by Sienna Mynx
If the Campania was the buckle to the boot of Italy that kept the criminal element fastened tight, then the Puglia region was the boot heel used to crush any opposition. The Puglia’s held tight to the territory that reached the Adriatic Sea, while the Camorristi clans controlled the Tyrrhenian sea that flowed straight out into the Mediterranean. It was envy that kept the Puglia’s from advancing beyond this disadvantage. Envy made men greedy, less insightful, and extremely paranoid. Envy was the root to the tree of bigotry for all the clan bosses. And yes, they were all bigots. Not only for race and religion but for blood and country. Giovanni was a half-Sicilian bastard who kept the Camorristi under his thumb by fate not destiny. Don Bruno Santoro was for the Puglia’s the same fate-bound leader. A five-foot-three Italian with dark black hair slicked flat to his balding head who was rumored to be mixed with gypsy blood. A man who preferred to dress like a farmer than a leader of importance. The Don was, however, crueler and more ruthless than any clan boss in his region. Santoro loved to torture his victims with boiling water. He’d tie them up on his land and have his men pour cast iron pots of water over his victims until all the skin melted from their flesh. He would then hang them from trees upside down, barely alive, for the crows to finish off. He was ruthless but never strategic or ambitious enough to turn his power into a multi-million-dollar profit.
When Giovanni appeared it only took seconds before Santoro’s men stepped aside and the old Don made an appearance as well. He looked Giovanni over with a scowl of disapproval.
“I thought you were nearly dead,” Santoro said and nodded toward Gio’s cane. “I’d planned the party for it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll have to cancel,” Giovanni smiled.
“Maybe not.” Santoro looked to his sons. The men in his clan all held guns aimed at Giovanni and his small entourage. “Che cazzo vuoi—what the fuck do you want Battaglia?”
“To have this talk.”
Santoro smiled. “You come to me on your cane? Or is this how you get on your knees?”
“I bow to no one. Better men have tried and failed.”
Santoro raised the gun in his hand and aimed it at Giovanni’s face. “A lot has changed Giovanni. Benicia, Licciardi, Racchi, Lorenzo are all gone.” He released the safety on his gun. “Grazie, for making this easy for me.”
“Add Tacchini to that list,” Giovanni replied.
Santoro’s lopsided grin dissolved. He frowned. He glanced to one of his sons who didn’t have an explanation. “Tacchini? Don Piero Tacchini? Your Judas? I heard he was fucking your wife while you took that long nap.”
Giovanni stepped forward with a white-knuckle grip on the rounded tip of his cane. The guns clicked that were trained on him, but he itched for a fight that neither of the Dons could win. The only way to resolve an insult, such as, the one thrown in his face would be to take Santoro’s life. The poor bastard would learn soon not to disrespect him, and he couldn’t wait for the lesson.
“Tacchini never touched her,” Gio said, his voice low and each word pronounced through clenched teeth and barely parted lips. “But he insulted me by making you dogs think he did. I know you have a long enough memory to recall what happens when anyone insults me about my wife.”
“Papa!” The oldest of Santoro’s sons who looked equal to Nico’s age and height said in his graveled voice. “Lasciate che lo uccida adesso, ponendo così fine alla faccenda. You heard him. He’s the last of the Camorristi. The rumors are true. That Donna Nera of his has destroyed la Camorra. We take him down the Campania is ours. He’s given us the power by coming here. Let’s do it.”
Giovanni’s gaze didn’t shift or lower. The old Don's smug response changed. He had a nose like a blood hound. Santoro’s gaze went left to the dark forest blanketed by fog.
“Be quiet fool. This isn’t right,” Don Santoro said. “We have more Battaglias.”
