Chapter One
Mondello Beach, Sicily 1962
“Papa, it’s too far,” Giovanni said. The longer he stared down into the rolling waves the worse his plight became. His head grew heavier on his small shoulders, and his vision blurred with the threat of tears. There could be danger below. The mere thought of his tipping over paralyzed him with fear. A long tide rushed in and broke across the stranded rocks near the shoreline. From his angle, twenty-feet above according to Uncle Rocco, he could see the depths of the water where it went from turquoise to midnight blue. The lunch in his tummy bubbled up into his throat and his tiny hands shook as he suppressed his terror. Another cool wind combed through his tightly wound locks, crowning the top of his head. It pushed against his bare chest. He was only six years old. Why would his father command this of him? Would the leap prove him to be courageous, or just worthy of the title son?
“Tomosino. He’s just a baby, don’t do this,” Eve pulled on the Don’s arm and tried to reason with him. Don Battaglia glared at Giovanni’s mother, and her pleas fell softly away. He returned his cool dark gaze to his son, and Giovanni resisted the urge to cry.
“You are old enough boy.” The Don answered in his thick Sicilian brogue that made most men obey without question. “You can swim. Now, show Papa and everyone.”
No one dared question his father once his desired wish was explicitly stated. Not his mother, uncles, or the men that vowed to serve and respect his authority. Don Battaglia’s word was law. Giovanni’s blinking gaze shifted to Lorenzo. His cousin stood near his mother with a towel draped over his shoulders, visibly shivering. He nearly drowned from his failed attempt. The men had to go in and rescue him. The women were crying hysterically. Now the humiliation of defeat left Lorenzo hanging his head in shame. Young Lorenzo was only a year older than Giovanni. Tomosino announced that his son was braver and smarter than his nephew, smarter than any other six year old within Sicily. The Don boasted Giovanni would need no saving. And it was time to prove his father right.”
“Do it.”
“Si,” Giovanni said. He stepped to the edge and stared down into the glistening water. He could swim, better than Lorenzo and better than his uncles. Still the leap would be the highest and longest dive of his young life.
“No please! No! I beg you, don’t make him!” His mother wept. He glanced to her and forced a brave smile. Her scarlet red hair blew from her face, and her clear blue eyes held such sadness. He had eyes like his mother but the bravery of his father. He’d prove it. Show them all. Indeed he was strong enough. And though his beloved mother may not be the chosen wife, she had given birth to the Don’s first-born son. Even in his tender years, Giovanni knew how he could ease his mother’s suffering from her tormentors if the Don proclaimed him as so. It made her special, too. He nodded in the direction of his mother and stepped back several paces. Taking in deep breaths like his uncle Rocco had taught him, he counted to three and ran for it.
The wind lifted him. Giovanni kicked his legs and crossed his arms over his chest because his heart beat so hard and fast he thought it would explode. He sailed downward. The invisible pull of gravity roped around his ankles, drawing him closer and faster toward the sea. And he crashed into its icy depths. He felt as if rocks were strapped to his shoulders driving him to the sea floor. He puffed his cheeks and held his breath. The pressure closed in around him. It was as if the water strangled him by the throat and squeezed around his midriff making him want to take a breath. He knew better than to do so while submerged. His eyes opened under the current, and he swam toward the light above. But salvation was too far. He’d gone really deep. He swam harder though his arms tired with heaviness, as did his legs, which he kicked feebly. He wanted to cry, but there was no time to, he had to swim or else Papa would be displeased. When he believed there would be no end to the struggle freedom overwhelmed him as he broke clear of the waves. His mother and uncle had already run down the side of the cliffs to the shore. But his father and his men stood atop the clearing watching his success. A few cheered and several threw their hats up in celebration. Don Tomosino had indeed proven his only son was worthy to take on the Battaglia name.
Giovanni treaded the water smiling up to his father. Tomosino stuffed a fat cigar in his mouth, turned, without a word, and walked away.
Napoli (Naples) Italy – 1989
The day had been balmy in the middle and crisp around the edges with the night carrying in the steamy sea air from the not so distant Amalfi coast. A single tear of perspiration dropped from his brow to the tip of his nose, which he swiped away. Under the cover of darkness Giovanni Battaglia stalked up the narrow cobblestone alley, passing tightly squeezed in shop owners and restaurants. A man of his stature never travelled alone. Isabella’s was at the end of the narrow street. Fine dining was offered through its doors to the front and top levels. The steps that led to the lower floors were locked behind doors that only opened upon invite. Giovanni Battaglia needed none. In his black on black attire, only his tall form could be seen as he and the men accompanying him blended with the night.
Giovanni slipped his hands deeper in his pockets, parting the front folds of his sports coat. A half smoked cigar was tucked tight between his tongue and his left jaw. Danny-boy, his gun, was situated in the back of his pants, well hidden. The street symphony of honking horns and laughing diners or passing tourists blared as a nice cover to the business conducted in the belly of Isabella’s. The doorman glanced his way. When their eyes met, acknowledgement was immediate. Those who knew his true name didn’t dare evoke it casually. He received a few respectful nods and curious stares, but no one approached him. Carlo stepped ahead to the door and opened it. Giovanni and the others continued on, they descended a spiral stairwell with tiled walls and hard marble steps.
