms as he heaved, spent by his useless destruction.
She scanned the once beautifully decorated living room. It was trashed. Perhaps he did not understand, she wasn't divorcing him. She was upset, angry in fact at what he'd done and needed a moment to deal with the repercussions. Giuseppe single-handedly killed her career, the controlling bastard with real bullets.
"I'm not Shanda you sonovabitch. I don't care what kind of trauma or drama you suffered in that relationship. My name is Nicole and we’re talking about me –me! Geo, you crossed the line. You can't break everything because you don't like it. Did you ever stop to think that music is a huge part of who I am and you may have ruined my reputation?"
"I will locate a manager who does as told."
"Are you for real? Are you listening to yourself? Ugh!" She gripped his arms, made him focus. “You cannot control every one sweetheart. You can’t do this anymore. Geo, you have to start realizing you’re going to be killed if you don’t stop behaving impulsively. Goodness.” She sighed. “Look at this mess…take a look at what you’re doing. This is our home and I’m your wife. Can’t you see you need to separate work from family.”
Giuseppe wasn’t blind. “Ti amo bella. I love you and mi famiglia. I do not care about things…I do not want things…I want a home with you, mi amore.”
“You have a home if you stop trashing the damn place. I love you, do you know that? Do you really know how much?”
“No,” Giuseppe said as the tension subsided.
“I love you enough to give you an opportunity to repair the damage to this house and my career. All you have to do is call me when you’re done and I’ll return. That is a very simple request and if you really want a home, destroying it isn’t how it’s kept.”
Then she released his arms, gave him a quick kiss and sashayed toward the door. Giuseppe liked the way her ass switched in the tight leather lace up pants. She was edgy, biker chic and sexy, his wife the pianist turned mother in those stilettoes.
“Bella, stay.”
"Stop me with a bullet.” She halted at the threshold and nearly cried at how desolate he looked. However, kids act the same way when they’re placed in a time-out corner. He’d exhibited similar behavior. She had an inoculation to resist Giuseppe’s charm. “Geo, we're a phone call away and you're welcome anytime. I'm mad but am I behaving badly?”
“Sí, you are punishing me too harshly.” Then the arrogant Don reappeared. “A bodyguard must accompany my family or you cannot go. That is an order.”
Oh my god. I’ve married a man-baby!
“I have no problem with that. Just set me right, or I swear I'll put my black belt in Tae Kwon Do to use on –you!"
Cosa? My moglie can use her body as a weapon…that is very sexy.
Chapter Eleven
The unimposing villa on Calabria’s coast housed an influential member of the secretive and brutal 'Ndrangheta. Torino Visconti, rumored to have ordered the death of over 200 people during the drug wars in San Luca.
He requested to meet with Don Diaz Giacanti to discuss shipping and the rumors of a war to avenge the executions of members of the Peglesi clan. Nico had expected the ripples of Matteo’s death to bring questions, and he readied the answer as Alfonzo dictated. He carried the money along with a plausible story for Don Alfonzo’s absence.
Torino’s silver hair inaccurately suggested he was mature and wise. Nico entertained his boorish superiority in an effort to remain diplomatic although he felt otherwise. It didn’t matter whether Alfonzo had attended the sit-down in Nico’s opinion; a brute such as Visconti believes guns alone are power.
“Don Giacanti extends himself to maintain good relations with other families loyal to his father, Don Visconti. Do not assume there is more involved other than the expectation of your neutrality in matters you are not privy. Matteo continues to be held in the highest regard. His widow and son’s inheritance is safeguarded. Thus, Don Alfonzo will act accordingly to uncover those who took part in the killings. That unfortunately may find you in a precarious position since you have business dealings with several who may have acted in consort. The offering is a sign that Don Alfonzo considers you extended family, first and foremost an ally,” Nico said feeling like a schmuck for talking civilly when he preferred to murder.
“How magnanimous of the foreign Don. Perhaps, a more fitting display of his respect would have been an appearance Nicolo Serano.”
“He is not in Sicily.”
“So you say.”
“My word is my bond.”
“That you break, I have heard when it suits you.”
Nico glowered.
