La Sposa Page 12

  “Are they serious?” Mira asked.

  Giovanni dropped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s a tradition, mostly in Rome and Napoli. Normally we wait until midnight, and we will. But the boys like to get practice in.”

  “Are those our dishes?”

  “Broken or chipped ones are collected all year. And all over the southern region la notte di Capodanno a mezzanotte households open their windows and throw out the bad in celebration of the new. It’s our way of making a clean beginning with the birth of the New Year.”

  One of the men approached. “Signora, Donna, prego.” He nodded in encouragement and gave her a chipped plate of china. “Prego.”

  Giovanni winked that she should give it a try. Mira accepted the plate. She allowed the man to help her step down the stone stairs to the lawn. The other men stopped and observed as she approached the garden wall. Mira looked back at Giovanni and Eve who watched her from the terrace. He gave her a nod of encouragement. She nodded back at him. Then turned and let the dish fly. The plate shattered with shards flying off the brick in every direction. A charge of excitement went through her. Mira couldn’t believe how wonderful it felt.

  “Another!” she said extending her hand.

  The man gave her another. She let it go. And then another. She laughed until tears escaped her eyes and clapped with the others. All the discomfort and fear of the pain she felt earlier was forgotten. They would be fine.

  *****

  Milan Italy –

  Marietta needed another dose of courage to get out of the car. Something was broken in her. That’s what her adoptive mother Teresa had said when she confronted them with the truth. How could she abandon a family that loved her for the unknown? Well no one knew how being loved in the Leone home had crippled her. A pang of bitter resentment surfaced when she thought of her adoptive mother’s smothering, and her father’s abuse of them both.

  Her eyes closed. If she had known her real mother, she wouldn’t have grown up an outcast because of her skin. Who was she? Why did she abandon her? And why did Octavio claim he was her natural father when Caruso was? Her eyes opened. Gemma said Lorenzo Battaglia was dangerous, and she believed her. Still, if the man knew more about her history than anyone could share, how could she not see this through? Marietta glanced at the seat next to her. On top of it was an envelope that had been delivered to her room. She picked it up and opened the letter. Inside were photos of Lorenzo and another man. The photographer caught them leaving a bar and getting into a car. More zoom lens shots showed them talking, smiling. It meant nothing to her. That was until she found the little cassette that said, ‘play me.’ Again, she pressed play:

  Laughter.

  “Tomosino. The cocksucker! I’m a man! My own man! I deserve, no fuck it, I earned my place in this family. If we opened the bay to your friends, the heroin and marijuana trade will triple our power in the Campania. He’s a fucking dinosaur to not see it,” said a man, who Marietta assumed was Lorenzo.

  “I have the same issues with my patri. How long will we suffer in silence? That is what I want to know. What the fuck do you want to do about it?” The second man’s voice on the line said.

  “What can I do about it Giuseppe? I’m nothing to them. Even if Tomosino were dead, Giovanni would inherit the earth. Fuck. I would need to kill them both to get what I deserve.”

  Someone chuckled. “That can be arranged.”

  “Shit, then let’s do it!” Lorenzo slurred.

  “Hmm, but it would have to benefit me as well.”

  “What?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Killing Tomosino.”

  “Yeah, well what the fuck ever. What the fuck do I care about any of them? Fuck them all.” Lorenzo said.

  “Seriously. Think about it Lorenzo. Your half-breed cousin doesn’t have the balls to lead the clans of the Camorra. He’s an American schoolboy now. Let me propose something, a counter move that gives us both our legacy. You watch my back and I watch yours. My old man will probably live to be two hundred if I don’t make a move. What we need is favor, yours for mine.”

  “Right, favor. You kill Tomosino and I kill Calderone? That’s more than a favor!” Lorenzo scoffed. “That’s suicide.”

  “Say the word and I can make it a reality.”

  “Word!” Lorenzo shouted in laughter.

  The other man laughed. “Right. Word.”

