Omerta: Book One (Battaglia Mafia Series 8)

by Sienna Mynx

  The Diva’s Pen LLC Publication

  http://thedivaspen.com

  Omertá I

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Omertá I © Copyright 2018 Sienna Mynx

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, The Diva’s Pen LLC.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Authors Note

  PRELUDE

  OMERTA BOOK I | ACT ONE | Fall | November 1994 | The Year of the Babies

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  OMERTA BOOK I | ACT TWO | Winter | December 1994

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  OMERTA BOOK I | ACT THREE | Winter | February 1995

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Works by Sienna Mynx

  Authors Note

  Dear Beloveds,

  It been a long time. Hasn’t it? There are excuses I can offer but fortunately I will not list any. I have deep love and devotion for every book, every page, every character that I’ve made in the Battaglia universe. Still, if I were to be honest, the mere thought of concluding this series fills me with relief.

  I’ve said before that we writers draw inspiration from the antenna’s we that we connect to the world. We are empaths, it’s the only explanation for where the source of our creativity flows. Since 2016 ended and 2017 began it’s been really hard to find love in the world. And like any true empath the division in this country and in my community pained me deeply. It impacted everything for me. It robbed me of my creativity. In September of this year I reconvened with my sister authors and poured out my disappointment and failings with my writing. Where had it gone? How could I let the world around me take so much?

  After one week of isolation from television, social media, civilization I felt a change in me. I can’t unplug from the world. But I’ve learned again to be careful about every and anything I let in. So back to writing I went. The prose I once thought of as dull and uninteresting sparked new ideas. And I realized what ‘freedom to create’ really meant. Writing again brought back to me the biggest relief. I am free to do as I chose, and through my art I can resolve family, world, criminal conflicts my way. That’s real freedom.

  Now to the good stuff. I must warn you my lovelies, Omertá is the best tested version of love in the series. It’s not a test of sensuality or romance. It’s a test of loyalty, family, and persevering. For the series Omertá I and Omertá II are the most important. You will learn who Giovanni and Lorenzo are. You will see what a wife married to the Camorra must sacrifice. You will discover the legacy that can be a curse for the new generations to come. So much happens, and it happens quick. However, the ending makes the struggle worth it. I’d like to think that this is also what will follow these dire times we live in. A full circle back to the best of us, back to love and tolerance, which must include forgiveness. Freedom from hatred and bigotry can be found in books. I will do my best to share the worst and best of dark romance to make it to the happily ever after in the end!

  Cheers to Battaglia!

  Happy Reading!

  This is just the beginning!

  Sienna Mynx

  PRELUDE

  There Is A Little Boy Inside the Man Who Is My Brother

  Sorrento Italy – 1977

  THE GUN IN HIS JACKET pocket couldn’t be brought upstairs. Out of respect for his mother he tucked the weapon into the soil of a potted plant situated at the foot of the stairs. Sealed by chrome the shooter’s handle was all that could be seen beneath the long slender fern leaves. This was Giovanni’s preferred hiding spot when in a hurry. And today he was in a big hurry. Running up the stairs two steps at a time he rushed into the hall and found his cugino had already arrived.

  “Did Flavio send for you too?” Giovanni huffed between deep breaths. He removed the cap from his head and approached with the calm swagger that the sons of la Camorristi practiced. Though he was in a hurry, it was expected of the Don’s son to always appear unfazed even in front of family.

  “Che cazzo?” Lorenzo, his cugino, chuckled. “You sprung a leak or something?”

  Giovanni looked down at the puddles he tracked into the hall. Thunderstorms were rare in their region of the world but when a rainstorm came the torrents got the best of the villagers who preferred to travel by Vespas and motorbikes. It made navigation of the winding cobblestone roads in the hamlets much easier. The downpour had soaked through his black and red ‘Members Only’ racer jacket so thoroughly it clung to his arms and chest like latex. He found Lorenzo seated outside of Patri’s office dry as a bone in his sanitation workman’s gear. His cousin must have been there for a while. He and a few of the boys were forced to work the sanitation yards to cover the Battaglia interests on certain days of the week. The questions he had for the summons were many, but one persisted over the others: Why wasn’t Lorenzo at work today?

  “What the hell happened to you?” Lorenzo asked. He shook his head in disgust and turned his gaze away.

  “It’s rainwater not piss. Give me a fucking break,” Giovanni replied.

  Giovanni stepped forward. His withdrawal would provoke Lorenzo to stand. But he remained seated with his head now bowed between his shoulders. There was something wrong. Not just with the weather or the early summons he received to return home. There was something wrong with Lo, and that always meant trouble for him as well.

  “Che? Tell me. Why are we—?”

  “Zitto! Let me think! Shut your mouth.” Lorenzo tossed up his hands in frustration.

  “Vaffanculo! Don’t tell me to shut up.” Giovanni snapped back.

  Lorenzo groaned. He slumped forward again. “Keep your voice down. They can still hear behind that door.”

  Giovanni gaze cut again to the closed door.