“Where?” a few men asked in unison. They turned in every direction to face an unseen enemy. Santoro spat a few curse words and lowered his gun. Over a hundred of Giovanni’s ruffians on motorbikes sped out of the fog with shooters riding to the back holding guns ready to light what was left of the night. Santoro men scattered to take cover and aim while some of them would have fired none of them did without their Don’s protection secured. And that’s who the Santoro’s went for first. Three covered their boss while one tried to force him to the car. In doing so junior Santoro was left vulnerable. Nico was closest and seized the opportunity. He wrestled down the oldest son and then yanked him up by his throat with a death grip. They may have been equal in brawn but no one was stronger and had more stealth than Nico. Santoro’s boy hung limp under Nico’s crushing chokehold with his arm and legs flailing.
“Fermati, Assunta, non sparare!” Don Santoro said to his men. “Stop! Don’t shoot!”
The ambush wasn’t a ploy or tactic it was a strategic show of defense with men who would die to protect their sworn allegiance. Arriving behind the chaos was a single truck-wagon. Bound and gagged were the younger sons of the men in the Puglia clan.
It took only seconds before the chaotic rebellion was reduced to compliant shock. The look of horror and concern on some of the men’s faces could not be shielded by bravado. Umberto opened the bed of the truck and forced the boys some as young as eleven out. Nico let go of the son of Santoro and the man dropped to his knees wheezing. While the Puglia’s were arrogantly gathering and plotting against Giovanni’s visit, Umberto led Giovanni’s lost boys into a raid of the old Dons hamlets to drag out the sons of the men on the list given to him by Dominic.
“We can have your war Santoro, or you and I can discuss the Camorristi. The new Camorristi, where the Puglia clans are invited to the table.” Giovanni walked over to one of the children. He put the gun back in the waist of his pants and used his cane to balance him as he knelt before the child.
“Come ti chiami?” Giovanni asked the youngest boy.
“Auturo,” the child said and tried to be brave and hold back his tears.
“Ah, Auturo, I had a cousin named Auturo. My uncle Rocco’s boy. He was a good boy. Are you a good boy Auturo?” Giovanni asked.
The boy didn’t answer.
Giovanni wiped the tears from the child’s cheek with his thumb, and then patted and ruffled the hair at the top of his head. “Don’t be afraid. I’m your Godfather. Don Giovanni, and I only want to be friends with your grandfather.”
“You are no friend to children, Giovanni. How many Calderone babes did you bury?”
Giovanni glanced back. “Enough for you to know not to make an enemy of me. You and I can be helpful to one another. Secure Auturo’s future. Of you can fuck the kid over by testing my patience.”
“What is there left to discuss? The Campania is a dumpster-fire. Whether I help or not it’s going to burn.”
“Ah? But for the first time in a hundred years the Puglia clan can have unfettered access to the bay. The land of milk and honey. Access no other clan bosses will be granted.” Giovanni’s gaze lifted from the child and shifted to the defiant Don. “Access you couldn’t get in my dumpster fire if I were chained like a dog behind prison bars or buried six feet under.” Giovanni stood again with the help of his cane. “And do you know why I’m so generous?”
Santoro frowned.
“Let me explain,” Giovanni said but this time addressed the men and boys who were all riveted by his words. “Because there are greater enemies then me. All invading our country, stealing from our table. Ndrangheta’s are weak. They give power in the triangle to the Armenians, Nigerians, Russians, Chinese, have you ever met these men? Sat across the table from them?”
Don Santoro said nothing.
“Of course not. You think they are beneath you. I’m here to tell you they are not. They will stomp through my Amalfi into your territory and burn everything to the ground.” Giovanni paused for dramatic effect and then continued. “I’ve met these men; these foreigners and I’ve finished their bosses. You know m
y history. You know why they call me the Capu di tutti capi. I will defeat them all on my own if I choose. But if I do it alone I take it all, including Puglia.” Giovanni smirked as Don Santoro’s fear surfaced on his face and he looked to the little boy Auturo with concern. He’d finally found the Don’s achilles heel. Dominic had told him that this was the favored grandson. He was right. He took the boy by the hand and pulled him closer.
“What is it that you want?” Don Santoro demanded.
