Chapter 37

Mafia Kings: Valentino: Chapter 37 An hour and a half later, we pulled off the main highway, navigated through a bunch of smaller streets, and wound up at an open-

air café within sight of the Mediterranean.

Outside on the patio, a bunch of wannabe tough guys were sitting and standing around.

They were trying to look like badasses but not quite pulling it off.

To the average person, they were probably frightening – but none of them had the presence of Dario, Adriano, or Massimo. And they didn’t look one-tenth as scary as Don Vicari.

Plus, they were all dressed in tracksuits or clubbing clothes, with too-tight shirts to accentuate their biceps.

Super try-hard, super cringe.

In the center of the group was a smaller guy holding court. He was dressed in a black tracksuit with red and white piping on the sleeves and legs. He wore a wife beater under the unzipped jacket, although he probably shouldn’t have. It revealed his slight gut.

I could tell he was Don Vicari’s son just from the facial resemblance: the same vicious eyes, the same meaty nose. But he didn’t have a mustache, and his hair was buzzcut down to a dark fuzz on his scalp.

All in all, he looked like a cheap, two-bit thug.

How he acted towards me didn’t change my impression.

“Ahhh, here he is,” Rocco half-joked, half-sneered as Paolo and I walked up. “My new brother-in-law. Pop said you were pretty as a little girl. He wasn’t kiddin’, was he, boys?”

They all laughed.

“Better than being ugly as fuck,” I replied.

Rocco’s smile faded as he glared up at me. “You’re late.”

“What, did I hold you up from eating another pastry?”

The tough guys around him shifted uncomfortably. Apparently nobody talked back to Rocco.

“Funny guy,” Rocco said in a pissed-off voice. Then he turned to Paolo and tapped his Rolex. “What the fuck?”

Before Paolo could speak, I said, “That’s my fault. I ordered him to go see Rosolini.”

Rocco gave me a bewildered look. “Why?”

“My family’s originally from there.”

“That piece of shit town? My condolences,” he said with a laugh, and all his buddies laughed, too.

That pissed me off.

Partially because I kind of agreed with him –

But I wasn’t about to let him know that.

“My last name’s Rosolini,” I said coldly.

“Then I’m doubly fuckin’ sorry,” Rocco said with a grin. “Must suck to be named after a shithole.”

All his buddies laughed again.

I smiled. “Well, we can’t all be named after child-molesting, wannabe priests.”

‘Vicari’ was Italian for ‘vicars,’ which were lower-level representatives of the Catholic church.

There were a couple of scattered laughs from the dumber thugs –

Until they realized Rocco was pissed, and they shut the hell up.

“What did you just say?” Rocco asked, his nostrils flaring.

“Oh – I thought we were just having fun. But sure, if you want me to say it again: we can’t all be named after – ”

Rocco shot to his feet, his chair scraping on the concrete, and stomped over to me.

I had to stifle a smile.

Dude was 5’3”. He didn’t even come up to my chin.

I soooo wanted to reach over and rub his head like I would a little kid –

But guns might get pulled if I did that, and I didn’t have a gun.

So... not a good idea.

There was silence from all his friends as Rocco glared up at me, his chest all puffed out like an angry rooster.

Then he gave a dead-eyed smile. He was obviously copying his father, but Rocco couldn’t quite make his look as unnerving.

“You’re a real joker, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“You like bustin’ people’s balls, huh?”

“Only if I know they can take it.”

That last comment was totally calculated on my part.

I was implying that he could take it.

If Rocco overreacted and got pissed off, then he was showing he couldn’t take a joke – and I knew he wouldn’t want to admit to that.

Much as I hated Niccolo at the moment, I had to give him credit. He was a master of verbal judo, and I’d picked up a few things from watching him over the years.

Rocco realized the bind he was in and reacted just like I thought he would.

“This guy, huh?” he said with a grin to his buddies, and everybody started chuckling again, albeit uneasily. “You hungry, tough guy?”

If he was trying to build bridges, I figured I should meet him halfway. “I could eat something.”

Rocco’s smile disappeared. “Well, too fuckin’ bad, because you’re late. Late fuckers don’t eat, they go straight to work. Now let’s go.”

Okay... not trying to build bridges, then.

Just trying to cut me down to make himself look like a tough guy.

This was going to be a long day.

Paolo stayed behind. Lucky him.

As the rest of us left the café, Rocco rattled off a bunch of introductions. “This here’s Tony and Santiago – also your new brothers-in-law. They’re married to my kid sisters. That’s Mooch, and Bracco, and – ”

I stopped listening and just nodded after Rocco quit talking. “Nice to meet you.”

“Okay, Movie Star, listen up and watch the pros do it. Time to make the money.”

