Chapter 36

Mafia Kings: Valentino: Chapter 36 I nearly had a heart attack when the brass alarm clock went off at 4:15.

Fucking Don fuckin’ Vicari –

After I slammed the fucking clock so it shut up, I thought about staying there in bed for a few minutes longer...

But I remembered the mafia don’s warning:

We don’t take kindly to lateness or laziness around here.

Besides, my heart was racing so hard after having a goddamn cymbal factory wake me up that I decided to just get going.

Since I only had a bathtub, I did a quick once-over with a washcloth. Then I dressed in slacks and a white linen shirt, took the copy of Milk and Honey with me, and made my way groggily down the hall.

An old servant lady was in the kitchen. It was pitch black outside, but she was already hard at work getting breakfast ready for the family.

She’d prepared me a plate of cold cuts, cheeses, grapes, and rough brown bread. Not exactly a fancy breakfast, but it tasted good.

More important was the strong coffee she’d brewed in a metal pot. The kitchen didn’t have a fancy espresso machine, but the oily black liquid she’d fixed was twice as strong. I was wired by the time I finished my second cup.

Just as I was finishing up, a clean-shaven guy walked into the kitchen. He couldn’t have been any older than me. He had jet-

black hair and was about my height with a wiry build – maybe not super-strong, but definitely not weak.

He wore a cheap black suit like Don Vicari’s guys at the hotel yesterday, but he styled his hair very carefully with gel.

“Hey, boss, you good to go?” he asked.

“You my driver?” I asked.

“Yes I am. The name’s Paulo.”

With just that little exchange, Paulo was more talkative than 95% of the other Sicilians who worked for Don Vicari – and a hell of a lot friendlier.

“Cool, I’m Valentino. Let’s do it,” I said as I stood and picked up the book of poetry. Then I told the kitchen lady, “Thanks for breakfast.”

She just nodded silently and went back to work.

Like I said: talkative.

Paolo led the way outside, where a black Alfa Romeo SUV was parked on the gravel drive. Over the scrunch of the rocks beneath our feet, I heard a familiar sound clanking far away in the darkness.

“Are those cows?” I asked, astounded they would be up that early.

“Yeah. The fuckers never shut up,” Paolo said. “‘Scuse my French.”

“Speak French all you want,” I said as I got in the front passenger seat.

Paolo looked at me in surprise as he got behind the wheel.

“I’m not a little old lady you need to fuckin’ chauffeur around,” I told him.

“Alright, then,” he grinned, and started the engine.

We talked as Paolo made his way through the winding roads in the hills.

We were both a little wary of saying too much – especially about his employer and my future father-in-law – but I found out a lot about the family operation.

“Rocco’s basically the capo of the south side of Sicily,” Paolo explained, using the word for ‘boss’ that described a Cosa Nostra leader just below the don and consigliere. For instance, Adriano was capo of Florence. “His brothers-in-law Tony and Santiago work for him. You met his sisters Abriana and Marcella yesterday, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, recalling the don’s other two daughters. “Work for him doing what, exactly?”

“Ahhh, you know,” Paolo said evasively.

“No, I don’t.”

Paolo glanced over at me. “Word is you’re from another family.”

He meant another Cosa Nostra family.

“Yeah, so?”

“So... you know.”

I sighed in exasperation. “Our operation was mostly bribing judges, cops, and politicians.”

“Oh.” Paolo smiled tightly. “Well, this ain’t that.”

“What is it, then?”

“Collections, mostly.”

He meant protection rackets. Extortion.

“From who?”

“Shopkeepers, mostly. They take a cut from the pimps and drug dealers, too.”

Great.

Don Vicari was old-school mafia, and so was his son Rocco... which meant they did all the old-school shit that people hated the mafia for.

“Don’t tell Rocco I told you that, though,” Paolo said with an edge of nervousness in his voice.

“Don’t worry, I’ll play stupid,” I promised. “What’s Rocco like?”

“Uhhh... he’s... interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

Paolo paused for a second, then said, “What we say in the car stays in the car, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. You could say Rocco’s got a Napoleon complex.”

“Little man syndrome,” I suggested.

“Exactly.”

Paolo was saying Rocco was short, and he felt the need to overcompensate by being a total dick.

Good to know.

“Is it really three hours to where we’re going?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“Great,” I said as I pulled out Milk and Honey.

Paolo glanced down at the book. “Huh. Didn’t figure you for the poetry type.”

“I’m not,” I sighed. “But Isabella is.”

“Ah, the Don’s daughter. She’s a nice girl.”

“She seems that way,” I agreed.

“‘Seems’ that way?” Paolo said in surprise.

I looked over at him like, You didn’t know?

“Shit, the Don really did an arranged marriage, huh?” Paolo asked.

“Yeah,” I said grimly.

“Fuuuuuuck. I thought that shit went out of style fifty years ago.”

“So did I.”

He laughed. “Bet you thought you were gonna have an easier life marrying her than getting up at the buttcrack of dawn and driving three hours to do gangster shit, huh?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I did.”

While Paolo drove, I read some poetry and was instantly surprised. Not by the poetry itself – but that Isabella was reading it. It had some pretty hardcore feminist stuff in it.

I smiled. She was smuggling stuff into the house that Don Vicari wouldn’t approve of, right under his nose.