  Marietta stopped the tape. She’d listened to it three times. One thing was clear- a contract killing was being discussed. If it weren’t for the letter that accompanied the pictures and cassette, she might have tossed it all in the trash. She unfolded the letter and read it once more:

  You aren’t here for the Capriccio money. Are you? You want to know who your mother is. Why she abandoned you to the Leones? Why no one will even speak her name. The only man who can give you those answers is Lorenzo Battaglia. The answer to who you are is here in Italy. To get what you want, you will have to give him what he needs. Be careful of what you seek.

  - Isabella

  *****

  Lorenzo slammed the miniature whiskey glass down on the bar. His problems magnified as he stared down into the bottom of his shot glass. He grimaced and reached for the black label bottle of thirty-year-old scotch left for him on the bar by Emilio. A glass and a bottle always greeted him when he visited Pandolfini. After another pour, Lorenzo swallowed his sixth or eighth drink. He stopped counting after four. The whiskey seared his throat and hit his stomach with exploding warmth.

  All afternoon, wasted energy was spent on chasing the phantom tapes that if ever placed in Giovanni’s hands, would destroy his world. He had nothing. A muscle quivered along the left side of his jaw, and he ground his molars with clenched teeth to push down on his rage. It would take several days to empty the lockers Giuseppe kept. And time was a problem. David offered his services after swearing on his children’s lives that he knew nothing about Giuseppe’s audio collection of men’s souls. And Lorenzo normally would disbelieve a sniveling man. However, the tale of the woman named Isabella, who bought her way into the locked office a year ago, sounded legit.

  Who the fuck was she?

  Lorenzo combed his hair back from his brow with the swipe of his fingers across his scalp. He needed a cool head. It’s what Giovanni always told him. If this person wanted to destroy him, Giovanni would have received the photos instead of him. Someone was fucking with him. Patience should bring the bitch out from undercover, and he would snap her fucking neck after she told him who hired her. Silence moved through the crowded bar, drawing Lorenzo’s attention.

  A woman had entered.

  Marietta looked quite different from the last time he saw her. A strange chemistry of emotion altered his sour mood after one look at her. She locked eyes with him and started his way. Her coat parted to reveal a red minidress that inched up her shapely thighs when she strutted toward him. Lovely brown thighs and legs; extended by the lift of her delicate feet in platform high heels. Her thick curly hair bounced on her shoulders, a few of the loose curls falling over the right side of her face. In a moment she was at his side, bringing with her the lovely aroma of Shalimar. Lorenzo stood. He helped her shed her coat. And she flashed him an appreciative smile before easing to the empty bar seat on his right. He tossed the coat over the bar to Emilio, who nodded that he’d see to its hanging.

  “How did you find me?” he asked her.

  “Your reputation precedes you. Ask anyone in Milano where Lorenzo Battaglia likes to get his throat wet, and they’d say Pandolfini.”

  Lorenzo snapped his fingers. Emilio appeared in an instant. “Signora Marietta will have?”

  “Martini, dry,” she answered. “I’m impressed you remember my name.”

  “You’re hard to forget.” He returned to his seat and couldn’t help but take notice of how lovely her legs that she crossed under the bar were. He drank another shot and then his gaze cut her way. Her profile was equally as lovely as her face. He hadn’t dated or pursued women
like her. They were a rare flower in the social circles he frequented. And he had a particular preference for the Sicilian or Italian beauties that were in abundance because of his notoriety. He and Giovanni were different that way. However, Marietta wasn’t just beautiful, there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “Is there a reason why you are following me?”

  “I need a friend, and you look like a nice guy.”

  Lorenzo chuckled. “Interesting. It’s rare anyone calls me a nice guy.”

  “Why is that?” She asked, turning on her barstool with her legs crossed at the knees. He inhaled another dose of her lovely fragrance before he responded.

  “Because I’m not a nice guy, and I’m sure you already know that.”

  Leaning with her elbow on the bar top, Marietta rested her chin on her hand. “I’m aware that looks can be deceiving. But like I said, I need a friend. I have a nasty habit of not making many here.”