Tonight he was out for blood. He’d spill it in his own organization before he tolerated disobedience. There were rules in this life. From birth he heard the vows of secrecy recited by the men in his family. His cousin, Lorenzo, heard them, too. Yet, he found ways to continue to walk the line of disobedience within their brotherhood. At the end of the stairs the lighting dimmed, and the faint sounds of music pulsed through the walls and doors. Nico waited. He was so tall and broad shouldered he crowded the space. Nico bowed his large head and reached behind him to throw the door open.
Giovanni’s glare sliced through the smoke-thickened air scanning the scene. Of course, the sparse seating circled the dance floor. Under spinning lights bodies gyrated in synchronization with dance music. Women in short dresses with ruby red lips and dark flowing hair danced with men twice their age. Whores, instructed to empty the pockets of local businessmen and lucky tourists who were granted entrance.
Above the dance floor, on raised platform pillars facing each other from either side of the club were two Sicilian born beauties seated on their knees in claw-foot black porcelain tubs. With arms raised, fingers entwined, under a light spray from an overhead sprinkler designed to look like rain they moved. Iridescent droplets, thanks to the red spotlighting, rained down their golden tanned bodies. Their breasts bounced and glistened as the sudsy streams drained down their curves, and they rolled their hips giving seductive moves to the music while simulating a bath. One locked eyes with him. She gripped the edge of the tub and slung her dark hair trying to entice him to maintain her stare. He continued to scan the scene.
Carlo moved in closer to his left. “He’s in the back boss.”
Giovanni nodded. They stepped directly through the crowd with Carlo and Nico shoving dancing bodies out of his way. Soon many caught on to his presence and parted without any resistance. The gambling tables were packed tight. Dice were thrown, cards dealt, and to the back of the scene his cousin sat amongst others laughing under a heavy cloud of smoke. Giovanni removed his cigar from his mouth and dropped it on a smoking tray. Their eyes met.
Lorenzo stood and so did the men at the table. His cousin spoke a few words and those gathered discreetly withdrew as a young woman, with a leather mini so short her butt cheeks dropped from the hem with each step she made, sidled up to his cousin. Lorenzo patted her on the ass and dismissed her as well. She walked on shiny spiked heels, giving Giovanni a longing look. He stepped to the table, and Lorenzo greeted him with a kiss to both of his cheeks. Before a question was asked, before he was able to warm his seat, his cousin began to run off at the mouth.
“Excuses. I’m done entertaining them.”
Lorenzo wiped his hand along his jaw.
“Flavio called. The doors will close. Permanently.” Dominic stood behind him. He spoke in a clear but lowered voice. “Consider tonight the last for business.”
Lorenzo slammed his hand down on the table silencing Dominic. He leaned forward under the lamp, and his scowl deepened into a snarl. With his voice lowered, he directed his words to Giovanni only. “The Albanians brought the girls here. I would never drag our family into trafficking of any children. If you will just listen to me Gio…”
“Doesn’t matter how you lost control. What matters to me is you did. And that failure is a reflection on this family and me. Must I remind you of this each and every time you fuck up?”
A few of his men snickered. Lorenzo clenched his fist resting on the table. “We can’t close the doors. It solves nothing. Francesco’s entire fortune is invested in this place as is mine. You only gave us ten percent. We put everything we have in the remodeling. How do we recoup the loss?”
“Burn the place to the ground.” Giovanni shrugged. “I don’t give a shit about your loss.” His order resonated with the men gathered. “I want my fucking investment back and the family name out of the papers. Ten percent equals thirty now that you have disgraced yourself. Tomorrow it will be forty. Every day the doors remain open, the more indebted to the family you will be.” Giovanni’s gaze swung left. Carlo nodded that the order would be enforced. Lorenzo struggled with the inevitable, which was evident by the tension tightening his jaw.
“Appunto. Ti seguo. I get it. I follow you.” Lorenzo nodded in respect. “Dinner? Have you eaten? Prego! Why don’t you join me upstairs for dinner?” Lorenzo ground out between his clenched teeth. “Francesco should be part of this discussion. No? Let’s go above and talk reasonably.”
He hadn’t eaten all day. He had slept even less.
“Andiamo. It’s time I see Francesco.” Giovanni declared.
“Fabiana? Where are we?”
Mira held tight to her clutch purse and resisted the hand that reached inside the back of the box shaped taxi to help her exit. She was hungry and felt a bit overdressed for the occasion. Napoli was a noisy city during the day and an interesting mix of people in the evening. Young Italians mixed in with tourists from all over the world in clusters along the streets. Most smoked, chatted, and dined outside of restaurants.
“I have a friend who owns this place.”
“You do?”
“I do. He invited us to dinner and a night tour on his private yacht. You look fine. Trust me. Relax and forget our troubles okay?”
“How? The police put a padlock on the doors to my boutique today. My designs are there Fabiana! We only have two days before Milan. I need—.”
“To eat. To laugh. To dance under the moon.” Fabiana laughed, forcing a smile to Mira’s lips. “I have a plan. Trust me. This friend of mine might be able to help.”