“A friendship. A partnership. A bargain.”
“An alliance would make me an idiot. The other clans will see it as a betrayal.” Santoro reasoned.
“Are you a mouse or a man? I dealt with the Camorristi you deal with your own clans.”
“Dealt? You betrayed your vow. You destroyed your brothers... you let your wife—”
“My hands have blood on them. That is true. But I am their Don. And that comes at a price.”
“It’s a trap, Papa,” The oldest Santoro wheezed while holding his throat. “He wants to divide our regions the way he’s divided his own.”
“I would think hard on this one,” Giovanni advised. “What I am suggesting is reconstruction. One clan falls, and another rises from the ashes. Soon I will have the Camorristi rebuilt. But today our enemies aren’t the polizia or parliament. Today the enemies are from the West and the East. Are we the brotherhood of Camorra or not? Is this our country or not?”
“What are the terms of this alliance? Threatening my grandchildren only gives me an invitation to take your children from you.”
Giovanni nodded. The boy stood at his side but kept his head bowed. Renaldo reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. The enforcer handed over the invitation.
“Two days,” Giovanni said. “I expect an answer in two days. Auturo?”
“Si?” the boy answered.
“I have sons and a daughter. Would you like to meet them?”
“No!” shouted Santoro’s defiant son, he was obviously Auturo’s father. One of the Puglia men had to hold him back. The boy looked as if he would cry. He looked to his grandfather for the answer.
“Oh don’t worry. We’re having a party. Your nonno will come for an adventure.”
Don Santoro opened the invitation and read the invite. He passed the invite to his other son and stared at his grandchild. It was clear to them all. The price of fortune was always to be paid in blood.
“You’re welcoming me to Sorrento, to your home while holding my grandson? You really have lost your mind.”
“Maybe. But I haven’t lost my balls. Five men will meet; five men will decide the future. You can be the sixth, or you can be nothing. For Auturo’s sake strive to be more than nothing.”
Don Santoro nodded. Giovanni whistled at his men on the bikes. The troupe fired their guns in the air and cheered in celebration. It was done. The Puglia’s knew that Giovanni was now in charge. Giovanni started to the car with the whimpering child coming along. Santoro could do nothing but watch him leave and guarantee safe passage. The child, once inside the car, openly wept. Putting his empire back together would take one alliance at a time. He had five more heads of the snake to gather.
CHAPTER SEVEN
La mia vita di certo cambierà! - My Life Will Change
Naples, Italy
BELINDA RODE IN THE back seat of the car in silence. Something was wrong. Since they left the airport Leo had said few words to her. She couldn’t figure out why, but she had noticed his friendly banter with her had all but ceased after the Donna pulled him to the side and spoke with him. Now he was skipping out on the lessons they were doing to get him ready for his English test.
“Hey? Leo?”
His gaze flipped up to the rearview mirror and locked in on her. He then returned his attention to the road. The dismissal angered her. How dare he? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Belinda looked to the door of the car and the thought occurred to her how much of a hero Leo had always been.
Traffic slowed ahead. His speed was steadily decreasing. A plan formed. The best one she’d concocted in a long time. The therapist once told her mother and father she lacked impulse control. That would be the only explanation she’d offer for what happened next. Leo braked almost to a stop. Belinda grabbed the door and threw it open. Leo swerved immediately to the side of the road before she leapt from the moving car. She landed hard on her side and rolled down to the embankment. Surprisingly the drop was in a grassy part. She wasn’t too badly hurt. But it startled the wind out of her and caused her to pee herself a little.
Leo panted like a charging bull once he reached her. Belinda looked up into his scarred face and saw him dazed and confused. He was most certainly the hero type. Leo shouted at her in his foreign language. She didn’t know if it was Italian or that Romanian gypsy speak he lapsed into at times. She didn’t care. He did exactly as she hoped. He swept her up into his arms and carried her like a princess to the car. Did she smell like pee? She would be mortified if she did.