  Lorenzo continued, “I got in late and woke later than expected. I was rushing, hurrying to work before I could leave Flavio sent for me. I’ve been waiting over an hour,” Lorenzo mumbled with a dismissive hand toss. His knee shook, and his foot did a rapid tapping at the heel. When Lorenzo looked up through the jungle foliage of hair that covered his brow Giovanni understood a plausible reason for his cousins’ distress. Lorenzo had a split lip with garish black and red bruises under his right eye that stretched to his cheek.

  “Let me guess? You and Santo went down into the peninsula. Visited one of Patri’s Italo-disco clubs again?” Giovanni asked. />
  “You’re always too busy to join us,” Lorenzo remarked.

  “I heard three tourists were taken to the hospital last night after a big fight destroyed the front of Luce Rossa. I know Patri will be pissed. Luce Rossa is a honey pot for him. One of the better ones. Was it you two? Did Nico join in the fun?” Giovanni sat back and rested against the wall.

  “Fucking foreigners.”

  “Eh?”

  “It’s the fucking foreigners!”

  “Aaah... I get it now; you always have someone to blame.” Giovanni shook his head.

  “Che cosa? Blame me? Really? You don’t know what happened. I say it’s not our fault, because it’s not.” Lorenzo answered.

  “Patri will disagree.”

  “They come here and try to take our women, flash their cash and shit. Santo and I had to send a message to a maiale who had no manners. Not to just him, but to everyone—even the workers. Are we the fucking Camorra or not? I’m the nephew of the greatest man... Don Tomosino and—”

  “Save the speech for Patri,” Giovanni yawned.

  Lorenzo grimaced.

  “It sounds rehearsed? Eh?” Lorenzo asked.

  “A little.”

  “Then I’m fucked.”

  Giovanni nodded in agreement. The Italian disco scene brought in more foreigners than any of the men were used to. Whereas Lorenzo preferred everything from food to his women to be Sicilian and Italian in that order, Giovanni did not. He thirsted for travel outside of Italy. To mix it up with other foreigners. He’d like to see the Great Wall of China, surf the shark infested waters of Australia or South Africa, visit the Statue of Liberty in America, stand in front of the Taj Mahal. He had no desire to assimilate into the blood legacy of their fathers—though it was expected. If he had gone to the club with Santo and Lorenzo instead of spending the night taking Catalina and Dominic to the street festival in Naples, he would have knuckled up with any foreigner in the very same way. Maybe even drawn ‘Danny Boy’ (his beloved pistola) to even the score.

  “I miss Carlo,” Lorenzo mumbled. “Questa vita is never fun or easy with him gone.”

  “This life isn’t supposed to be fun or easy.”

  “What are you saying? Rocco and Patri have had it fun and easy for years!” Lorenzo spat.

  “Have they? Do you think Rocco is having fun now in Chianti bottling wine that no one drinks?”

  Lorenzo chuckled.

  Giovanni smiled. “Aye! Is there any news? Will Carlo be approved for an early release?”

  “Flavio says no. Carlo has more time on the books because he keeps getting into fights with the other inmates. Carlo says he’s defending himself, but I know it must be hard to not to want to crack skulls every day in that cage. Each time I visit him he has bruises and cuts. And Patri won’t do shit about it. È una merda, Gio. Carlo deserves better.”

  Giovanni glanced to the closed door. He shook his head. It was better not to go down that road. There lingered a festering bitterness over Patri’s refusal to help Carlo and it grew deeper with each year that passed.

  “You think Patri is angry at you? About the discotheque? Does Patri think I was with you?” Giovanni asked.

  “Why would he care?”

  “You moron. The rules! That’s why,” Giovanni said with a snort.

  “Eh? One set of rules for you little cousin and then another for me. I have to go off and work the sanitation pits and wallow in shit all day while you get to fuck girls down in Positano.”

  “Aww, don’t start your complaining,” Giovanni grumbled.

  “I’m not complaining. Just stating the truth. What if I were Patri’s son? His first born. Would this be my life?” Lorenzo plucked the collar of his sanitation uniform.

  “Maybe,” Lorenzo shrugged.

  “Bullshit! I'm the stooge. Patri only makes the money in the clubs because Santo and I hustle in the drunk tourists to be robbed by the Roma whores. We keep the cash flow going and everyone knows it. Even with the leashes on our necks.”

  “You should never fuck with business Lo, It's Patri’s number one rule. You’ve done it more than once. You shit where we all eat.”

  Lorenzo shrugged.

  “I break rules because I have no choice. Every rule out there is to keep me in line not to advance me. And that’s the difference between you and I,” said Lorenzo.

  “What can I do to change it? Nothing! Niente di niente!” Giovanni tossed back.

  “Eh, fuck it. I miss Carlo. That’s my real problem. He’s the only brother I have that understands me.”