A gentle shove to her shoulder pushed her closer to the door. Mira accepted the hand for assistance and eased out of the car. A hot wind lifted her curls up from her shoulders. Naples was pleasant but not as nice as some of the other towns she’d seen since her arrival in Italy. Fabiana wanted them to open a business in the coastal city due to the affordable cost, and initially the idea made sense. It was less expensive to live there than in Rome or Florence. Mira sensed the city had a seedy feel to it at night. She couldn’t shake it. And the trash issue, it littered the street corners and peppered the air with a bitter stench.
“Ready?” Fabiana asked, slipping her arm around hers.
“There’s a line.”
“Don’t worry. We get VIP treatment.”
Giovanni sensed rebellion before the words escaped his cousins lying lips, and he was ready to deal with it in the most unpleasant way if necessary. Whores. They were everywhere. In Italia prostitution was legal, but organized prostitution, as in brothels or by third parties, had been outlawed since 1958. Very few places like Isabella’s remained open. And the whores under his employ were of a high dollar and quality. It disgusted him to see women publicly debase themselves. Pussy was thrown at his feet regularly, and he almost always declined. The messy business in dealing with this side of his operations was part of his father’s legacy he couldn’t wash his hands clean of. Lorenzo didn’t share his sentiment. He clung to the back door business like a bitch who had received her first diamond. Now Giovanni had learned that his family name had been sullied with the association of trafficking. He itched to draw Danny-boy and empty it into the bastard that thought he could move young girls through his business.
“To your left.” Dominic whispered close enough for him to hear.
Giovanni glanced toward the entrance of the restaurant. Two women entered. The first had skin so polished she looked as if she’d been dipped in buttercream, and scarlet red hair that reminded him of his mother's. Though he suspected the striking color of her mane wasn’t natural, it was a lovely contrast to her beauty. She wore a magenta dress that snuggly fit her hourglass figure. When she turned, the revealing low backline plunged to the rise of her shapely hips and ass. Nice. His gaze switched to the other person in the woman’s company. He could barely see the woman. His attention readied to drift as it often did when he observed beauty from a distance and his interest waned. However, Francesco’s burly voice rose and Giovanni’s gaze held. An un-obstructed view of the other woman took him by surprise. Not often did he see one like her enter his establishment. All others around her fell away. The track lights to the front of the restaurant defined her feminine curves. His attention centered on the low-cut V of her dress, which parted her breasts. The dress drew snug around her hips with a rhinestone pin. She had thick hair the color of sable that fell about her face in dark waves, and skin dusted in ginger, flawlessly covering every inch of her that was revealed. Again his interest peeked over the shapely swell of her breasts, slender waist, and flat tummy, long enough to linger a moment on the nice heart shape of her hips. She wore black. The fabric of her dress appeared smooth, like velvet, though the hem of her dress moved as light as silk.
The trio was on the move. Giovanni’s dark beauty stepped forward and the split to the front of the dress revealed her shapely legs as the long fabric pooled around her feet, elevated in silver spiked heels. Riveted, his gaze tracked her until she disappeared.
“She’s the one. The lady in black.” Dominic cleared his throat. “She’s American.”
“Her answer?” Giovanni turned his gaze to his young capu. Dominic ran his hand back through the thick dark crown of locks to the top of his head. He shifted his gaze to Lorenzo and hesitated over the response before uttering it under his breath. “She said to go to hell.”
Carlo choked on his malt. The other men gathered, looked out into the restaurant to get a glimpse of the woman who would dare insult the most powerful man in the Cammora.
A sly smile crossed the lips of Lorenzo. “Of course, she doesn’t know how to respond Gio. She’s American.” Suddenly Lorenzo’s sour mood had lifted. He sat upright and tossed down the last of his drink before glancing back over his shoulder to where the ladies entered. “I’d say it’s because you have a boy doing a man’s job. When does Flavio return again?” He gave a pointed look at Dominic.
“She was only granted a temporary lease. It’s happened before.” Dominic clarified. “Flavio made a call on your behalf and the doors to her storefront were chained by an officer of the court. We intend to make sure you gain sole proprietorship. In the past we’ve dealt with foreigners who needed to be taught lessons of humility. She’s no different.”
“Interesting,” Giovanni said. Now that he’d seen her, his desires had changed altogether. He was a bit pleased by her refusal. Too many people in his life said yes before the request was asked. Dominic was correct. She’d soon learn what a costly mistake her rejection of him would prove to be. One word from him and the fucking place could be burned to the ground. He drummed his fingers on the smooth wood surface of the table.
“I stepped in.” Lorenzo announced. Giovanni glanced up. “They’re here to meet me. With Flavio in Sicily I know there are matters that need a more skilled approach. I can assist cousin, no disrespect Domi.”
“I thought you preferred to deal in the business of whores.” Giovanni sneered.
Lorenzo chuckled, dismissing the sting of the comment. “The Irish hold more interest to me. Would you not agree that it’s best we transact business without attention? The canals have to be open to us.” Lorenzo leaned forward. “Those two designers can serve us well, by running the store above. The Polizia di Stato would never suspect.”
The Polizia Di Stato was the Italian Republic’s response to organized crime and the Mafia. Staying a step ahead of them was critical to men such as them. Lorenzo unfolded from inside of the booth and ran his hand down his black silk tie, smoothing it across his equally dark shirt. He gave Giovanni a respectful nod then turned and left.