  The bartender eased a martini glass toward her. Marietta sat upright and took a slow sip of her drink. He watched her. She could feel his gaze move over her face and then lower. The man did have a fearlessness about him that she found quite enticing. She didn’t let the predatory stare he fixed on her intimidate her. However, the men in the pub didn’t share her bravery. Marietta noticed how no one bothered to occupy the seats on either side of him. In fact a few, minus a table or booth, were standing around socializing instead of sitting at the bar. Lorenzo Battaglia owned the room.

  “You’re Caruso’s daughter?” He asked.

  “That’s what they tell me. But that’s all they tell me.” Marietta glanced over to him.

  “È sposata?”

  “No, I’m not married,” Marietta answered.

  “Ha bambini?”

  Marietta laughed. “No I don’t have children. Do you normally interview women in bars?”

  “Just making conversation.” Lorenzo winked.

  “Well ask something more interesting, I like your conversation,” Marietta said.

  “Di dove è?”

  “You know the answer to this one. I’m from America. I grew up in Chicago. But I sense you meant the question in reference to my family?”

  Lorenzo tipped his head in agreement.

  Marietta continued. “I was raised by Teresa and Octavio Leone. When I was old enough to recognize I didn’t look anything like my parents, I was told I was adopted.”

  “Ah, that must have been difficult to learn,” Lorenzo said.

  Marietta felt her bitterness toward her surrogate parents rise in her, but she maintained her composure. “Teresa, the woman I thought was my mother, said my father had an affair with a black woman. A whore. That she left me on the doorstep. It was her Christian duty to raise me. And she did. She named me Marietta. Just one of her lies.” She took another sip of her martini and then braved a look at him. It was then, in the dim lighting of the bar, the shadows personified his chiseled handsome features. His blue eyes were like crystals under a ring of dark lashes and thick black brows. He wore a dark suit and tie that was tailored to his large frame perfectly.

  “So what makes you think that Caruso is your father?”

  “Because my adoptive mother is a liar. When I was thirteen I found this.” Marietta fingered the tiny nameplate with her name engraved on it. Lorenzo leaned forward to study it. “It was a child’s bracelet. I had it attached to a gold chain so I could wear it around my neck when I was sixteen. Gemma, a friend of the family, said it was given to me by my mother.”

  “Ah, Gemma.” Lorenzo chuckled. “So she knew your mother?”

  “She says she doesn’t. Everyone claims she was just some faceless, nameless whore. No one will be honest with me. Which makes me even more determined for the truth.”

  “I still don’t see how this has anything to do with Caruso Capriccio.” Lorenzo said.

  Marietta nodded. “A few months ago I received my adoption papers in the mail. It had Capriccio’s name listed as the father. My lying parents told me that they took me in under his request. They both swore they knew nothing about who my mother was other than what they had already told me. So I came here to learn the truth.” After opening up a bit, she expected the same. Lorenzo continued to pour his drink and say nothing. Marietta tried another approach. “I find you interesting,” she said.

  “How so?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Well, here I am pouring out my family’s dark secrets and you aren’t the least bit curious as to why.”

  Lorenzo took another swig from his whiskey glass. “Oh, I’m curious. You didn’t eavesdrop on my conversation with Silvio, and then follow me here to unburden your soul. You want something. And for some strange reason you think I can help you get it. Am I right?”

  “Close.”

  “Maybe it’s time you tell me what that something is.”

  She looked down into her martini and decided to make her move. Draw him in. Gain his trust and then get him to lower his guard and let her in on the secrets men like Caruso Capriccio carried. After all, the woman Isabella, said he was the key. “You’re right Lorenzo I did eavesdrop. I know that you and David have business that my court petitions would complicate. I think I can help you, if you can help me.”

  Lorenzo reached over and touched her chin, turning her face to his. He did it so smoothly she couldn’t object. She looked into his sapphire blue eyes, mesmerized. “Cara, I don’t need your help. What belongs to my family will be ours. I suggest you don’t get in the way of that, beautiful.”

