by S. W. Frank
“Papa! Papa!” Carlo exclaimed making a racket that told her Giuseppe entered.
“Eh, giovani you are as tall as papa. Is that a moustache?” she heard her husband say.
“He-he-he!” Carlo laughed loudly as his father held him in the air tickling his stomach. They entered the kitchen that way and Nicole ceased wiping the counter.
She smiled, placing the cloth aside, while Francesca moved in shadow. “Hi there.”
Giuseppe set Carlo on his feet. Nicole gave the boy the salad dressing to put on the table. Francesca took the bowl and Nicole nodded. “Grazie Francesca. When you’re done you can leave.”
“Grazie Signora Dichenzo, Signore Dichenzo,” the woman said respectfully and hurried out on Carlo’s small heels.
Giuseppe smirked, crossing the short distance to his donna, trapping her against the counter with outstretched arms. He pressed his palms on the marble, and the action flexed the sleeves of his suit when he kissed his moglie while holding himself aloft. He did not want to crush the future she protected with skin and bones. He expressed his desire without shame, because a person who loses much hungers to hold and dies to protect what he values most.
“Measure me by my deeds that were done out of love and protection of mi famiglia when a day comes that I am judged by either of you cazzos,” is what Nico had said to him and his brother, as they shared drinks late into the night after that tension-filled meeting of Dons.
Nico, ah, his cugino, although irritable and an arrogant stronzo, understood the force of a heart that beats for famiglia. Simply thinking about them brought excitement and fierce pride –famiglia, ancient and present.
For Amelda he would slaughter, for his mama, Alfonzo, even Nico if he needed, without question, he would do the same for his donna. She would learn that he is hard because he knows no other way to show soft affections.
There are bad deeds he must do, some which others unaccustomed to hardships may not understand. He thought of Yosef, who kept secrets from his mama and promised to pay him a visit very soon.
“Papa…mama…andiamo a mangiare!”
Giuseppe smirked as he detached. His eyes held a naughty gleam. “Sí, andiamo a mangiare. Più tardi, mangio mamma.”
Nicole licked Giuseppe’s cigar sweetness from her lips. Dang, whatever he said sounded sexy in Italian. A major plus about Giuseppe was he also knew his way around a woman’s body and could make it scream –the badass.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A lamp thrown like a baseball careened over Nico’s head. Tiffany’s feet hurdled over the sofa like a flying bird. She was swifter than he imagined, more agile than a gazelle.
The sting of his flesh was minor. She gained his admiration for the ability to slice through his jacket to flesh. She had done what Tony could not and that is to wound an expert. Her hand was on the door, he nearly lost the bet when she twisted the knob, but forgot to unlock the mechanism and that’s how he won. Panic makes people forget. He caught her wrist and a slight twist released the weapon. She screamed and his palm covered her airway.
She used the door to push off with her feet and they went backward into furniture. Nico’s ass toppled over the sofa, however the vice held. His long limbs maneuvered across the length of the couch with her on top, kicking violently to the ceiling.
She flailed, elbowing him in the ribs, scratching his thighs and valiantly fighting to stay alive. That’s what a warrior heart does. There is no kindness in murder, yet he sought to hold her the way a crab shields an oyster.
Masculine legs wrapped over her torso, ceasing movement of her arms. He allowed her to kick. The action was harmless.
“Ssshhh, relax. Soon, it will be over.”
She heaved at the loss of oxygen. Her stomach and chest were opposing waves as the air remained trapped inside, building up gases. She began to lose consciousness. The oxygen deprivation caused the neurons in her brain to misfire sending incomplete commands to the rest of her body. Three minutes had yet to elapse. In six minutes or so there would be total brain death. Hot breaths on Nico’s palm that clamped her nose and mouth turned shallow. He recited a story to comfort the dying and to pass the time.
“There was a boy, a loving child who found peace in his art. He saw beauty all around, in flowers, people and even the bugs.”
Tiffany’s respirations slowed.
“He would never have harmed a fly, this giovani because he saw life as cycles, things die through natural selection, by people it was unfathomable to this sweet boy. He had decided an artist is what he would become. Paint the faces, landscapes, and whatever his heart desired.”
Nico’s chin rested in Tiffany’s hair and thick strands tickled his nose. Her buttocks were soft as they rested against his stomach, and he sighed in the pause. He had liked this couple, had hopes Tony had lived up to his expectations, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
The oxygen withheld by his hand caused her stomach to bloat. He felt its rise and continued, holding in a lethal cradling of an adult child while telling her a lullaby because that is what he sought to do, lull her to eternal peace.
“Then there came a time when the innocence he painted turned to abstract horror. He was told he could not pursue what he loved. The dream life he wanted had been killed by a duty. He underwent intense training as a protettore for the Protezione of the Giacanti famiglia. That’s Italian for protector and security. I know you did not know that. Ah, anyway, this boy cried, in the dark, even considered running away but he never wanted to leave his family. His brother never cried and when the child witnessed that, he grew brave, like his brother and held the tears inside. His brother would make him laugh and tell him to paint upon the victims; pretend the knife is a paintbrush and what he did when he had to kill bad people was pretend he was a knight, saving the kingdom. The boy did this. At first, the cutting was hard and then the second became easier when he saw there is art in killing and he sought to be masterful. He left nothing of horror, although the deeds are.”
