Omerta Page 2

  “Mi ascolti bene, it’s been decided. Giovanni will be leaving for America at the end of the month. We have gotten you an acceptance into university.”

  “University?” Lorenzo blurted the word as if choking.

  Lorenzo always spoke out of turn. Giovanni did not. He stared at his father. The news drove a spike of conflict into Giovanni’s heart and he could see clearly his father suffered the same pain. His gaze shifted to his mother. Her eyes glistened with repressed tears. She had made one promise to him. It was on the first night they returned from Ireland. The night she came to his room after spending the evening making peace with his father. She stroked his hair while he slept. She hummed a song to him. She told him she wasn’t mad he called his father to come collect them, that she understood. And then she told him her vow as a mother. To never let harm come to him. She’d give her life and soul over to Tomosino to make sure of it. He’d go to America and have a better existence. It was the first time he even dreamed of being different or living somewhere different. The first taste he had for what was foreign.

  “Did I do something wrong Patri?” Giovanni asked.

  “No, sweetheart,” Eve answered for his father. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s a reward. You’ll go to school. Study law. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Lorenzo looked at him as if he had snakes crawling over his body and Flavio seem to beam with the pride he wished his father showed. It was only Tomosino and Zia Isabella who had somber moods.

  “Lorenzo, you will apprentice with me. Work in the business,” Flavio said. “No more sanitation work or street hustles.”

  “You’re awful at it anyway,” Zia Isabella mumbled. “Maybe this will be something to give you purpose. You could lead this family. You’re from Battaglia blood and that makes it your right. It wasn’t true for Rocco, but it can be true for you. Isn’t that right big brother?”

  Tomosino glanced to Eve. His face now flushed with simmering rage. His mother smiled at Tomosino and nodded that he should approve of the plan between the women. His father did not verbally consent, but his silence spoke volumes.

  “Giovanni will do great things in America, Tomosino. He’ll be a scholar. In the future who knows how the boys will lead this family. What men they will become as your sons,” Eve said. “Because you are their father, the only father that counts to either of them.”

  “Rocco wouldn’t agree.” Isabella snickered.

  After a long silent pause Tomosino leaned forward with a burdened sigh. His gaze switched to Lorenzo and then to Giovanni and then back to Lorenzo. “They are right. You both are the future. This is our family. We’ll take care of the family together.”

  “I won’t disappoint you Patri!” Lorenzo said with a wide grin. Being called Tomosino’s son was not shocking to the boys. Tomosino was the force in all their lives. Lorenzo’s father had died when he was still a very young boy. Tomosino was the only father he’d ever known. “I won’t fail, Madre. I swear it. I can do this. I will,” announced Lorenzo.

  Zia Isabella shrugged. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. You deserve this more than anyone else. The sins of my brothers shouldn’t be the curse of my only son.”

  Giovanni and Lorenzo exchanged a look of confusion but neither dared to challenge or question the statement. Isabella had a way with words that often didn’t make sense to them.

  “Uh, what she is saying is you boys are the best of us, and we’ll make sure we do the best for Tomosino. Agreed?” Eve added.

  The boys nodded.

  Eve got up from her seat. She went to the boys. She took their hands into hers. “You’re not teenagers any more. This is not a competition. It’s not about who is stronger or who is smarter. It’s about growing up and having choices. Some choices your mothers want, some choices your fathers want, and some just for you. Let’s see how it goes. Okay? Promise me you both will try.”

  “I promise Madre,” Giovanni said and kissed her cheek.

  Lorenzo nodded. He kissed Eve’s cheek. “Ti prometto.”

  “Okay. Go now. Go.”

  Giovanni turned to leave. He glanced back and saw something he’d never seen from his father. Not once, in all the years he’d known him to be cruel he had never seen regret. Patri shook his head and looked away as Isabella hovered like a vulture behind him, smiling at the discomfort of its prey. Eve was the one who closed the door on them both.

  “Can you believe this shit? I’m going to be next. I’m going to be next. Me?” Lorenzo pounded his chest like a gorilla.