By ‘making money,’ he meant extorting it.

Rocco and his buddies strolled from shop to shop, laughing and jabbering as they went, acting like it was Friday night instead of Wednesday morning.

Every time Rocco and his friends entered a restaurant or shop, the owners immediately tensed up, like they were expecting trouble.

Nothing bad happened, though.

Not at first.

Rocco’s spiel was pretty much the same every time.

“Heeeey, Luciano, what’s good? This here’s my new brother-in-law, Movie Star. That’s what we’re callin’ him. You’re gonna be seein’ him a lot in the months to come, so memorize the face. Now where’s my fuckin’ money?”

The shopkeepers handed over envelopes stuffed with cash. Rocco would count it – moving his lips like he was too stupid to do it in his head – and give a nod of approval. “Alright. See you next month, Luciano.”

We hit 15 shops, one after another.

I got more and more nauseated as time went on.

It was like I was trapped in a shitty movie, forced to watch a bunch of douchebags play tough guys and shake down the powerless.

I wished I could rewrite the movie. I wanted to reach over, tear the money out of Rocco’s hands, give it back to the shopkeepers, and deliver a little speech: These assholes won’t be back again – ever. Keep your money. Spend it on your family.

But I knew that was a good way to earn myself a beatdown.

Not from Rocco and his minions. I was pretty sure they were all show, and that I could take them with the training I’d gotten from Lars.

But Don Vicari’s hardened foot soldiers were another matter.

For the first time, I clearly saw what Dario was trying to do when he took over after Papa died.

Dario had put his foot down: no more drugs, no more human trafficking, no more prostitution, no more extortion – all things Papa and Fausto had been involved in.

Dario got some pushback from Niccolo and Roberto, but he held fast, and we’d gotten out of the dirtiest aspects of the business.

Yeah, we were still outlaws –

But we didn’t prey on the weak.

Not like Don Vicari and Rocco.

I knew the everyday people they were shaking down hated them for it.

And all of this ill will for what – a few bucks?

I’m sure it was a fair amount of cash for the shopkeepers, but it was chump change for the Cosa Nostra.

Back before Fausto fucked everything up, our family made ten times more money than Rocco’s stupid extortion racket.

If Don Vicari was richer than us, why bother with this penny ante bullshit?

The only conclusion I could come up with was this was the way Don Vicari kept his idiot son and his dipshit sons-in-law busy.

At least there wasn’t any violence –

Until one of the shopkeepers couldn’t pay.

It was a tourist shop, the kind of place that sells t-shirts and stuffed animals with ‘I Heart Italia’ on them.

The old guy who ran it looked like he was in his 60s. Grey hair, glasses, dress slacks, and polo shirt.

As soon as he saw us enter the shop, his face filled with terror.

“Nazzareno!” Rocco called out in a chipper voice. “It’s your favorite customer!”

There were a couple of tourists looking at metal paperweights of the Colosseum – two sunburned women with frizzy blonde hair.

“Please,” the old man said to the women in broken English. “Please, we close.”

One of them answered in an American accent. “But it’s the middle of the – ”

“Urgent meeting,” I said in English. “We need to confer with our friend here. You can come back later.”

“But – ”

“ESCI DI QUI!” Rocco roared at the top of his lungs.

I don’t think the women understood Italian, but they understood getting screamed at.

They bolted out the door without another word.

Then Rocco turned back to the old man. “So, Nazzareno – where’s my fuckin’ money?”

“Signor Vicari... please...” Nazzareno begged.

“Please what?” Rocco asked, turning his head slightly like he was hard of hearing.

“I don’t have your money this week...”

“You what?” Rocco asked in fake surprise.

His reaction let me know he was expecting this all along.

This was all a set-up.

They were about to make an example of the old guy.

My stomach tightened with dread.

“My wife has been very sick, Signor Vicari,” Nazzareno whimpered. “I’ve had to take her to doctors in Palermo – ”

“What the fuck do I care about your wife?” Rocco asked.

One of the meatheads used his arm to rake a bunch of knick-knacks onto the floor. All the dipshits laughed.

If I’d had a pistol, I would have gunned them all down.

“Please, Signore,” the old man said, nearly crying. “I have to close the shop when I take her – ”

“Then fuckin’ hire somebody, you old cheapskate.”

“I can’t afford to hire anyone – no one wants to work for what I can pay – ”

“I don’t give a shit about your problems, Nazzareno. I only care about my fuckin’ money, and this is the second time in two months that you’re late,” Rocco said.

Another asshole ripped down a display of t-shirts hanging on the wall. Dozens of shirts collapsed to the ground.