No sounds or twitches.
The breathing ceased.
No life except a killer’s who stared at the ceiling holding a corpse.
How long he lay there was long enough to smell metal burning and scorched food. Nico’s eyes watered, he told himself from the smoke, yet stone breaks, too.
He saw nothing beyond his family. From a child, he was sworn to duty.
Who would cry for him in death?
Who but family would understand.
Protection of family is his responsibility.
Tiffany should have gone, but love held her firm, just as it had a boy taught to kill anyone who poses a threat to famiglia.
Tiffany was a witness to his crime.
She could not live.
His hand slipped from the nose and pale lips to make art from death. Nico turned off the stove, set the table for a mock meal and propped bodies in chairs. He collected the couple's phones, and then cleaned all of their computers.
A death artisan sat at the table with the dead, working loose Tony’s cell to implant an explosive microchip, synced with a timer, which he inserted with deft fingers, leaving it beside the bowl of scorched jambalaya. He sat Tiffany’s cell in the living room on an end table with a similar device installed; however, her cell would make a call at a set hour to her sister with a prerecorded message using a voice app that sounded like the deceased.
Nico looked around at the broken furnishings and nodded.
They had fought this couple, perhaps had they fought harder they may have survived. He retrieved the bloody knife from the floor and washed it clean before going upstairs to shower and bandage his cut. He borrowed a shirt and burned the soiled one in the backyard before going to the shed w
here he had stored a special component that would demolish the home. He had to use construction tools to set everything exact. The entire project took over an hour, and when he finished he carried away the evidence for disposal before climbing aboard his motorcycle, putting on his helmet, kicking up the stand and starting the engine.
He took one last look at the desolate villa and then zoomed away.
Fresh air, it is good for the lungs and the soul.
It’s cleansing after death.
~
Ari heard Nico’s bike. She gave Sophie a rundown of Nico’s favorite foods and added in a few of her own for good measure. The menu list was the most important as far as Ari was concerned. Nicole had agreed to perform, which she knew Nico would enjoy and the twins were the DJ’s for the remainder of the event. Then Sophie told her Bianca had remarried and was at sea for the honeymoon. Nico had already told her, Sophie was late.
She secretly hoped Bianca fell overboard and drowned, which is wicked to say, but true.
Anyway, she would have to accept Bianca and Nico had a child together. The new spouse would never harm Nico’s son if he knew what was good for him. Nico would hunt the bastard down if he did.
“Okay Sophie, ciao,” she said before quickly checking her stocks. A value increase is always good and that made her smile.
Ari logged out and then shut off the computer to head downstairs to check on Semira who had wanted to watch cartoons with Anna. The boys were visiting Sal. It was a Friday evening, no school in the morning and she figured they’d be okay until she learned Selange and Alfonzo had gone out of town for the weekend and Anita had the children.
She cursed the boys for trying to be slick. They were always up to something; damn kids took after their mother and father.
“Bring your asses’ home tonight, not tomorrow,” she scolded and hoped they listened.
Ari guessed hanging around a pregnant girl wasn’t fun. All Anna seemed to want to do is eat and sleep.
Yes, she and Semira had their heads on the arm of the sofa knocked out cold. Some silly cartoon played, worsened by a corny theme song. Ari snickered, those two were easy to handle, give them food, and a bed and they were in heaven.
She slipped on her sneakers and trudged outside.
Nico showboated, doing a front wheel stand and he whistled when she stepped on the lawn. “Ooh la la ciao bella you’re looking good!”
Ari blushed. “Who are you today, Mario Andretti?”
The back wheel bounced to earth, he did a skid and a half-moon turn and came to an abrupt halt. “That’s a former race car driver bella.”
“So, who cares?” She waved her hand at him. “Can we go for a ride?”
“Grab a helmet,” he said.
She ran to the back of the house where he kept spares and returned with an antique. She snapped it on and climbed behind him, scooting forward, deliberately humping his ass. “Ready,” she said wrapping her arms around his waist and whooping as he skidded off.
She leaned her cheek against Nico’s spine to shield her eyes from the wind. She clutched tighter as he sped across familiar paths, rolling over dirt and grass as the engine revved beneath them like a vibrator.
She didn’t care where he took her. The thrill was traveling somewhere unknown. When he raced the bike to a deserted farmhouse, she smirked. The rear wheels turned in a smooth rotation to stop against the side of the main house overgrown by weeds and vines. His foot, kicked down after easing off the clutch. He didn’t say anything, but she could sense his fire before he removed his helmet, hung it from a handlebar and then lifted her off.
Nico moved in lightning speed to unlatch her protective headgear, tossing it down and working loose the snap and zipper to her jeans as Ari worked loose his. They laughed at themselves for being coordinated and horny.