A refreshed glass of Giovanni’s favorite malt was delivered to the table. The brunette leaned in extra close to give him a full view of her supple cleavage before she withdrew. The young woman was then snatched by the hips and drawn to the lap of Carlo. Laughter exploded from some of the men as the woman fought Carlo to be set free, and he buried his face in the pair of ample breasts she thought would entice Giovanni. The scene was typical of his men. He ignored them both. How could he concentrate on anything other than the warmth in his chest from the mere sight of the dark beauty who passed him by? He’d been told her name was Mira Ellison, a high profile designer out of America. Twice he’d invited her to meet with him to discuss the boutique she opened in his territory, prime real estate that his father had extended to that Sicilian bastard Mancini. The only reason Mancini wasn’t forced to turn it over after Don Tomosino’s death was because it served Giovanni’s purpose as a discreet cover for his business dealings. Mancini thought himself above the Cammora because of his reign and prominence within the Sicilian Mafioso. But even Giovanni was surprised when Mancini turned the keys over to the Americans without his permission. He would not tolerate the insult. The last invitation extended to Mira Ellison had been a dinner invite. He picked up the glass and drank the contents down. Maybe he should handle introductions personally?
“Grazie.” Mira smiled up at the server and accepted the menu.
“Prego.” The tall Italian with dark olive skin and eyes the color of honey smiled down at her. He looked to be her age, and god he was handsome, but his keen stare made her bravery slip and her gaze flickered away. Thankfully he moved on.
“He’s cute. Huh?”
“I guess.” Mira shrugged. “I want to strengthen my Italian. So continue to practice with me, okay?”
Fabiana winked. In every occasion she tried to use a word or two in conversation. The problem was she found herself stuck on the basics. Living in Italy would surely expand her vocabulary; just as dating Kei had taught her some of the most beautiful words in Mandarin. She glanced to Fabiana. “This is a nice place. Really nice. You said Teddy came here?”
“Oh yes, girl. He and I tried every restaurant along via Posillipo. This house vino is so good. Up here and below is a lot of nice dining. However, there’s a bit more than meets the eye.”
Mira glanced up from her menu. “What do you mean?”
Fabiana lowered her menu and leaned across her plate to smirk. Her red lips glistened by the candlelight on the table. “Teddy said that the basement is where people gamble, among other things. Some real freak nasty stuff if you’re into it.”
Mira laughed. “Bullshit.”
Theodore Tate was their financial advisor and attorney. Mira trusted him and Fabiana on all business affairs. However, Mira knew Teddy, as they called him, had an affinity for fast living; women and gambling were a constant in his life. Kei would constantly question her over his abilities, and though she may not have agreed with Teddy’s methods, he found loopholes and opened doors no other man under her employ could. If Teddy said there was something more to this place, she was inclined to believe him.
“It’s true. Isn’t it just decadent! Gosh I love Italy!”
“You being Italian have something to do with it?” Mira joked.
Fabiana shrugged. “It’s like coming to the home you never knew. Being around family you always dreamed you had. Bet you’d feel that way if you went to Africa.”
Mira considered the comparison. She wondered if a trip to the mother continent would do for her what being in Italy for three weeks had done for Fabiana. She’d never seen her friend so excited and happy.
A hot breeze blew in causing the string of lights above their heads to sway. The balcony setting was very serene with large leafy plants and candle lit lanterns. The tables were covered in white linen and the plush chairs with white cushions. All tension drained from her bones. She relaxed in front of a spectacular view of the Amalfi coast with luxury yachts resting upon the dark calm waters.
The manager of Isabella’s, who Fabiana introduced as Francesco, brought his chair inappropriately close to hers. She offered a curt, yet universal smile of decline to no avail. He stretched his arm around the back of her chair, and she could have sworn he let a few fingers brush her shoulder.
“Benevenuti a Napoli,” Francesco said, his raspy voice only inches from her ear. His breath, hot and garlicky, became a pungent wash across the side of her face, and her stomach muscles clenched in response. Francesco was a short man with wide nostrils, thick pink lips, and brown stained teeth, but he wore a nice suit and had taken the time to curl the tips of his mustache upward.
“Grazie,” she answered to his welcome.
“The place looks wonderful! You’ve done so much with it since I last visited.” Fabiana gushed. “We’ve been here three weeks and do you know this is the first time either of us have ventured out at night?”
“It is lovely.” Mira tried to force a light jovial tone to her voice. His close proximity didn’t help. She swore she’d leap from her chair and throw herself over the balcony if he touched her again.
Francesco whispered in Italian. From the hard look of lust in his eyes she had to wonder if it was indecent. Fabiana laughed. Mira frowned.
“Mi scusi, can you move your arm per favore,” Mira said through clenched teeth. Francesco obliged and Fabiana ignored her discomfort and sipped her wine. The antipasti was delivered first to their table. A mouthwatering mix of cured meats, olives, fresh ricotta and a crostini with vine ripened tomatoes. Mira reached with her fork, and Francesco stayed her hand. He leaned in speaking directly into her face a mix of garbled words that made no sense. Before she could politely ask her suitor to allow her the liberty to breathe clean air, another man approached. He was vastly different than the guy seated to her left.