  “And I’m going to America to be a lawyer.”

  “This is great news. Right?” Lorenzo asked. “I can get Carlo out. I’ll be capu.”

  Giovanni kind of liked the idea of freedom but Lorenzo’s fate didn’t sound as promising to him as his own.

  “Let’s go tell the boys.” Lorenzo dropped his arm around Giovanni’s shoulder and the two of them walked away. Before he knew it Giovanni, too, was excited. He had a future, a different choice. It was the first time in his life he’d been given so much liberty. They went to the game room in Melanzana. While Lorenzo dialed up Nico on the phone and bragged about his prospects Giovanni walked over to the window and stared outside of it. He saw Dominic again teaching Catalina how to ride her bike. He smiled to see his baby sister feet still couldn’t reach the pedal. His gaze then lifted to the horizon. He couldn’t see past the mountains and trees. But when he looked hard enough he saw into his future. A different world waited for him. A fresh start.

  Omertá was never to be his destiny.

  OMERTA BOOK I

  ACT ONE

  Fall

  November 1994

  The Year of the Babies

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ragazzi Perduti - Lost Boys

  Bagheria, Sicilia

  CITTÁ DI BAGHERIA IS where every Battaglia male before Don Giovanni, for over two hundred years, was born. The name Bagheria originates from the Sicilian term Baarìa. And to the Sicilians Bagheria means land that descends into the sea. In 1990 shortly after Don Giovanni Battaglia had believed his new African American lover was dead, the final movie in the Godfather series by Frances Ford Coppola—which was filmed in Bagheria—was released. The tourists flooded his territory and Giovanni Battaglia made a fortune thanks to the rich history of his family’s land, culture, and the many cafes and souvenir shops he owned. He’d even been invited to have a celebratory dinner with the director and actors. Of course, he refused. Don Giovanni was far too busy drinking away his sorrow and killing Calderone’s to give a shit about some fictional depiction of the life he was cursed too.

  That was then.

  This was different.

  Bagheria no longer held the promise of heritage and pride. The Battaglia’s were, like Michael Corleone at the end of the movie saga, damned. And years later his reflection upon his life would make the consequences of the curse crystal clear. He’d remember the day that changed it all. The moment he decided that brother, cousin, blood, none of it matter in the face of omertà.

  It was a season of death for the Battaglia’s. Today he buried the last matriarch of his family. To escape his grief and anger he insisted on taking a walk alone. Once again, he was drawn to the beach and cliffs where his childhood began. Along the way he was stopped by the sea. The memories like the tide washed over him. He felt his feet sink into the sand. The Don removed his shoes and socks. He waded in. He wore dark trousers, a button-down shirt from his wife’s high-end men’s fashion line. To his back were his men, armed, and watchful—also dressed in black silk suits with dark sunglasses to beat back the glare of the sun broadcasting heat across the shoreline. They paced along the private beach tense and angry. Every man had a gun. Every man was ready to take down any of the Battaglia’s enemies. Didn’t they know? The enemy was within him.

  The ocean was as vast and deep as his problems. There were too many to count. Where did it all begin? If he understood the beginning, he could figure out the ending.

  Lorenzo was his
brother.

  Maybe? Maybe not?

  Rocco was dead. The rotten son-of-a-bitch deserved much worse.

  Maybe he was lying? Maybe not?

  Catalina was gone. She vowed never to return to him or her family.

  Maybe she could be convinced or forced to do so? Maybe not?

  His Bella was pregnant when all the doctors had warned against another pregnancy. The child could possibly not make it to term. And if the child lived the poisons in his wife’s body had most certainly polluted her womb. There would be consequences. And to add to all of his distress, his empire had fallen.

  Maybe he could hold it all together. Maybe not?

  The water pressure squeezed his thighs and his feet crushed sea shells and pebbles as he kept walking into the sea. The salt spray of the waves hitting his chest splashed his face and cooled his temper. It was a good cover over his tears for all that he mourned that day. Don Giovanni was nearly shoulder deep before he began to swim into the waves. He was weak. The recovery was slow and strenuous. But in the ocean, he felt like a man again. His own tears blinding him. He succumbed to the pressure and went under.