Nico had to do a hop removal of his boots and his weapon spilled out. He kicked it aside before getting out of the denim restriction. Ari was far more graceful, a tilt of the toes and dainty lift of her heel is how she removed her sneakers, smiling at the sexy biker and wanting to eat him.
A woman wiggles out of her jeans, a shimmy action tease act that when done correctly will have a lover diving in to help. Nico assisted all right, spinning her around over the seat of his bike and going in from the saddle. Ari came so fast he slapped her ass for her lack of control before giving him a shower. Ari laughed pressing her ass to his pelvis, bouncing his bike like a ball when he inserted in deep and her twitching pussy kissed his snake.
“Vous aimez ce?” she asked in French.
“Oui,” he answered, because he liked her being naughty very much.
“Étiez-vous un bon garçon aujourd'hui?” she asked, swirling around his penis, massaging him with her lubricants and sending him deeper.
He didn’t lie. He wasn’t a good boy; in fact, he was bad as fuck and confessed the statement in French. “J'étais mauvais comme de la baise, Ari.”
She moaned unable to answer with a reply when he took hold of her stomach and slid warm hands up her top to hold her breasts and fucked her standing making her scream his name during the ‘all'aperto’ orgasm.
Nico smirked. He would say alfresco, but only Americans would use such a term and believe it meant outdoors, when the literal term translated from Italian means in jail. Italians don't say that. Heck, many terms are lost in translation or take on new meaning for English speakers, but sex is universal.
He sucked on Ari’s neck and gave his woman a hickey letting loose with a hose of liquid heat that she suctioned in with such greed he slapped her ass for her to release she held on so damn tight.
“Shit sweetheart, I’m going to need a splint,” he said when he withdrew and wind served as an air-conditioner to cool the wet heat on his throbbing skin.
Ari leaned to him laughing. “Umm, that was good Mario, can we do that again?”
He slapped her bottom harder. “Don’t get greedy Frenchie, I’m hungry.” The aroma of jambalaya remained in his brain. He should’ve eaten and not allowed the food to burn.
Dannazione!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alfonzo had the rental car checked out thoroughly before he and his wife settled in for the ride. A black hybrid isn’t anything flashy, nor was his attire. No tailored suit, custom leather shoes, Indian cotton shirts that breathed or specialty pieces with monograms to hold with jewels a tie or sleeve. The wedding ring was the bling, his wife the precious jewel and the tattoos on his flesh the stories outlined similar to hieroglyphics on a warrior-lover’s body.
He wore aviator shades, Yankee cap, a casual T-shirt quality pullover, black jeans and retro Jordans. Regular gear for the streets, except Alfonzo made urban wear look fashionably good.
His wife was checking him out, and he was similarly thinking how fly she looked when dressed down. That’s the girl from back in the day, simple and sexy without trying. Clad in khaki pants, Polo sneakers and a girly T that said;DON’T LOOK AT ME, I’M WITH MY PAPI!
The matching Yankee cap had been inscribed with their private joke and it covered her hair:HONEY.
Selange wasn’t the girl in the baseball hat type, she only agreed because he gave her the T-Shirt and gear as a disguise. If she had her way, she’d wear a dress and heels to display shapely brown legs that he eagerly parted to eat honey delights.
A finger pushed the female aviators up more on the bridge of her nose, the little bling on the side sparkled in the sun and he wished he could pull over and bang her on the street because of the dainty gesture. Little things turned him on about
his wife. He never wanted to hide those affections.
Nah, never.
Treating her good is what she deserved for holding him down over the years through crap that without a good woman might’ve been a perpetual hell.
He tried not to think about his mom. He had to let that go for a while. All he could do is hope; she hadn’t meant what she said and would eventually phone when she wanted to talk. Until then, he put his energy into his family and that’s what he was doing now.
Selange was his queen and he treated her like that because she made him feel like a king…on top of the world love…sappy and corny shit…but real. She came to his aid the other night and somehow he did feel better knowing she’d stand at his side, no matter what.
“Loving the jeans mami,” he said, patting her thigh and then rubbing her knee while driving up to the tollbooth. “Damn, when did they increase the fare?” he asked aloud before digging in his wallet.
Selange leaned back, checking the side mirror. The guards had stayed tight on their tail from JFK. The Capo didn’t look happy, nope, but her husband insisted on the rental and being alone with her during their visit. He said he wanted to feel the street again, not in luxury, but normalcy.
He slapped bills in the clerk’s hand and kept his palm up for the change.
“Have a nice one,” the clerk said politely.
“Y tú, tambien,” Alfonzo replied, tossing the quarters in the cup holder.
The security bar went up and they rolled through. Selange laughed and Alfonzo asked, “What’s so funny babe?”
“Remember the time the cops chased us on this bridge?”
“The putos were going hard but you handled that car without killing us.” Alfonzo snickered. He’d thought they were dead for sure. Selange wasn’t the best driver; however, she managed to hold her own. Man, she shocked him at every turn and he knew he’d chosen the right woman. He didn’t have any second thoughts about his decision anymore; no arguments about letting her go because he couldn’t. The woman sitting on his right who mothered his children and gave lightness to his soul was his eternity love, plain as rain.
