Omerta: Book One (Battaglia Mafia Series 8)

by Sienna Mynx

  “Auturo?” Mirabella said.

  The child looked up at her curiously.

  “Are you ready to see your Nonna?”

  The child nodded and flashed a cheerful smile. Mirabella winked. “Me too.”

  Eve walked at her side occupied by a large blue, red, green, and yellow swirl lollipop that was as big as her face. She grinned up at her mother happily and Mirabella held her hand as well.

  DOMINIC CHECKED THE diamond bezel of his watch. Each minute that ticked by drove in deeper the insult to his pride. No one arrived late to a personal invitation with their family. There were countless meetings as consigliere he’d arranged. Men of importance begged for a seat at the Battaglia table. It was his job to ensure the integrity of Giovanni’s clan remained intact. He’d failed Giovanni at the simplest task.

  Sorrento Italy -1977

  “Why be a consigliere Flavio when you could be a boss?” Dominic asked.

  Flavio chuckled. He moved his cigar to the other side of his jaw with his tongue and drove with one hand. Dominic was only eleven but lately he got to spend more time with Flavio because Giovanni and Lorenzo had so little of it for him.

  “As consigliere I am a boss,” Flavio replied.

  “No. No, you’re not the boss,” Dominic scoffed. “Patri is boss.”

  “I never said I was ‘the’ boss. I said I am ‘a’ boss. Si, Tomosino is Don. But he does not hold the title alone. You know this.”

  Dominic nodded that he did.

  “Open your mouth and speak, Domi. Start at the beginning. Tell me who are the trinity?” Flavio asked. Pressured to get his answer right Dominic squirmed a bit in his seat.

  “Go on boy,” Flavio demanded.

  “In the family there is the boss, who is Patri.”

  “Yes and he’s above all others. And?” Flavio said.

  “There is the underboss who is Rocco,” Dominic said.

  “And?”

  “There is the consigliere who is you. That makes up the three—the trinity.”

  “The ruling hand Tomosino... the right, me and the left is Rocco. He and I speak for the boss, we make decisions on behalf of the boss.”

  “But that is the way of the Sicilians. We are Camorra.”

  “We are Sicilian by blood, and that never changes.”

  “Yes. Yes. But how does it matter?”

  “Non capisco?”

  “How do you make him strong? Why do you think that the Sicilian ways should matter here? With la camorra?”

  “Because la Camorra is a snake with too many heads. Because the Mafiosi learned from la Camorra and found a better way. They discovered the order that was missing. They understood the divine power of the trinity. So now you understand. I am the advisor and counselor. I am the mediator of disputes and Tomosino is the resolution. I pull the order together so Tomosino can lead them. Because of me and the future we plan, Tomosino may become the Capo di tutti capi. The first one in the history of la Camorra. It’s my job to make sure he is respected in all matters. At any cost. If I fail so does he.”

  Dominic nodded. “How did you become a consigliere?”

  Flavio removed his cigar and tossed it to the open ashtray of the car. It took a long pause before he answered. “I was elected, just as you Dominic.”

  The young boy frowned. He looked at Flavio and shook his head. “No one has elected me.”

  “Not yet. But they will. You know that Lorenzo is being groomed to take control of the family one day. You know that he will fail.”

  “He will not.”

  “He will fail. And Giovanni will return home seasoned enough to lead. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Why let him fail?”

  Flavio returned his gaze to the road and his voice hardened around the words he spoke. “Forget the why. One day my time will end. When it does no one can be trusted more than you to take the next generation forward. Lunga vita al padrone, lunga vita al padrone.”

  “Lunga vita al padrone... long live the boss,” he repeated.

  Flavio chuckled. “Good boy.”

  SORRENTO ITALY - 1989

  Flavio was dragged and then tossed into the quarry. He landed on his side. Dominic observed him roll over to his back and cough up more blood than he had in the car. Carlo lit a cigarillo. He stood there staring at Dominic watching him closely.

  “If he wants, I can do it,” said Carmine with a snide snicker.

  “Chiudi quella cazzo di bocca (shut the fuck up) and hand him the gun,” Carlo ordered.