Darkly tanned, his handsomeness was strengthened by the serious glint in his eye. He fixed his piercing stare on Fabiana first. He was tall. Very tall. She guessed his height to be just over six-foot five or six. And though she admittedly loved to tailor suits for men of his stature she was quite impressed with how nice and trim his attire fit his large frame. When he lifted his hand to smooth his tight dark locks his expensive watch gleamed on his wrist then slipped back under his sleeve. He exuded masculinity certain to stir desire in any woman. She bet he smelled good, too. This meant trouble for her friend. Mira volleyed her gaze between the man and Fabiana. Her suspicions were right. Fabiana’s face flushed and she stared up at the guy with open adoration.
“Ciao Lorenzo,” Fabiana breathed in her sex kitten voice.
“Signora Girelli. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all evening.” Lorenzo’s accent wrapped warmly around his words, and Mira thought her friend would drift up from her seat into his arms. He lifted Fabiana’s hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and then leaned forward to kiss both of her cheeks. His gaze then shifted over to Mira. “And who is this?”
“This is Mira Ellison.” Fabiana extended her hand to her friend with a radiant grin.
“Ah, the renowned designer. There has been much talk of the fashion events in Milan this year, and I’ve heard your name mentioned more than once. Congratulations.”
Mira nodded her thanks.
“May I join you?”
“Of course, you and Francesco invited us.” Fabiana gushed.
What did she mean Francesco invited them? She glanced to her left and noticed Francesco’s wicked grin. Dammit, this is a double date. A setup. She should have known better than to trust Fabiana’s girls night out invitation. She had half a mind to get up and walk out. Before she could question her friend a conversation began at the table in mostly Italian between the three and she felt angrier.
More wine was poured.
Mira took a sip and smiled at the garbage breath man. He ogled her breasts as if they were a pair of pork chop sandwiches. It felt degradingly icky and was the final straw. She’d give it maybe ten minutes, and then she’d announce a headache and make a break for the door. Surely she knew enough Italian to get a taxi back to the hotel.
To her relief a reprieve came. A member of Francesco’s staff approached. He offered apologies with an unsolicited kiss to her cheek and promised to return. All of which he said in Italian. Unfortunately, this Mira understood. Fabiana seized on his departure, and she did so in English. “Lorenzo what’s with your friend? I thought you said he was one of the most sought after bachelors in Napoli?” She slipped Mira an apologetic wink. “He’s not what she expected.”
“Please don’t speak like I’m not at the table.” Mira said. “Besides, I never told you I wanted to double date.”
“I know. But you need to double date.”
“Fabiana!”
“Ladies.” Lorenzo chuckled. “Francesco isn’t just the manager here. He’s part owner of Isabella’s along with me. Here in Napoli he’s the most sought after bachelor. Women are constantly climbing over each other to gain his affection.”
“Then someone should give him a toothbrush.” Mira mumbled.
Fabiana laughed. The humor drained from Lorenzo’s sly smile and gleamed in his unwavering stare. Mira felt a bit uncomfortable with the depths of the baby blues fixed on her. She sipped her wine and tried to ignore it. The conversation became less strained when Lorenzo asked her about Naples and how she enjoyed his city.
“Unfortunately, we haven’t seen much of it, have we?”
“No.” Mira conceded. Naples was an interesting city. Certain areas reminded her of the slums of certain boroughs in New York, and others were so pretty it had to be plucked right out of her dreams.
Fabiana continued. “I would have preferred to purchase property in Milan to start Mirabella’s Design House. The Republic would not grant it.”
“You mentioned a sponsor?” Lorenzo slipped Fabiana a look. “It’s unfortunate your building was closed, and he couldn’t aid you.”
Fabiana flashed Mira a smile, and she gave one in return. Her girl could always find a way where there was none, now she was stumped. The politics of this country had them caught in the middle and even Fabiana couldn’t undo it. Kei, Mira’s former lover, said he would no longer fund her company and pulled out a large investment. It hurt deeply, both financially and emotionally.
“My family may be able to help. I’ve already discussed it with my cousin.”
Mira cleared her throat, noticing the uncomfortable tension rising over the conversation. Their benefactor wanted to remain anonymous. Fabiana refused to drag him into the matter further. Instead she wanted the help of this man? Why?
“Can I offer a toast?” Mira asked. The two looked up at Mira’s request. After a pause they reached for their glasses. “To Napoli and all the wonderful friendships to come.”
Glasses clinked and the tension eased.
Lorenzo set his glass back on the table. “Where have you been since your arrival in Italy? Have you visited Capri yet?” Lorenzo pressed.
“Mira hasn’t ventured out of our place in the evening since the incident.” Fabiana said.
Lorenzo’s eyes stretched. “Incident?”
“It’s nothing. I’m over it.”
“No, you aren’t.” Fabiana frowned.
“May I ask? What happened?” Lorenzo pressed.
Mira really didn’t want to share her embarrassment, but she saw no way out of the conversation. With a burdened sigh she relented. “We were walking down via Toledo in the evening doing some light shopping. There was a scuffle or argument between two people in the street.”
“It started from nowhere,” Fabiana interjected. “Pushing and shoving, loud voices. Kind of startled us both.”
“Yes.” Mira nodded. “And then it happened. A man on a motorbike sped bye and snatched my purse from my arm. So forceful the strap broke.” She snapped her fingers. “In a flash. Gone.”