He had a rebel in the house and didn’t even know it.

But poetry is like ouzo, a Greek liqueur that tastes like licorice:

Some love it, but I’m not a fan. And I definitely hadn’t developed a taste for it.

I eventually got sleepy, put the book down, and reclined the seat.

“I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Go for it, boss,” Paolo said.

I closed my eyes. With the hum of the engine and gentle vibration from the car, I was out in just a few minutes.

Mafia Kings: Valentino: Chapter 35 When I woke up, we were driving along the coast. The sun was sparkling over the Mediterranean as we sped down a highway with a lot more traffic on it.

“How long was I out?” I asked as I squinted against the light.

“Maybe an hour.”

“So we’re not even close yet, are we.”

“A little more than halfway. We just passed Catania.”

I had no idea where Catania was, but now I knew it was about halfway to Pozzallo.

As I rubbed my eyes, I thought about all the times I’d woken up in Cat’s bed.

My heart ached, and I would have given just about anything to be beside her right now.

Inside her would’ve been even better.

Maybe I could at least call her, though. I’d memorized her number a long time ago in case of emergency.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I asked.

Paolo winced. “Sorry, boss. That was the one thing they told me I absolutely could not do.”

I was expecting his answer, but it pissed me off all the same.

“‘They’?” I asked.

“My boss,” he clarified. “Which he got from his boss.”

“Isn’t Don Vicari your boss?”

“He’s, like, my boss’s boss’s boss.”

“They’ll never know you loaned it to me,” I said, then added, “What happens in the car stays in the car, right?”

“Not if they’d chop my dick off if they find out.”

“Can I at least use Google Maps so I can see where the fuck we’re going? I have no idea where Pozzallo is, how big it is, or anything.”

“...yeah... I guess I can do that much. But seriously, don’t go callin’ or texting any chicks, okay?” he said worriedly.

“I won’t,” I grumbled.

Which had been the one thing I really wanted to do.

I punched in our destination and looked at the map. I saw that Pozzallo was on the southeastern coast of Sicily – a sleepy little beach town, possibly a touristy area.

Then I backtracked along the blue line to see what else we would pass –

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed.

“What?”

“Rosolini’s on the way!”

Paolo gave me a weird look. “So?”

“So my last name is Rosolini! My grandfather came over to Tuscany from Rosolini!”

“Huh,” Paolo said noncommittally.

“Let’s stop by.”

Paolo gave me another look. “It’s just a little town out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Is it far out of the way? It doesn’t look like it from the map.”

“No, it’s maybe a five-minute detour, but – ”

“Then I wanna see it!”

Paolo winced. “But Rocco’s expecting us at eight, boss.”

“I’ll handle Rocco. You just take me to Rosolini.”

“But – ”

“It’s where my family came from. Don Vicari wouldn’t begrudge me this.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“Did they specifically tell you not to stop anywhere along the way?”

“No, but – ”

“Then what happens in the car, stays in the car.”

Paolo shook his head glumly. “I’m gonna regret this. I just know it.”

All my life, I’d heard that Rosolini was this fairytale-like town: charming, quaint, beautiful beyond compare.

My grandfather died before I was born, so I heard all the stories from my father. He told me that my grandfather had left behind his and Nonna’s beautiful home in Sicily to come to Florence, where he could create a better life for their family.

Back in Sicily, my grandfather was a small fish in a small pond. But in the wide-open waters of Tuscany, he made a name for himself – and created a kingdom for his family.

My grandfather had spoken of his old town reverentially. My father told me it was true – that Rosolini was more beautiful than anything Florence could offer.

It was always curious to me why he never took me and my brothers there to visit.

I was about to find out.

Paolo pulled off the main highway and continued down a road towards the town.

I could tell things weren’t going to match the fantasy when I saw all the graffiti along the way.

The outskirts of the town had a decidedly industrial feel – storage facilities and warehouses – and the older buildings were crumbling. Weeds choked the side of the road.

Things’ll get better, I told myself.

Even Florence is ugly in the new part of town. The Old Quarter is where it’s beautiful.

And it did get better.

And it was quaint... and kind of charming...

But not nearly as good as my father had made it sound.

All the satellite dishes poking up from all the roofs didn’t help.

We reached a huge square in the middle of town. Paolo parked, and I got out and looked around.

On one side was an old sandstone church, probably four stories tall.

The church was fairly impressive, over twice as tall as any nearby buildings, with a couple of statues of saints on top of the roof.

But once you’ve seen St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, or even the Duomo in Florence... let’s just say Rosolini’s suffered by comparison.

I looked around the rest of the square.

There were no fountains or statues – just a few lampposts.

Everything else was kind of bland. Beige two-story buildings.

The whole place felt old – but not like a medieval town, where you could feel the centuries in the cobblestones.

More just... worn out. Tired.

I could imagine it 60 years ago when my grandfather was here – during a festival, with a thousand people in the square and brightly colored decorations on the buildings. Old-timers sitting in street cafés, drinking coffee and wine as children ran past.

But now, at 7:45 on a weekday morning, it was deserted.

From a side street, I could hear the putt putt of a scooter racing past, but not much else.

No church bells, no laughter, no talking... just the silence of a dead town.

Now I knew why my father had never brought us to visit.

The fantasy had been better.

“Let’s go,” I said to Paolo as I got back in the SUV.