The old man glanced in terror at the guy who’d torn down the display, then looked back at Rocco. “I know, Signore, but – ”

“You know what we do to people who’re late?” Rocco asked in a low, threatening voice.

Nazzareno winced. “Please, Signor Vicari – I can give you everything in the cash register, but – ”

“But it’s not gonna be enough, is it?” Rocco said with fake sympathy.

Another asshole sent a tabletop of snow globes crashing to the floor.

All the glass shattered, and water spilled over the floor in a wave.

Nazzareno hurriedly opened the cash register and held out a handful of small bills.

“Here – I can give you eighty – no, a hundred!” Then he dug coins out of the register and held them out, too. “This is another eight euros – nine – eleven – ”

Before he could finish counting, Rocco slapped his hand and sent the coins clattering to the floor.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ pocket change,” Rocco snarled. “I want my fuckin’ money in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. You know that.”

Then he grabbed the bills out of the old man’s hand. “Looks like you’re four hundred short, Nazzareno. Now I’m gonna have to take it out of your hide.”

Rocco pulled back his hand in a fist –

“STOP,” I shouted.

Rocco looked back at me in utter shock. “What the fuck’re you doing?”

I pulled out my wallet and fished out four bills. “I’m giving him a loan.”

Rocco stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

For that matter, so did the old man – and all the mouth-breathers Rocco called friends.

“Well?” I said as I held out the cash.

Rocco looked at the money, then at me – and his entire face turned into a scowl. “OUTSIDE. NOW.”

I let him stomp past me, then followed him into the street.

“What the fuck’re you doing?!” he seethed as soon as we were outside.

“Don’t you think this is beneath you?” I asked.

“‘Beneath me’?! Who the fuck do you think you are, Mother Fuckin’ Teresa?”

“Beating up old men isn’t going to make these people respect you.”

“No, it’s gonna make them fear me, and then they pay me on time!” he roared. “What the fuck kind of mafioso ARE you?”

“Not the kind who beats up old men.”

“What’re you gonna do, you fuckin’ moron – give money to every goddamn lowlife who can’t pay his bills? Huh?”

“You can do whatever you want to the pimps and the drug dealers, but leave the shopkeepers alone.”

Rocco laughed and shook his head incredulously. “Pop said you Tuscan fucks were soft, but I didn’t know how right he was.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

He started to push past me to go back into the shop –

But I stopped him with a hand to the chest and pushed him back.

He slapped my arm away. “GET YOUR FUCKIN’ HANDS OFF ME!”

I stepped right up to him and growled low enough that the others couldn’t hear me. “Do not go back in that shop, or I’m gonna hand your ass to you in front of all your buddies and the entire town. THAT’S not gonna make you look so tough.”

Rocco stared at me, his face full of fury –

But I just stood there, never looking away.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he snarled. “Go back to my father’s, you fuckin’ retard. School’s over for today, and you fuckin’ failed.”

“Fine,” I said coldly. “Do you want your money or not?”

I held out the four hundred to him.

He glared at me with all the hatred he had inside him –

And then he snatched the money out of my hand and stomped down the street towards the next shop.

“COME ON, LET’S GO!” he screamed at his buddies.

As they walked out of the shop and followed Rocco, some looked at me in bewilderment. The others sneered in contempt.

I just waited until they rounded the corner. I didn’t think it was wise to pick another fight. There was only so much I could get away with before the knives and guns came out.

The old man stood in his shop doorway, staring at me like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out the rest of the cash I had in my wallet – everything I’d brought from Tuscany – and held it out to him. It was probably a couple thousand euros.

“That should be enough so he’ll leave you alone for a few months,” I said.

The old man looked down at the money and shook his head in terror. “I – I thank you, but I cannot – ”

“It’s a gift, not a loan. I’m not like them. Take it.” When he still hesitated, I said, “For your wife’s sake.”

His eyes filled with tears, and he hesitantly took the money.

“Che Dio ti benedica, signore,” he whispered.

God bless you, sir.

“Let’s hope,” I muttered, and walked off to find Paolo.

I found him down the street, talking on his phone as he watched me. He must have been following us at a distance.

As I walked up, he said something into his cell, then hung up and put it in his pocket.

“Who was that?” I asked suspiciously, wondering if he was reporting back to Don Vicari.

“Just a girl,” he said, then shook his head. “You’re not making much of an effort to fit in, you know.”

“You saw that?”

“Enough to know you just made an enemy out of the wrong guy.”

“Yeah, well, he ‘fired’ me for the day, so let’s go home.”

Rocco turned and led the way down the street. “Just do me a favor: when you tell ‘em why we’re back early, make sure they know I had nothin’ to do with it.”

“Not a problem,” I said grimly.