“Are you hurt? Say so... per favore!” he asked as he brushed the dirt off her to check the scratches and scrapes on her arms and legs.
“I peed myself,” she confessed.
“Wha-at?” Leo stammered.
“Pissed. I pissed my pants.”
He glared at her. Realizing her joke wasn’t funny she winced and feigned pain. “My side hurts.”
Leo looked more panicked than turned on. “How it happen? Door? Did door fly open?” he asked in his broken English.
He thinks it was an accident?
Belinda nodded. She pushed the lie even further. “I thought something was funny about the door. I tried to speak to you, but you kept turning up the radio. I leaned on the door and it flew open. I could have been killed! You could have killed me Leo!”
“I am sorry. I have to get... you... help.”
“I’ll be alrigh—”
Leo was out of the back seat slamming and reopening the door. He then gave up on trying to figure the accident out. He got behind the wheel and sped away. He beat his fist against the steering wheel and swerved in and out of traffic like a madman. Belinda’s heart raced with excitement. Leo drove faster than any speed she’d ever experienced on the highway. The adrenaline rush she felt from being a car jumper was instantly replaced by the adrenaline rush of fear.
“Leo? Hey, man slow down!”
He swerved to the left lane and forced a car off the road as he took the exit. Terrified she grabbed the door handle. He didn’t speak. And now she was afraid too. She didn’t know what was happening but the warning from her mother to be careful with the Battaglias surfaced in her mind.
Girl one of these days you gonna go too far. Ya hear me? You gonna go too far and I’m not going to be there to catch ya when you fall. Please think before you act, Belinda. Please stop with all this crazy behavior before it gets you in trouble or killed. The Battaglias are dangerous people. You promise me you will be careful.
“Leo, I said sorry.”
Leo turned the next corner and drove right up to someone’s door. It was then Belinda realized they were in some kind of entrenched neighborhood of connected houses. The house he brought her to was three stories tall and the worst one on the street. She knew instantly it wasn’t a safe place.
“Why are we here?”
The door opened, and eight men, women, and children poured out. All of the people stared at Leo. He came around the car in his hurried determined way. She locked her door, but it didn’t work. He opened it from the outside. She scooted away but he reached in and dragged her across the seat. She started to fight him, but he was too strong. He drew her out and carried her from the car to the house. The people watching all let him pass. He yelled out a name and several other men appeared. They all wore deep frowns of concern. The only word she understood in the foreign language he spoke was Donna Nera. And she’d learned a long time ago that the term Black Mafia Lady-boss was what they called Mirabella.
The tallest of the three men befo
re them nodded respectfully and Leo carried Belinda to the stairs and up.
“Leo? What are you doing? Who are these people?” she whispered. She heard a woman scream upstairs and froze. Leo did not. He nearly ran up the stairs with her in his arms. He walked into a hall with many closed doors. One of the closed doors had a woman screaming and crying behind it. Belinda wasn’t sure for what. Leo took her to the room to the left and went inside. An older woman folded laundry that she stacked on the bed. She glanced up.
“Battaglia,” Leo said to the woman and then began to explain something Belinda could not understand. She was so scared she held tight to Leo. The old woman didn’t look friendly at all. Her face was covered in moles. She wore too many clothes, shirts and sweaters and skirts, it was an odd form of dressing. She had a scarf on her head. It reminded Belinda of the old witch who gave Snow White the poison apple in the Disney movie.
“English?” the woman said to her.
Leo put her down. Belinda nodded.
“Me too. I... Kane. I’m Kane,” the old woman corrected herself.
“American?” the old woman asked.
Belinda nodded.
Kane looked to Leo again as if surprised.
“Donna Nera is her family. She lives with the Battaglia’s.”
“Let me see trouble,” the woman sighed. She checked Belinda’s arms where the blood and puffiness was. She lifted her shirt and Belinda knocked her hand away. The woman pointed to the evidence that Belinda had soiled her shorts and chuckled
“Who is this woman?” Belinda said with her arms crossed.