Test me, you cazzo and I will cut off your head! He raged inside. Alberti and Vincent’s witty man
euvering would have been best served today. The faith Alfonzo had in him is what held his hands atop his knee in gentleman’s fashion and not poised to attack.
Nico studied the grooves and sunspots of a murderer who butchered the son of a kind baker because the boy packed too slowly. He did this in front of the father and added further insult by sexually assaulting the wife. The rumor that the baker committed suicide is a lie.
Nico saw a person who enjoyed killing, a lot.
A tinge of goodness is what he craved and in his blood, he had a drop. Visconti did not.
His eyes narrowed, hoping the antagonist made a move.
Nico hoped he did not mature with such a sour temperament that made him appear older than his years.
Age sits differently on the wicked. There aren't soft lines, instead there are coarse grooves cut into a burnt soul’s skin.
Nico observed the hand with wrinkles upon the knuckles never touch the briefcase which Tony had placed in front of the aging Mafioso.
They were at an impasse, the pair of death dealers and none would give for they are unaccustomed to bending.
Diplomacy is a harder course to take with unreasonable and self-important people.
Nico remained seated opposite the old Sicilian, unreadable as usual, with eyes of stone, observing his mannerisms, pissed, yet calm.
The senior’s eyes beneath the bushy brows reminded Nico of the Grinch. For misery’s sake, he sought to play a game of obstinacy. He refused to touch the dirty money washed clean from legitimate businesses. The gray dull stare that flicked over Tony like a specimen and returned to Nico with lesser arrogance was the disrespect of a biased man.
There is a pompous twist of the matured lips, an annoying air of superiority due to his influential position in Sicily that bought him allies in respectable places. However, Nico is aware he came from the slums and if not for the action of Luzo, the sonovabitch would be dead. Nico thought to physically stand atop Visconti’s head and slice him to dust for his lack of respect. If titles mattered, to reach Nico he would need a ladder.
He particularly detested the cazzo’s glare at Tony or the way his hand suddenly gestured the briefcase away with an upturned nose. "I do not need the Giacanti bribes. Tell your cugino, he has offended me Nicolo...tell him he sends messengers when his presence-"
Nico rose, cutting the Don off in midsentence by the abrupt action. Nico’s tolerance had severed. First Tony with his slight and now Visconti. He once told Alfonzo let no man raise your blood pressure; however, disrespect comes in forms that can cause a stroke. "Say no more, senility is speaking." Nico did not move his head, as his eyes relayed a warning. There is a vile Nico, held restrained yet always shaking violently for release. He felt the chains slipping loose, clanging angrily in his dungeon soul, roaring like a beast to get out. To kill the Don would be pleasurable, however, The Butcher argued with Alberti and wisdom reined in the killer. Nico's eyes flashed, smoldering coals from a living-dead. Alberti's sagacity prevented a murderous rampage in the Visconti’s lavish home. The voices of the Don's wife and grandchildren were heard laughing loudly, as they should in pleasant company. The aroma of spices beckoning was not from a hearth of goodwill but a potential last supper complete with blood as wine if he did not depart.
"You aren't talking to a messenger, and to believe that you are, reflect you’re misinformed or lack respect for the son of a Don related to the person who saved your foolish ass. Sit out of the discourse among families, you do otherwise and I will drown you in a pool of your own blood, you fucking cazzo!"
No hands moved. Nico had issued a threat and searched the stance of Visconti’s bodyguards daring any to shoot. They did not act; they awaited an order that didn’t arise from the so-called Don of murderers. Visconti knew better. Nico was Giacanti, an executioner and as certain as they lived, everybody in their family would die. Nicolo Serano beyond a depraved reputation was the adopted son of a Serano, a legend with relations he had yet to meet in Greece as infamous as Lucifer who would hunt with hellhounds and devour their meat.
Nico signaled Tony to retrieve the case of cash and they exited without incident except the residual sourness, which left Nico fuming.
Chapter Twelve
Gusting wind.
It rushed past so fast that Alfonzo felt the air currents cool his heated skin when he cracked the door to halt the least likely of the group from running to his death. Sergio's sprint chased his bullets while dashing to assist the figure toppling over, despite the danger.