“It was awful,” Fabiana added. “Scared the hell out of both of us.”
“I lost my passport. The embassy is helping me obtain a new one. Doesn’t matter. I lost something irreplaceable in that purse.”
“Che?” Lorenzo asked.
She ignored the ache in her heart and stole a deep breath before she could speak. “It’s personal and it’s gone. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to keep it in my purse.”
“You didn’t lose it. Someone stole it from you.” Lorenzo corrected.
“She’s been on edge since it happened. Damn bastards.” Fabiana grumbled.
“Safety is important ladies. You need to rethink my offer; I can ensure you’ll have the protection you need.” Lorenzo said.
“Excuse me?” Mira lowered her glass. “What kind of protection?”
“You plan to make Napoli, Campania your home? Open a business in the heart of the city, and crime can be an unfortunate consequence. Sometimes it’s best to have allies. Though I can’t guarantee a gypsy won’t go after your purse again.” Lorenzo kept his gaze leveled on her. “I can however, promise he’ll wish he didn’t.”
Mira grappled with understanding what he was suggesting, and her best friend looked incensed. She spoke hurriedly to Lorenzo in a cool exact manner. She did so in Italian. Lorenzo sipped his wine and listened. He didn’t seem fazed or impressed by Fabiana’s short rant. His steely gaze slipped over to Fabiana who held firm in her position. “Beh... Have it your way.”
“What’s going on? Stop speaking in Italian to keep me out of the conversation, it’s rude!”
“We’ll talk about it later.” Fabiana waved off her concern.
“No. We’ll talk about it now.” Mira demanded. She returned her focus to Lorenzo. “What are your terms?”
An easy smile crossed Lorenzo’s lips. “Things are done differently here. I’ll let Signora Girelli explain. Mi scusi belle.” He eased his chair back and rose. Fabiana forced a wan smile before she drank down the contents of her wineglass and reached for the bottle to pour more. Mira shook her head at her friend’s attempt to shield her from the dirty details of their business. Of course, she couldn’t blame her. Both had been stressed since they decided to relocate to Italy.
“What is it now? First the store closes and my designs are locked up in there and now there is more?”
“Mafia.” Fabiana blurted.
Mira sat back. “Huh?”
Fabiana chuckled. “We’re in Italy girl. Don’t be surprised.”
“What the hell does the Mafia have to do with you?” Mira asked concerned.
“Not me. Us. We’ve had a few encounters.”
“We? From who?” she glanced around the empty balcony for Lorenzo. “Did he threaten you? Is he part of the Mafia?”
“Lorenzo? No. Well, I don’t think so. He’s from a very powerful family in Napoli. The Battaglia’s. They’re well respected throughout the southern region. He’s been trying to advise me. I just don’t like his advice. Those terms he’s speaking of involve weekly payments to men you don’t want to know, men in the Cammora.”
“Okay I’m afraid to ask. What is the Cammora?”
“It’s what the Mafia is called here. Several families make up the Cammora, and they run things inside and out of the Republic. Very corrupt. There’s nothing to worry about. We don’t need that kind of help. Those leeches pray on naïve Americans. Trust me you’re a celebrity, and our being American protects us.”
“You’re leaving something out.” Mira felt like an idiot for not knowing more of this end of her business. “I want to hear about these encounters. Details.”
“Actually you don’t. Besides it’s not a big deal. We have friends on our side, remember the Sicilian investor, our sponsor? Name’s Mancini, he’s a good ally.”
“But you didn’t want to involve him I thought?”
“Our boutique being closed has nothing to do with Cammora, just some red tape that we can cut through with the local authorities. That’s where the Battaglia’s are useful. If I drag Mancini into the matter it will just become more complicated, since he’s not a favorite with these men. That’s the only help we need from Lorenzo’s family and that’s what I told him before he left.”
“I don’t like this.” Mira could feel her skin goose pimple and rubbed her arm against the night breeze. “Feels off to me.”
“We are to refuse all contact with the Cammora. We start paying these men their little taxes and before you know it you’ll have investors you don’t want.”
They’d been together since Parsons and were closer than sisters. It was Fabiana who introduced her to Kei, a Chinese Wall Street businessman who would keep her naked and in bed all day in the beginning of their relationship because he couldn’t let her out of his sight. He later became the first investor in Mirabella Couture and secured her a spot at New York Fashion Week. Now they were over. Their love affair had been strangely fulfilling and different compared to the limited love life she’d had in Virginia. She’d never dated outside of her race or been around so many people from different cultures. New York was an explosion of new experiences. Several years later Fabiana was her best friend, and she had found the courage to start a new life in Italy.
“I’m sorry. I’m not accusing you of anything.” Mira softened.
“You’re right. I should have told you. We’ll talk more on it, just not here. I swear. Let’s enjoy the evening. Okay? I really like him, girl.”
“You barely know him.”
Fabiana’s eyes sparkled. “So? Does that matter? Tell me your honest opinion of him so far. And forget the Mafia stuff because he’s nothing more than a businessman. A sexy, tall, handsome, Sicilian businessman that would make my mom smile if I brought him home.”
“I don’t know. Something about him is off. I can’t pinpoint. He’s a little intense.”
“Ha!” Fabiana laughed. “And Kei wasn’t intense? The man treated you like you were his chocolate covered love toy.”