  “I’m trying to understand this place, the people, my family.” She cleared her throat and sat back so his hand fell away from her chin. It landed on her thigh. She looked down then back up into his eyes. “I have the impression that you know people, things. That maybe you could answer some questions for me.”

  Lorenzo chuckled. “Depends, Cara, on what’s in it for me?” He squeezed her thigh.

  Emilio looked up from filling a mug of beer and then away.

  “You’re a real charmer.” She removed his hand. “Did you know my father? Caruso Capriccio? Can you tell me anything about him and his time in America?”

  “If you want to talk about your father and the things I know, I suggest we do it some place private. This is how’s it’s done.”

  A flash of caution passed over her pretty face, but she masked it with a smile. He expected the little fishing expedition to end there. Sure she was quite tasty, but he had little time or patience to entertain her quest. Caruso Capriccio wasn’t an interesting man, and there was nothing he could really share that she didn’t already know. He waited a breath for her to think of a quick comeback, and then looked at his watch. He had a train to catch. Fun over.

  “Prego. Let’s go to my place.” She offered.

  His brows lowered in surprise. “Your place?”

  “Sure, it’s not far from here. Besides, I have a nice bottle of wine I’ve been saving for the New Year. You can toast it in with me.” Marietta slipped from the barstool. She tugged down on the edges of the dress that gathered tightly around her hips. She eased out of the cramped space and waited for him to rise. He could catch a later train or summon the jet. The offer was too sweet to pass up.

  *****

  As if in defiance of the hard life the Battaglia men lived all year long serving under the Camorra, every capu arrived with family and clan. They brought cases of wine and envelopes of money ready to celebrate the New Year. Mira had never seen so many of them at once. The hard predatory looks in their serpent-like eyes passed over her, as they each kissed her hand and greeted her soon- to- be- husband. She bravely withstood her duty to receive them, but she knew the attention of men. All of them wanted a close look at the woman their boss had chosen as a bride. And their brief appraisals sent shivers of caution through her. Giovanni trusted these men. Dangerous or not, they were famiglia.

  Melanzana was a house of vast dimensions separated by large rooms in vibrant pastel colors; and long halls lined
with priceless marble statues, oil paintings, crystal vases, and golden antiquities on elegant pedestals. This New Year’s Eve, over three hundred people crowded the lower levels of her family home in groups separated by title, rank, family affiliation. The Camorra branched out with second- in- command leadership under thirteen sotto capos. Each of these men remained fiercely loyal to her husband and top earners for his empire. And under them, they ran smaller campaigns of crime and corruption with hand- selected enforcers or earners taken from the belly of society. Mira had learned that Giovanni owned and controlled all of sanitation inside of Napoli, and received regular payments from the Italian Republic for his services, but that was about all she knew of his business affairs. What the men did for Giovanni outside of the law remained a mystery. During the holidays, she had put each of these men’s names and family names to memory. Zia explained it as protocol for the event.

  Zia and Mira worked out the logistics of who would have what area as a gathering place for their men and family. It would ensure no capodecina felt less important than another. When Giovanni entered a room, one if not all of the men seated would rise, kiss his hand and cheeks in respect. They would pass off envelopes of money to Renaldo, who stood a step behind him.

  Mira observed from afar. Fascinated by how the ruthless men were humbled and congratulatory to Giovanni for his pending nuptials. When Giovanni looked up and saw her watching, she immediately moved on. She greeted the ladies, wives and daughters, making small talk. Most seemed impressed with her. A few did not. They would whisper when she turned her back or left the room. It made the loneliness of not having her best friend at her side sting even sharper.

  Food, music, drinks; all of it flowed and was served. And the security was thick. No one drove through the gates without being screened by Carlo and his men personally. And often Zia, Catalina, or Rosetta would grab her hand and introduce her to a family member who asked her about the wedding and if she was ready.