  Carmine dropped his head and shook it with pity. He walked over and extended his hand with the weapon of choice. Dominic had his own gun. He’d gotten it when he was fifteen. A gift from Lorenzo. But for this job Giovanni wanted him to use Danny Boy. His personal gun. Dominic accepted the weapon and Carmine winked. He hated the runt. They were the same age but Carmine was fearless. He did any job Lorenzo and Carlo wanted of him. Hell, he was a mini-Carlo.

  Dominic stared down at Flavio. After Patri died, Flavio was the closest one to him. Giovanni had little time or patience to nurture his maturing. Flavio, however, did more than that. He counseled Dominic and encouraged him. He loved him.

  “Do it, Domi,” Flavio said.

  “Si, do it, Domi.” Carmine taunted, and Carlo smacked him so hard he landed on his knees. The other men laughed. Carlo sneered at Carmine a silent command to be quiet.

  Dominic ignored them all. He raised the gun and aimed it at his mentor.

  “Flavio?” Dominic spoke.

  “Yes,” Flavio replied with a burdened sigh. He held his side where the pain must have hurt him the most.

  “How could you let this happen?”

  “Remember what I taught you. You remember the trinity,” Flavio began go cough up more blood. “Gio will need you. He can trust none of them, not even himself, but he should always be able to trust you.”

  “Why did you do it? Why did you send her away? You knew Giovanni would kill you. Why, Flavio?”

  “She doesn’t belong in our world. Tomosino wouldn’t listen with Eve and look at what she did to him. Look at what envy cost Rocco, what it cost... Isabella,” Flavio said and spat up blood. He smiled with blood stained lips. “I regret nothing. That puttana nera would have destroyed Giovanni, destroyed what Tomosino and I have built for this family.” Flavio pointed his finger at Dominic. “Now, she won’t. Lunga vita al padrone.”

  Carlo spat down on Flavio. His men all coughed up spit and did the same. Dominic was the last to do so.

  “You were wrong, Flavio. The consigliere isn’t a boss. He’s a servant. And I won’t make the same mistakes you have. Lunga, vita al padrone. Long live the boss,” he said and emptied the clip of bullets into Flavio’s face and chest.

  Dominic attention returned to the men when he heard Giovanni chuckle. He stared at his brother who drank and listened to the stories of exploits of his guests. Giovanni kept the conversation friendly. However, the tension was there, and it came strongest from Ballistrieri. The only man invited who had suffered a deeply personal loss with the slaughter of his cousin Tacchini’s clan. He didn’t laugh. He observed Giovanni with distrust and kept his tone and manner unthreatening.

  Eventually Giovanni eyes locked on Dominic. He nodded that he too was aware of how their guest of honor tardiness appeared.

  “Scusi, Dominic, the Santoros have arrived,” Marcello whispered in his left ear.

  The relief that hit him almost made him smile at the news. He turned on his heel like a General and left. Marcello kept up pace with him.

  “Is there anything I need to do for you boss?” Marcello asked.

  “Your job.”

  “But the Puglia clan? Here? Boss the men are wondering, if we should be ready.”

  Dominic cast Marcello a look. The young man sniffed and wiped his hand under his nose and stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Dominic cut his gaze over to the young enforcer. He knew a cocaine user when he saw one. And the young boys were picking up their bad habits
without Carlo and Lorenzo to rule over them. Who was the bad influence now?

  “Clean yourself up,” Dominic grunted. “Wash your face and stay near that meeting. Trust no one in that room. Understood?”

  “Yes, but why the Puglia—”

  Dominic grabbed Marcello by the throat. His own strength surprised him. He gripped tighter. “And don’t ask anymore fucking questions.”

  Marcello gagged but knew better than to resist. Renaldo and two other men approached from the other end of the hall.

  “Blink if you understand.”

  Marcello blinked. Dominic clenched his teeth and found it hard to let go of his rage. Renaldo dropped a hand on his shoulder. “C'è qualche problema, Domi?”

  “No problemo,” Dominic said. He shoved the young man away from him. Marcello grabbed his throat and looked at Renaldo and Dominic with anger.

  “Sorry boss. I’ll take care of it. Right away.”

  Renaldo narrowed his eyes on Marcello as he scurried away. “He’s one of Lorenzo’s boys.”