  Doma, Tanzania - Africa

  THE HEAT THAWED THE coldness in his heart. It boiled the air that he breathed and made him exhale fire from his lungs. Carlo wiped his hand down his sweaty face. It was hotter than Hades in Africa. And even hotter than that in the room. There was smoke clouding his vision. It curled like a milky wave up around his face. At first confused, he couldn’t discern the source. And then he realized he’d exhaled it from his nostrils. The Kuhani burned candles and frankincense in copper pots. She hung scarves off the bedposts and used them to cover the windows and lamp shades. In doing so the room was cast in deep red shadows. And she’d fucked him until he wheezed fire and mirth from his throat and teetered between despair and giddiness. If he had the mental strength he’d beg for death, but instead he only groaned in his native tongue for pussy. Then darkness descended over his consciousness and he was lost.

  He woke again. This time not beneath her but seated in a chair with his face resting in his hand. He’d lost time. It happened when he visited the danguro.

  “Carlo,” she said and gestured for him to join her. Did the opium make him dream he fucked her? Was he always in the chair? Who had put chains on him and shut the door to purgatory? He didn’t know. He couldn’t ask. The only common language they shared were their names. He could pour out his soul to her and she wouldn’t understand a word. In fact, he had confessed his crimes and sins between drags of the opium pipe she gifted him with.

  “Carrrrrloooow,” she purred. His name rolled off her tongue singed by the bristle of her Swahilian accent. She cast aside the thin sheet wrapped around her body and revealed her beauty. Her curves were a deep flawless umber brown. She was slick with sweat. Pearls of moisture glistened over her skin in the red heat. The tips of her breast were black as was the trimmed triangle of hair coiled and flattened over her sex. A smile curved the corner of her mouth and revealed stark white teeth beneath the sexiest pair of lips he’d seen on a woman. Her hair was cut short, coiled into tight coils like wool. Her name was Abedi (a-BEH-dee) and in her language the name meant worshiper. It was her deep, hypnotic, brown eyes and his drug induced state that reminded him compare her beauty to Shae. Carlo chuckled. She picked up the bottle of pombe and took a sip. Every woman, African or Italian reminded him of Shae. He’d even let himself care for Adara because of the inexplainable resemblance. However, Abedi's eyes were so similar he felt weak whenever he stared into them too long. In the past he could never escape his first love. But he had learned how to mentally replace her. Abedi and the opium helped.

  The temptress sat forward and spoke to him while keeping her thighs parted and feet flat to the bed. Her arm was extended. It rested on top of her left knee. He tried to focus on her speech. Her language tickled like musical chimes in his ears. He liked her voice even if he didn’t understand her. He closed his eyes and drifted on the sound of the words she formed. He wanted to feel nothing—but when fucking her he did. He felt free. When Carlo opened his eyes, she approached from the side of the bed. Abedi’s movements were graceful. Her long legs were slender but her thighs and ass thick and round like his Shae’s. Her breasts perfect with erect nipples and hips womanly—all were like Shae.

  She touched his face.

  “Kijana mzuri,” she said good boy in Swahili. With her finger she lifted his chin and his head tilted back under her hypnotic control. She straddled his lap and sat on his dick. She put the pipe to his lips as the silky walls of her wet pussy glided over his erection causing it to stiffen. She went down on him inch by inch. The whores before her in the brothel had done nothing more than emptied his pockets. Abedi was different. She understood his demon and nurtured it through opium. All she wanted in return was his soul. Carlo took a long drag of the pipe and his regrets lessened. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. She kissed his face and he felt alive.

  “Close your eyes,” she said in Italian.

  He frowned.

  Did she speak Italian or was it the opium talking?

  He closed his eyes.

  He saw nothing.

  He heard nothing.

