La Famiglia Page 37

  “How do you sleep at night?” Gemma asked.

  “Like a baby.” Isabella leaned forward. “For years Marsuvio has pondered who turned his precious black whore into a heroin addict. The Sicilians didn’t deal in drugs at that time. It divided them. Cast their sons to the wind. Yadda, yadda, yadda,” Isabella laughed.

  “Can I eat in silence?” Gemma asked

  Isabella continued. “My father, Flavio, could not be bothered to solve that mystery and neither did Marsuvio the fucking hypocrite.” Isabella smiled. “But I did.”

  She grabbed Gemma’s arm. Gemma flinched. She was yanked forward with the top of her forearm exposed. Isabella drew up Gemma’s sleeve and uncovered faded needle track marks across broken veins. “It was you, wasn’t it, Gemma? The junkie Italian whore who spread her legs for any mobster on the scene. You made the whore an addict. Didn’t you?”

  “Stop it!” Gemma wept. She pulled hard against Isabella’s grip and eventually snatched her arm away.

  “Did you fuck Marsuvio? Were you jealous of his black bitch? Is that why you turned her into a junkie?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Really?” Isabella laughed.

  “Life was hard for all of us. Lisa was snatched from her boyfriend when she was just a kid. Marsuvio took her. He raped her. Made her think she had to suffer his desires to free the man she loved from prison. And then he lied to her and told her James was dead. The grief she suffered. The pain she suffered. I wanted to help her. Because I knew Marsuvio would never let her go. She needed to feel dead, disappear the way we all did. So yes. I gave her something to make it easier. And it did.”

  “Liar!” Isabella laughed. She threw her head back and laughed like a maniac. For Isabella to be so beautiful she had a cruel edge that made her features monstrous. Her bright red lips, coal black eyes and almost too perfect polished smile gave Gemma shivers.

  Yes she lied. But how the hell would Isabella know her deepest shame?

  Gemma resisted the urge to cover her ears. When Isabella regained control of her laughter she spoke with a wild grin on her face. “You wanted her hopeless because she took your place. That’s the truth. Isn’t it?”

  “No,” Gemma said. “I loved Lisa.”

  “Like a junkie loves her needle?” Isabella teased. “I doubt it.”

  “I was her friend!”

  Isabella’s smile faded. She tilted her head left and stared at Gemma. “I still don’t know how you kept Marsuvio from discovering this? Who did he think put his whore on heroin?”

  “Shut up,” Gemma wept, she removed her rosary from her sweater pocket and kissed it. Silently she prayed. Not from Isabella’s taunts but from the flood of guilt she drowned in. Her sins were too numerous to count.

  “Women like you turn my stomach. Weak. Pathetic. Sniveling whores who think that the only option left to them in life is servitude. Men aren’t the strong ones. We are. But whores like you make us real women look bad. The justice I bring to the Battaglias will be the cancer that will wipe them out for generations.”

  “You’re not strong,” Gemma spat. “You’re just as much of a junkie to your hatred as I was to heroin. You don’t want to help Marsuvio’s daughters. You want to destroy them.”

  Isabella laughed. “Me? It’s my fault?” She put a manicured hand to her breast. “So now I’m the one that lured Mirabella to Italy? I’m the one that forced her to marry the man whose father put a kill order out on her mother? I’m the one that gave two babies away, and left one vulnerable kid with a sadist like Octavio Leone? These are my crimes?”

  “No, Isabella. You did none of those things,” Gemma conceded. “You’re the coward that plays these games with their lives. And how do you know… wait. It was Octavio who told you about me and Capriccio? He was the one that told you about my relationship with Lisa?”

  Isabella smirked. “You would be surprised at how cheap that information came from the drunk. As soon as I told him who I was and what I wanted to do to his adopted daughter he sang like a canary.”

  Gemma shook her head sadly. She cursed Marietta, and her reasons were as vile as the woman sitting across from her. “It’s revenge you want, nothing more,” Gemma said sadly.

  “And it’s revenge I will have. Everything Giovanni loves will crumble. His family, his business, and his sanity. I want his sanity most of all. He will suffer a thousand times worse than Flavio. I will devote years of my life to seeing it happen. This is only the beginning, Gemma.” Isabella pushed her chair back and stood. She sashayed out of the room with the bottom of her midnight blue silk dress swirling around her shapely hips. “Keep watching the phone,” she tossed over her shoulder to Gemma. “Let me know if it rings.” Isabella laughed.