  Dominic shrugged off Renaldo’s touch. “Keep your eye on him. We can’t have any issues tonight.”

  Renaldo nodded his agreement and he and the others headed back to the meeting room. Every invited guest needed to be watched, and lately Dominic felt the sting of paranoia enough to believe his men weren’t trustworthy. It was a claustrophobic feeling he didn’t like.

  There were deeper reasons for his anxiety. It wasn’t the pressure of his role as consigliere, or the pain over Lorenzo’s betrayal. As he strolled to the front of the villa he again felt the piercing prick of the most meaningful absence. Her. At first his contacts in Sicily gave him regular updates on her. Spain was different. The only word he had on Catalina was her frequent trips to the hospital, and even that information was sketchy. What he did know is that during their separation she had married and been widowed. His beautiful Catalina had stood before God and made a vow to another man. Armando Mancini of all people. How had it come to this?

  The pain of that marriage cut deeper than her marrying Franco. And losing her had reversed his self-destructing nature. Instead of being a victim to his guilt and cowering from the shadow demons that stalked him. The regret fueled his fearlessness. Nothing would stop him from bringing Catalina home and making her his wife. And nothing would stop him from crushing Lorenzo for betraying the family.

  THE SANTORO’S WERE not what she expected. Even the staff paused with inquisitive looks. Don Santoro wore dusty, faded blue jeans with a checkered shirt rolled up at the sleeve. He didn’t bother to shave or even clean the dirt from under his fingernails. And his workman boots were caked in mud that dropped clumps over her polished marble floors. His wife wore a red dress, possibly homemade, that buttoned up the middle and had a black belt cinching the waist. Her hair was combed straight, and she wore no makeup. She had to be the same age as Mirabella. She was possibly beautiful once, but her skin was overly tanned and wrinkled for her youth.

  “Nonna!” Auturo exclaimed. The child bolted to his grandmother who burst into tears the moment she captured him in her arms. It had been just over forty-eight hours since Giovanni brought Auturo to Melanzana but as a parent Mirabella knew that time must have felt like an eternity. The boy gushed about the horses he rode, and swimming he did while with the Battaglias. He told his Nonna about the games Mirabella gave him. Donna Maria looked up to Mirabella and gave her a smile of gratitude.

  “Don Santoro. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mirabella said. She greeted him with customary kisses to his cheeks and then turned her attention to his wife. “I am Donna Mirabella.”

  The old Don nodded but said nothing. His sons were all hugging and greeting Auturo. It was his wife who remained gracious. She extended her hand. Mirabella gave her a welcoming smile and the two kissed each other cheeks.

  “Sono, Donna Maria,” she said.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Where is this meeting? Let’s get it over with,” The Don snipped. One of his sons picked up Auturo and started for the door. Mirabella suspected that they would take the boy immediately. She nodded to the Battaglia men to give the Santoro men the escort they needed off the property. And in that brief moment Dominic arrived. He was strikingly handsome in his suit and tie. The bloodshot red-eyed drunk she saw at the funeral had cleaned up his act. He smiled at her and then turned his gaze to the Don.

  “Don Santoro, we expected you earlier,” Dominic said.

  “I’m here now,” Don Santoro responded.

  “Ciao!” Eve said and waved at the Don. He glanced down at Eve and Mirabella could see the disgust in his eyes. He dismissed Eve’s greeting and marched off with Dominic. His wife Maria tried to cover the rudeness.

  “Hello beautiful, where did you get such a big sweetie from?” Donna Maria asked.

  “Mia madre!” Eve grinned. “It’s lemon and strawberry.”

  “Well that is something! I have a granddaughter your age, I’m sure she wishes for one too.” Donna Maria looked up. “Grazie for taking care of Auturo. We have been so distraught.”

  “I am sorry for your stress. I have no control over my husband’s affairs, but I assure you Auturo was never harmed or mistreated. He’s a lovely boy.”

  The Donna gave her an understanding nod.

  “We’ve all gathered in my solarium. A private tea for us ladies,” Mirabella said. “Please come with me and we can talk.”

  “Grazie,” Maria said and allowed Mirabella to take the lead.