Mira chuckled at the comparison. Kei had never been as controlling as Fabiana thought. Mira was very old fashioned when it came to relationships. She believed in catering to her man as long as it was a shared experience. Kei was the type of man who’d paint her toenails while she read her favorite book or rise from bed in the middle of the night to get her pain pills because she had menstrual cramps. When they were alone he always proved to be very loving and tender with her. “Kei and I had an understanding. But we grew apart, and it makes me sad. I’ve changed. I’m not the nineteen year-old girl who needed a father figure, lover, and friend. I’m a woman now. Kei said he didn’t want me to change, and I couldn’t stay the same for him no matter how much I tried.”
“He wanted to marry you.”
She nodded. “Yes. And I have my regrets. Things ended badly. I hurt him. But it’s over now, and I’m ready to move on. I think.”
Francesco returned to the table with the arrival of a meal she hadn’t had a chance to order.
“He says it’s prepared just for us from the chefs.” Fabiana translated Francesco’s announcement. Mira found herself a bit disappointed that the evening would be shared with the man who was all hands and bad breath. Francesco sat next to her again, embarrassingly close. She could stand it no more.
“Oh, good grief! I don’t feel like putting up with this tonight.” Mira knocked Francesco’s hand from her knee and shot him a murderous warning. He began to apologize in Italian, and she rolled her eyes when his hand returned to her thigh.
“Lorenzo should be back soon,” Fabiana said.
“Well this one here is giving me the creeps. Would you keep your damn hands off me?” Mira snapped. Francesco threw his napkin down on the table and rose saying something heatedly in Italian before storming off. They looked at him and then each other before exploding in laughter.
Fabiana picked up her wine in a mock toast to his departure. “Yeah, sorry about Mr. Gigolo. Apparently, he thinks you’re a stuck up American bitch.”
Mira frowned. “Is that what that pip-squeak said?”
Fabiana nodded. Mira sighed, resigned to the fact that she’d never escape the place until Fabiana had at least one more conversation with her heartthrob. She rose from her seat. The bathroom had to be close. “I’ll be back.”
“The monk fish is good, hurry.” Fabiana grinned.
Mira searched the way for the bathroom and found herself in a dead end. She stopped a drink waiter with her hand to his arm. The young man blinked at her. “Bagno?” she said, asking for the bathroom in her limited Italian. He pointed to the far left, in the direction of the private dining area. She nodded and made her way.
A man dining with what looked to be a young group of friends actually yelled something to her from across his table, startling her for a moment. The men weren’t shy in Italy. She did however notice that most things in Italy were small. The plates were small, the men were short, the rooms were tiny, the closets, even the cars. That was until she saw Lorenzo. He was quite tall and imposing. A giant among the men she met thus far.
And she’d met quite a few men. The flattery over the attention her dark skin drew had become a bit overwhelming. Older men in particular took notice of her when she entered or left a room. She flashed the guy a sweet smile and kept moving. When she drew closer to the hall, which led to the bathroom, she caught the shadow of a man’s tall form from the corner of her eye. Her gaze flickered left.
It was Lorenzo. He walked up three purple velvet steps where four men were seated in a private meeting. The walls circling behind them held shelves of wine bottles, and the large round table spaciously sat ten to twelve easily. Mira’s attention was immediately drawn to the man seated before the center of the table. Who wouldn’t be? Even in the dim lighting it was clear he had a strikingly handsome face compared to the others. She found him a bit similar to Fabiana’s heartthrob Lorenzo. His hair was dark, thick, it brushed his collar and was tucked behind his ears combed back from his face. And his dark brows were drawn together over piercing light eyes. She guessed them to be blue, but wasn’t sure.
The man in all black tilted his gaze up to Lorenzo upon his arrival. He appeared remote, cool, and a bit disinterested. An air of authority clung to his persona and reminded her of how at times Chinese store owners in Chinatown would behave when Kei took her to dinner. They always regarded him with respect and humility. Kei dismissed it, but she knew there was more to him than the investment banker he claimed to be. And this one here was Kei magnified by ten.
Deep within her core her body warmed with mounting curiosity. She watched him lift a glass and take a sip, causing a ring on his pinky to catch the light. The center was a black stone, possibly onyx, but there was something engraved in gold on top of it. She had an eye for detail, and the ring thankfully wasn’t on his wedding finger. The stranger possessed broad shoulders. She guessed his height equaled Lorenzo’s. Without thought or reason she moved closer, drawn like a penny to a magnet, desperate for a better look.
Despite her best efforts, her clear view of the stranger had become obstructed. Lorenzo’s towering form before the table forced her to step forward and to the right to get another glimpse. He clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke to the group. For a moment everyone at the table seemed to tense and go still over whatever news Lorenzo delivered. The man in the center studied Lorenzo. An impatient scowl had hardened his handsome features and stopped Mira cold. The stranger spoke. She wished she could hear his voice; a man’s voice was always telling for her. The group exploded into a chorus of laughter, including Lorenzo. Whatever tension occupied the gathered men had subsided. Without warning, his gaze shifted and locked on her.
Surprised, she froze.
Dammit! What are you doing Mira?