  The dig hurt. Giovanni covered his feelings. He knew Lorenzo suffered after the imprisonment of his best friend. He knew Lorenzo constantly went to Sicily to visit the jails and pay the guards to make life easier for Carlo. He grabbed his cousin’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “I will cover the damages for you,” Giovanni offered. “We aren’t just cousins. We’re brothers—not you and Carlo. Your problems are my problems. Plus, I’ll tell Patri that the scuffle only gives us a tougher reputation and that always benefits the clan.”

  “Your funeral,” Lorenzo mumbled.

  Giovanni laughed. “Bury me with a Roma whore so at least I can get some good pussy out of it.”

  They both laughed. Sex was something they could always agree on and lately their experimental moods pushed them both toward whores instead of the prissy Catholic girls who wanted to be married before they could ease their hands under their skirts.

  Giovanni slouched back against the wall. Lorenzo glared at the door with flared nostrils and a dented brow. They waited together in silence. Giovanni glanced over to his cousin. Lorenzo was his own worst enemy. But he wasn’t to blame. Patri ignored his accomplishments and his mother hammered on his failures. Maybe if Lorenzo’s father had lived he’d have more balance. It often felt like his cousin was as much of an outcast as Carlo. Maybe that is why they were so close.

  “Forza, ti copro le spalle—Have some strength, I’m covering your shoulders,” Giovanni said.

  Lorenzo nodded and rolled his neck like a prize fighter about to enter the ring. “This meeting is strange.”

  “Strange how?” Giovanni asked.

  “Your mother is inside. And so is mine.”

  “Inside? With Patri and Flavio?” Giovanni asked.

  “I’m telling you. Since Rocco is banished Flavio and Patri are acting weird. Now they have my mom in there? It’s going to be a bunch of yammering bullshit and the only bloodshed will be mine.”

  “Well my mom is in there, so whatever it is she’ll make sure Patri deals with you fairly.”

  “Deal with me? As if I’m guilty!” he scoffed.

  “You said—” Giovanni stammered.

  “Eh? Don’t justify it. Besides let’s not argue. It could be something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mancini?” Lorenzo proposed. “I heard that there’s a truce now between the families. Patri and Don Marsuvio are doing business again. Guess you didn’t stick Armando hard enough in the gut. It could be you that is in trouble. You might have to suck Armando’s dick one last time for an apology.”

  Giovanni felt his temper rise. He hated to think of the time after he stabbed Armando, and Lorenzo knew this. Not because he regretted what he’d done. He’d wished he killed the bastard. The angst he felt was much deeper. It was the beginning of the divide between him and his father. All his life he had tried to prove himself strong. From jumping off cliffs when he was six into the sea, to standing by and watching his father murder his enemies. He even learned how to be a marksman with an axe. But when he stabbed Armando over a girl he proved his true weakness. Lorenzo had been crowned Patri’s favorite. And it hurt until the reversal came. Maybe the rivalry between him and Lorenzo wasn’t their faults. Both boomeranged between acceptance and ridicule with the Don.

  “I also heard Patri has promised Catalina to Armando Mancini. For marriage.”

  “È una stronzata!” Giovanni leapt to his
feet. “That’s bullshit.”

  Lorenzo’s left brow arched. He paused for dramatic effect. “Is it really? Do you think those fucking Sicilians would forgive you for attacking their golden boy if it didn’t come at a price? I heard Madre telling Zia about the plan. Catalina’s part of the deal for the truce between our families. Even trade. You stab Mancini’s little prince, Patri gives Mancini our princess in return.”

  Giovanni’s nostrils flared, and his chest constricted. He clenched his hands into tight fists. “Over my fucking dead body will that bastardo ever marry piccoletta. It will never happen.”

  “Whoa, there big man, hold your nuts!” Lorenzo laughed. “Stop swinging them in my face. We both know you can’t stop Patri from doing shit. And trust me it’s not because of you and the knife. It’s because Patri would sell any of us off to have control in la Camorra and the Mafiosi.”

  “This is no laughing matter!”

  “I agree. But you’re acting like you the boss is always funny to me,” said Lorenzo.

  Giovanni grimaced.

  “There’s no way we can stop it if Patri wants it. Maybe Armando won’t want to wait until Catalina’s old enough and he’ll marry someone else?”

  “It shouldn’t happen. But if it does, then we need to protect her,” Giovanni said.

  If a great white shark could smile when it smelled blood in the water it would look the way Lorenzo did at the thought of violence. Giovanni was no pussy, but he didn’t enjoy maiming, killing and torturing the way Lorenzo, Santo, and Carlo did.

  “I’ll fucking cut him myself. On my life Gio. When the time comes, whenever it comes, I will gut him.”

  Giovanni smiled and agreed.

  “Giuro che rispetterò e onorerò la vita!” The boys both chanted their motto and did the hand slaps of their gang. It was an old saying by elders who sat in front of cafes along the Amalfi sipping cappuccino and wearing caps. Giovanni smiled, and Lorenzo laughed but touched his jaw and winced.

  “Hurts? Huh?” Giovanni asked.

  “I’ll live,” Lorenzo said.

  The door opened. Flavio walked out. He glanced to Giovanni and then to Lorenzo. “Vieni con me—come with me.”