Alfonzo didn't shout for the younger, his hands were on steel, taking in the chaos, alert to Sergio's polished shoes seemingly flying right in the midst of the set-up.
"Cover his left side dammit!" Alfonzo shouted to his driver as he slipped out the car squeezing off shots to the right, wide enough to avoid striking Sergio.
In a plume of dust, skidding to the ground the sonovabitch went. The crumpled figure on the road represented home base and Sergio reached it.
Alfonzo could hear like a hound over gunshots. To the streets of el barrio in formal attire is where Alfonzo traveled. A daytime shooting as he walked through Taino Towers over on One Hundred and Twenty-First Street when he was seventeen. That is when he felt how a bullet stings and burns. He learned Nico had saved his ass then, just as Sergio was doing for a comrade, now. The blood pooling under the dimming sun was bright and in massive amounts. Alfonzo's wound was minor, unlike the fatal shot to the head of one of their own.
"Dammit, don't you die, do you hear me!" Sergio screamed when the gunshots ceased and sudden silence confirmed the last of the attackers fell.
Alfonzo's shot is what quieted the raucous, not Nico's. He stood, looking over his shoulder, blue eyes unreadable and his mouth pursed tightly. He didn't need to say a word to his wife. Her hand was over her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief because she saw as he did the entire scene unfold.
"No man, ah fuck, not today...not today!" Sergio yelled at the lifeless figure.
The young street smack-talker Sergio didn't exist, nor cowardice. Sergio's respect was sealed by an action that everyone present witnessed.
Eyes were on the silhouette of the woman in the car near the front of the caravan in her wedding dress. She hadn't moved...nobody understood why the groom hadn't stayed in the bulletproof car.
The bang as loud as a cannon jolted Alfonzo awake. His sleepy eyes settled on the Capo whose hand rested on the shiny leather headrest. “We’re here.”
Alfonzo stretched and then nodded, the bad dream falling away with the sun. He opened the door without waiting for the chauffeur whose feet were too slow.
A work out…a shower…that’s what he needed and a meal to digest the unease that inevitably bad shit was coming.
Chapter Thirteen
“Did you find the stronzo?” Giuseppe scowled.
The nervous timbre in the voice of the person in charge of the search answered. “No, he is not at the address.”
Giuseppe hit his fist on the desk. He had remained home for the construction crew to repair the damages made to the walls and windows. Two days of banging, smelling paint and replacing broken furniture would not fix the problem. That Harold, had slithered under a rock and he wanted him found, until he was, he refused to go to the office. The employees would find the workplace extremely hostile.
The shit of a cugino would have done so if Alfonzo asked. Giuseppe promised that Nico would incur his wrath, although Nico would laugh as usual.
He even called his fratellino. When Alfonzo’s reaction had been indifference, Giuseppe accused him of being part of Nico’s conspiracy to do nothing. What did he care about Mafiosi business when his donna had him frying in the cucina, eh?
But, Alfonzo is a cazzo who seeks to remind him of his duties when he is burning alive. “Fratello, I know shit’s going on with you, but you have to attend. I can’t send Nico but I’ll have someone on it, all right?” That is what Alfonzo said verbatim. That is useless. Everybody knows Nico finds people and kills them quietly; anyone else on the task is second rate. Alfonzo was selfish. When he saw his fratellino, he planned to beat his half, or is it one-third Latino-African-Sicilian –eh- he was a mutt because if he were a full Sicilian he would understand the necessity of aiding famiglia!
Bastardi!
The vibration against his chest alerted him to an incoming call and he reached to his pocket to answer as he shoved past Vittorio, his useless soldati.
“Cosa cugino?”
“I hear you’ve phoned your baby brother with a complaint. Since your people aren’t worth a damn, I took a minute to help you. Check your messages, then take care of your personal business, and then have your ass at that meeting. Ciao you big bambino. Wa-Wa!” Nico said and then hung up.
Giuseppe checked his messages. A map with a red thumbtack and directions. Nico the comedian inserted an emoticon with a tongue sticking out and a hand with its middle finger in simulation of an obscene gesture.
“Eh, fuck you too!” Giuseppe bellowed at the phone although Nico was no longer there.
The workers were silent; Giuseppe Dichenzo had anger management problems.