  Gemma stared at the phone once more. Why hadn’t Marietta called her? If she did she’d tell her everything. Help her run from this nightmare. And maybe God would have pity on her soul for her crimes against Lisa.

  * B *

  “How the fuck is this going to work?” Carlo asked.

  Lorenzo sat in the car with him drumming his fingers on the dashboard. The odds that they could play this caper as smoothly as they’ve done in the past were slim. Varo had a small army around him. Even at this local bar each man was checked at the door by three of the toughest he’d seen. They couldn’t walk right in and slit his throat. They couldn’t cross the street without being gunned down according to Alik. He had lost many men trying.

  Instead they sat in the car and weighed their options.

  “If we don’t deliver Alik won’t let us leave the country alive. And even if we escape we won’t be able to avoid a war with the Akhperutyuns. Mottola has tied our hands. We have to be smart.” Lorenzo said.

  “Fuck being smart. It’s suicide. One of us has to make the sacrifice but both of us can’t make it out alive,” Carlo said.

  Lorenzo scanned the street. He didn’t speak Armenian but he did know a little Russian. It was hard to say if the men he’d have to get past to see Varo did as well. Lorenzo watched as three men stumbled out of the front of the pub to smoke cigarettes. They laughed with the man standing guard, evidently familiar. And then they started to walk off.

  “There!” Lorenzo pointed. “Andiamo.”

  “Wait!” Carlo yelped, but Lorenzo was out the door. He was ruled by instinct not fear, nor caution. Time was short. He wanted to get the fuck out of Armenia. Something was wrong with Marietta. The emergency pages had stopped. He tried to call her back. The private line to their bedroom was now busy as if the phone had been taken off the hook. He felt it in his gut, she needed him. And he sure as hell couldn’t return home empty handed. They would have to get the job done and get it done quickly.

  Together the best friends slipped into the night. They walked fast. They ran. Lorenzo led the way. They raced ahead of Varo’s men who strolled south away from the nightlife on the streets. Lorenzo and Carlo ran far enough to be in their path if they continued their course.

  There was a single street lamp lighting an isolated area of the street. “Let’s do it.” Lorenzo cracked his knuckles. Carlo nodded and began to pace around him. Lorenzo landed the first punch, hard. Carlo staggered. He showed no mercy in his response. A sledgehammer slam of his fist to Lorenzo’s face and gut with the accuracy of a prizefighter. So ferocious was the beating the darkness threatened to collapse inward and drop Lorenzo to his knees. A sober Carlo was a killing machine. Lorenzo had to be quick on his feet and get his arm around his throat to get the better end of the fight. But the closer he got to Carlo the fiercer the beating. And they fought hard. Men rushed toward them. It took all four of the men to pull Carlo and Lorenzo apart.

  Lorenzo shouted at Carlo in Russian, blamed him for getting them lost. Swore when he got to Italy he would tell Mottola it was Carlo’s fault they failed to meet with Varo. The men at first didn’t react. Carlo began to hurl insults. One after another they exchanged barbs and the blame.

  One of the men shoved L
orenzo back. He pinned him to the wall. To Lorenzo’s relief he did speak Russian. He demanded to know what business he had with Varo.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Lorenzo replied in Russian.

  The man removed a large knife from his belt and put it to Lorenzo’s throat. He asked the question again.

  “I will only tell Varo. I’m sent here by Mottola to deliver a message. So fuck you!” Lorenzo answered.

  The man glanced back to his comrades. The others who kept Carlo restrained spoke to him in Armenian. This was it. The moment he’d hoped for. Lorenzo’s heart thundered in his chest. His eyes connected with Carlo and they both knew the plan. They’d either waste these fuckers in the street with their own weapons or gain the access they wanted.

  The man with a knife to this throat released him. He stepped back. He said he would see if a meeting was acceptable. Lorenzo pretended to doubt the man. To say he would find Varo on his own. But the angry bastard drew down on him. Pointed a gun to his back and told him to walk. He and Carlo were marched through the dark streets back to the bar that Varo supposedly frequented. At the door a few words were said before he and Carlo were pushed in. One of the men stayed with them. The other two walked toward the back of the musky establishment. Men crowded every table and corner. He didn’t see a woman in the place. What he thought to be a bar was something far more sinister.