  GIOVANNI’S TIRED OF the pretense. When Santoro walked into the room an hour late for his meeting the last band holding tight to the Don’s patience snapped.

  “Don Santoro. At last. Welcome to my home, join us,” Giovanni said.

  The other men gathered looked at Santoro as if a rat had snuck into the pantry. They were feasting and plotting their own rise to power and now the Puglia clan was invited to the conversation. The inclusion broke the rules of over a hundred years of exclusion.

  The men all gave respectful nods, and a few spoke greetings.

  Giovanni paused for a moment then sat forward.

  “I know everyone here today has many concerns, and I want to discuss them openly. But let me help you understand why you’ve been invited to my home. The Camorristi has ruled the Campania for over a hundred years. Despite what they may think in the press, and in parliament we know the reality. The Camorristi is no more. And no matter what your opinion is of how greatness fell the reality remains the truth. The future is uncertain. Unless we take back what is ours.”

  “We? No one here but Ballistrieri has any claim. Tacchini’s clan has already voted,” said Don Cardinelli.

  “Everyone here, now has a claim,” Giovanni offered.

  “Including Santoro?” Don Anastasio scoffed. “You trying to say a dirt farmer is now my equal?”

  Santoro showed no signs of being insulted. Any man in the room who thought for a moment that he wasn’t would be a fool.

  “Don Santoro deserves a seat at our table. Because the traditions bonded in silence are now fractured by a public war. The government and our enemies expect us to be split with the Puglia clans. They expect us to fight senseless territory wars over heroin, while they turn our bay into a fucking dumping ground of contraband and foreigners. We can hold to our father’s traditions or you can agree to what I will offer you tonight and join me in the new future.”

  “Non ho bisogno di te o dei tuoi cupcake per sopravvivere—I don’t need you or your cupcake service,” Don Santoro said.

  “But you do need to eat, and you know the only sweet food left now is on my table.” Giovanni responded. The other men’s gaze swung back to Giovanni. The insult was barbed by the fact that they were all in the same predicament. Giovanni’s business had suffered some hard blows thanks to Lorenzo, but he was far from out of business. “The door is yours Santoro if my hospitality is not to your liking use it.”

  Dominic and Renaldo stepped forward to offer a personal escort
. Don Santoro frowned but made no move to stand. After a tense pause he gave Giovanni a nod of compromise.

  “Don Giovanni, I say this with respect to you, what power do you have left now that you are at war with Lorenzo?” Don Anastasio asked.

  Giovanni smiled. “Lorenzo? Yes. Let’s talk about Lorenzo. Since he’s scurried away like a rat he has formed two new alliances. The Armenians, and the Westies.”

  “Don’t forget the Mafiosi. They are very interested in Lorenzo these days.” Ballistreri added.

  Giovanni nodded. “Three. He is forming his own clan. And Lorenzo has always been Sicilian first, not Italian. Do you want the Mafiosi to be stronger than la Camorra? We let Lorenzo continue on this path and he becomes dangerous not only to me, but to you as well. Lorenzo knows every hole you will try to hide in. He knows every business maneuver you’ll try to use in and out of the bay. He also knows that none of you are stronger than Licciardi, Racchi, Tacchini and certainly not me. Do any of you want to face Lorenzo without my cover?”

  The men all exchanged looks.

  “Credimi, è la verità. It’s true. The Dons of Sicily are going to give him a seat at the table. Without the Mafiosi in our agreement we are all vulnerable to enemies. Even the Americans wash up on our shores,” Don Ballistrieri conceded.

  “Who do the Armenians fear?” Giovanni asked the room, and then answered his question. “The Russians. Who do the Westies fear? There is a dispute within the fractions and Keane-Collopy is taking them down. My point is every enemy has an enemy. And an enemy of our enemies is a friend to be made.”

  The men mumbled their answers over each other.

  “The Russians?” Don Ballistrieri laughed out loud. “You? You want to befriend the Russians? Isn’t it yours and Lorenzo’s revenge over the death of your father the reason they are our permanent enemies?”

  “I killed Tacchini and half of his men. They were men from your own family, and yet you are sitting at my table.” Giovanni countered. The Don’s face turned redder than a beet. His nostrils flared, and his jaw locked tight. The other men at the table masked their humorous smiles.