  He felt everything. Her pussy, the heat of her body and even the warmth of her breath. He felt the way the fatty part of her ass cheeks bumped his thighs when she moved. He felt the urge to release swell like lava in his ball sack, on the verge of a nuclear climax. The sex was good. She was good. But he was dying.

  Death was bliss.

  “You’re going to kill yourself. Is that what you want?”

  Carlo’s lashes fluttered, and his lids parted. His vision blurred by the frankincense and deep magenta-red shadows.

  “Please stop. I’m begging you, please,” a woman wept. “Let go... so you can have some peace.”

  At first, he thought it was Marietta, pleading for her life. He’d heard it enough to conjure her voice in his dreams. But this was different. He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t awake. He was trapped somewhere between opium and hell. And he was trapped alone. The shadows cleared like dissipating smoke. Like a shadow stepping into moonlight she emerged. Adara. Despite her betrayal the sight of someone that he cared for helped. But the more his vision cleared the more clarity there was. It wasn’t Adara. Shae had returned and the knife in his chest twisted deeper.

  “You’re going to kill yourself. Is that what you want?” Shae asked.

  “It’s inevitable,” he answered without parting his lips.

  “No. It’s not. You could stop this. All of it. Why won’t you stop?”

  “No, è il destino a decidere—what will be will be. Now go away, bitch. Don’t pretend you care.” He closed his eyes and summoned the emptiness and found pleasure again in the void. But that changed. He went from sitting with his sorceress riding his cock to lying on his side in bed. He opened his eyes. A woman lay next to him. Her hand smoothly went over his chest, her lips grazed his chin. “Please don’t die Carlo. I love you.” Adara’s curly hair fell like the ringlets of an angel over her face. “I’m sorry. I betrayed you. But I never wanted this, I never meant for this to happen.”

  “Get the fuck off of me,” he said, too weak to push her away. Adara kissed his lips and chuckled. Carlo winced. The kiss burned through him. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly to endure the insurmountable pain. He opened his eyes to see Adara and Shae together. In bed with him. He lay between the women. Shae was the first to rise. She straddled him and ran her hands down his chest. Her vaginal walls constricted on his penis like a silk cuffed vice upon her descent. Adara traced his lips with her tongue and it cooled the burn she had left before. Then her mouth covered his and her tongue eased in deeper. Adara was a good kisser. Passion tilted his head back and lifted his chin. Ruled by desire he kissed her hard while gripping Shae’s thigh and working his hips to feed her more of his cock.

  Carlo groaned with pleasure. Shae rode him slow and steady. When Adara finished giving
him the kiss of life she eased over him and sat her sweet plump pink vagina on his face. Carlo swirled his tongue upward and penetrated her hole between licks and laps that swiped all the way up to her clit. Her round ass bounced and jiggled on his forehead. He didn’t have to see them to witness what came next. He knew it. Shae had Adara by the face and was kissing her deeply, enjoying the way Adara’s tongue danced in your mouth when kissed. He knew it because he had lived this deep passion with Shae before. The women loved each other and loved him.

  Shae kept grooving. Back and forth, up and down they went until he grabbed Shae’s hips and forced her to slow the pace while he balanced the need to breathe against the intoxicating taste of her. But the relief only came in spurts as both women worked him to cataclysmic bliss. And he nearly smothered under Adara’s pussy with her hard gyrations as she reached climax.

  Then like a puff of smoke they were gone. He couldn’t taste Adara’s pussy or feel Shae’s heavenly walls any longer. He turned his head in search of them. The ladies stood at the side of the bed in zombie like trance with red and black serpent eyes.

  “You’re so fucking weak!” Shae spat. “I needed a real man. A real man would have come inside that house with his gun and dragged me out. A real man wouldn’t run away and leave me behind.”

  “I didn’t run from you—”

  “You did! When I was weak you were supposed to be strong! You’re a cripple! Pathetic!” Shae spat. “A pit-bull junkie that no one wants. What did I ever see in you? What? Why don’t you do us both a favor and put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger!”