  With silent restraint Lorenzo clenched his fists. To survive the night would be nothing short of a miracle.

  * B *

  Marietta woke.

  She rolled over to her back under the crushing weight of a headache. It had to be late. The room was darker, the house silent. She had cried until she exhausted herself. And still she woke with more tears. The sadness centered in her chest, heavy and suffocating. It allowed no room for release. She sat up. Wanting desperately to breathe again. She wanted to feel anything but the numbing disillusionment. She set her feet down on the side of the bed and put her face in her hands. Lorenzo hadn’t called her back. And she didn’t care anymore if he did. When she looked up she saw the phone tossed to the other side of the room. She had yanked it from the wall. It was a private line to this room, so if he called he would have gotten no answer. Still she doubted he kept to his promise. The man was a liar, a conniving bastard. Her rage towards him had extinguished the light of love she carried in her heart.

  Marietta’s gaze lowered to her hand. The ring Lorenzo slipped on her finger when he made his vows glistened even in the dark. She turned it as if to pull it off and stopped herself, she couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

  “That’s the one. That’s the one I want.” Marietta grinned. She put both hands to her mouth to hide her excitement.

  “It’s a wise choice, mademoiselle,” the jeweler said. “Monsieur, in your hand you hold eight carats of clarity and perfection.”

  “Eight, huh?” Lorenzo lifted the ring to the light. The diamond sent bands of colors down across everyone. Marietta’s hand slipped from her mouth to her throat. The gem was spectacular. “It’s flawless, like my Marietta,” he winked at her.

  Marietta nodded. God she loved this man. The look of love in his eyes held her still, breathless.

  “Is this the one you want, Marie? Are you sure?” Lorenzo asked.

  She nodded her head and smiled. The ring cost more money than she’d ever fathomed for a piece of jewelry. She felt a bit strange asking for something so extravagant. But the moment she saw it in the display case she knew it was hers.

  The jewelry store was a bit busy for the early hour. She and Lorenzo were to the back where the most precious of gems were sold. Marietta expected him to buy the ring and hand it over. She should have known he’d do much more than that.

  When Lorenzo lowered to his knees every woman’s head in the store turned and each gaze swiveled their way. Marietta placed her shaky hands at first to her mouth then to her heart until he gave her the look to hold her left hand out for him. She did so glancing around at the gawkers. Lorenzo kissed her knuckles. He then eased the diamond ring on her finger. “Ho un debole per te. Sposami, Marietta.”

  “I am weak for you too, Lorenzo. And yes I will marry you,” she answered.

  The shoppers and store clerks all applauded. He stood and lifted her into his arms and she hugged his neck with all her might.

  “Until death do us part, cara,” he said with a serious look.

  She nodded her head. “Yes! Forever. Me and you forever, Lo! I swear it!”

  With a deep sigh for strength she mentally released herself from the memory that chained her heart to the wedding ring. Marietta pushed up from the bed and stumbled through the dark. She stepped over broken glass and all other evidence of the destructive rage that had consumed her earlier. She flipped on the light. The fluorescent bulb buzzed and in a flash bright light flooded the room. The glare blinded her temporarily.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the sink. After a second the dizzy feeling lessened. She lifted her head. She faced the woman staring back at her in the mirror. Who was she? The braid Marietta wore all day pinned neatly to the back of her head had unraveled and the natural curl pattern to her hair had left loose curls to drift around her face. Her eyes were puffy with grey half circles of fatigue in the pockets beneath. Her nose was red and felt raw to the touch. Her lips had a bruised purplish swollen pout to it. She stepped closer to the sink unable to look away.

  She had a twin sister.

  A dead mother.

  A liar for a husband.

  And a Sicilian father who wanted her dead.

  “La famiglia,” she chuckled, drunk on grief.

  The truth had finally come. There was nothing left to do but accept it. Gemma had the nerve to think she’d call her. Come running like some trained dog to be petted and controlled. Fuck her. Gemma was no better than any of them. In fact if she ever saw Gemma face to face again she’d put her fist into her throat. Lorenzo would not get off easily. Of course she could grab her things and leave, but not before she looked him in the face and told him what his lies and breaking her heart meant.

  So what was left?

  Mirabella.

  The only thing Marietta truly believed was that Mirabella didn’t know the truth. Her sister was a victim of the Battaglias just as she was. Marietta would fix that. She would blow the whole house of lies up before she left this place for good. A sinister smile crept over her mouth and she found a measure of relief. Revenge and hate felt much more comforting than love. She should have never forgotten that truth.

  * B *

  Smoke filled Lorenzo’s lungs when after twenty minutes he and Carlo were shoved inside. They counted seventeen men out front. Maybe more. Killing Varo was not going to be easy. And then they met the man himself. Varo squatted in the back of a room with two of his men. There was a map on the floor he pointed to. Upon Lorenzo and Carlo’s arrival he stood, walked over to a table and sat with an imposed air of importance. His posturing did not lessen the peril Lorenzo knew he and his friend were in. A coward pretending at being a leader was more dangerous than a true leader himself. Varo reeked of cowardice. Which would explain why he hid in the mountains instead of faced his enemy.

  Lorenzo studied his opponent. Varo had black vacant eyes on an unshaven face with bushy brows. A dirty man who probably slept with the light on. Lorenzo decided to speak to Varo in Italian.

  “Mi chiamo Lorenzo Battaglia,” Lorenzo introduced himself. Varo put his gun on his table.

  “Battaglia? You’re a Battaglia?” Varo asked.

  The tension in his voice changed the atmosphere in the room. A grumbling spread between the men gathered. Apparently each man standing knew of the Battaglias.

  “I am. My cousin is Don Giovanni Battaglia,” Lorenzo admitted.

  “I’ve heard of him. Not you,” Varo answered. “Why are you here? And why lie to my men and say you are a friend of Mottola?”

  “Because you’re the man to see. I want the deal Mottola has. No. I want a better one,
” Lorenzo said. He nodded to the chair. “May I?”

  “Please,” Varo said with an amused chuckle.

  The men both rose from the table. One faced Carlo with his finger on the trigger of an assault rifle and the other kept his attention focused on Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo took a seat. Unaffected by the deadly intent of the others he focused on Varo. “I know that Mottola is helping you arm your men. I know the guns are from my family. And I also know when Giovanni learns of this you will lose this war. He has a much further reach within the Camorra, Mafioso, and `Ndrangheta than Mottola.”

  Varo reclined. He blinked. The moment he did everything Lorenzo suspected of the coward was proven true. The man was no Yeremian. He was a scavenger. If he didn’t hide so well this meeting would have never been necessary. Lorenzo would feel no remorse when he took his head.

  “You have my attention, Battaglia,” Varo said. “Continue.”

  “My cousin has kept me in his shadow for many years. He has now stripped me of everything, except one thing, the most important thing. My birthright. I can get you the guns, and the means to win this war with Yeremian. I can get you at the table with the men who will finance your pursuit to liberate your people. It is what you want, what all of this is about. No?”

  “The Russians and Turks stripped us of our identity, our pride. Now we are stronger but men like Yeremian see nothing but greed. Yes I fight for liberation. And it is an honor to meet you Lorenzo Battaglia if you can help me obtain it.”

  Varo extended his hand. Lorenzo smiled. He reached across the table and shook it.

  “Let’s talk business. But not here.” Varo cleared his throat. Lorenzo frowned. He glanced over his shoulder to Carlo who stood stone faced.

  “Please come with me.”

  “My companion. He goes where I go.” Lorenzo said.

  Varo shrugged. “Of course.”

  Lorenzo and Carlo were led out.

  * B *

  Marietta felt better after the shower. Her hair was wet, slick, she combed it back over her head into a wavy curl pattern from her face. A bit freer from despair she left her room. The dark hall greeted her. At night men under the Battaglia’s payroll patrolled the halls, the land, and the beaches. How many she wasn’t sure. And in the dark she could feel the sense of being watched. Several times she stopped to glance back over her shoulder and found no one behind her. Lorenzo once joked that the eyes of Giovanni were always on her when she was in his home. Therefore, she remained alert.