He was undeniably focused on her solely and the raw intensity made him still as well. An eternity passed before she could even muster the courage to take a breath. Run! Girl, turn and run to the bathroom. You look like a fool watching this man. Go! Go! Go! The corner of his mouth curled up sly and easy, half shaping a smile. She felt her cheek twitch with the making of her own smile. Oh good grief, are you flirting with this man? He winked at her. It was as if he telepathically transmitted into her thoughts an invitation through his wink. Lorenzo noticed. He glanced back over his shoulder, and he too soon wore a darkly suggestive smirk.
She lost her nerve.
The attention from them both forced her legs to move. She quickened her steps and beat a path to the bathroom. Once inside, air returned to her lungs. “Goodness!” she laughed. “What the hell was I thinking?”
It took several minutes for her heart to calm to a manageable beat. Mira walked over to a chaise in the suite outside of the stalls and dropped on it. She needed to get her emotions under control. First, she couldn’t stop the memories of the life she’d abandoned with Kei in New York. Then a wink from a stranger had her conjuring up rebellious naughty thoughts. Even now she felt a bit giddy remembering the cool calm leveled at her in his gaze.
“Fabiana is right, I really do need to get out more,” she sighed. Three long years of hard work and sweat had garnered her the acclaim to show off her designs along one of the most sought after catwalks in the world.
The success, however, had come with a heavy burden. It was a hard business to be in. Many marginalized her work by labeling her a ‘black’ designer. It was a fickle business, too. Financial backing could be extremely lacking if she failed to stun critics with original and trend setting material. This is why her focus had been singular, and she remained so committed. It’s also why her relationship began to suffer. No matter how sexy the man in black appeared, she had no time for flirting or God forbid a new romance. She shuddered at the thought of it.
Determined, she collected herself and used the facilities. In Italy, they referred to the bathroom as the toilette and she always had to flush by pressing a button above the commode. She washed her hands with perfumed soap, and refreshing her makeup, she felt a bit more at ease. There were times when the death of her grandparents would drill her purpose in her hard. She was alone in the world. Her mother died when she was a baby, and she never knew her father. She would often wonder about who he was. Maybe she could convince Fabiana to abandon the romantic notions of the city and just do some fun girl things. Neither of them had the time nor energy for much relaxation. A spa trip and some snorkeling along the beaches of Capri might do them some good after the show. Mira escaped the bathroom and stopped. Francesco paced angrily outside of the door.
He followed me?
When she emerged, he paused, and his puffy lips spread into a hideous yellowish brown, toothy smile. Mira frowned. She tried to sidestep him, and he matched her movement blocking her in.
“You were rude earlier Signora,” he spat, his English almost perfect.
“So were you,” she countered.
He advanced on her.
“I don’t appreciate your tone. Show me respect!”
“Get out of my way.” Mira refused to take another step back.
Francesco sneered. Even for his pint-size he bulked in the chest and arms. He definitely had the ability to deliver on the malevolent threat she read in the depths of his black-layered irises. The grip she had on her clutch bag tightened, and she readied to use it as a weapon. The deep baritone of a man’s voice broke above them. He said three words in Italian that drained the color from Francesco’s face. Mira dared to break eye contact with Francesco to glance beyond him into the face of her hero. This time the stranger didn’t focus on her solely. He kept his eyes trained on the back of Francesco’s head. She could see him much clearer now. He towered over them both. The rich outlines of his broad shoulders and muscular form filled his dark suit nicely. His hands were shoved down in his pockets and his posture relaxed, but his stare remained fiery hot. Francesco began to apologize profusely to Mira. He tried to reach her hand to kiss it, but she stepped back and away. Francesco turned and nodded his head in respect to the stranger and almost scurried out of the tight hall they shared.
“Grazie.” Mira said.
The stranger tracked Francesco until he was gone and then returned his focus to her. His smile was quite charming. He extended his hand. “Giovanni Battaglia.”
Mira accepted his hand and he immediately drew hers to his lips. He spoke with less of an accent than the rest of the men she’d met that evening. His voice was smooth and commanding.
“I’m Mira.”
“Ciao Bella,” he continued to hold her hand. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”
“Him? No. No, he was just a jerk. He did nothing.” She swallowed another bout of nervousness that made her want to giggle. His hand naturally fell away from hers, and her body registered the neglect. His appreciative stare travelled from her toes, up the front part of her dress, over her tummy and the swell of her breasts to her face. He did so unapologetically. The heat banked in those dreamy sapphires captured her breath.
“Thank you, uh, again,” she stammered and walked around him. The heady scent of his aftershave nearly convinced her to return. She dared to glance back and was glad she did. He stared. She felt alive, sexy, desired under his gaze. It had been a long time since Kei stared at her that way. Mira hurried through the tables back to her safety zone.
“What took you so long?” Fabiana asked irritated. “Your food is cold.”
“I…I got lost.”
Fabiana kept eating. “Lorenzo came back while you were gone. He apologized. I think I was a bitch to him. So I apologized too.”
Mira unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap trying to appear normal. “You weren’t a bitch to him.”
Fabiana smiled, nodding in agreement. “Tonight’s a bust. He can’t take us on a tour of the coast on his boat. Business matters or something. So he wants to make the whole thing up to us. He’s invited us out to his vacation home when the show is over. It’s not far from Milan. He says that Francesco won’t be there.”
Mira glanced down at her pasta and felt famished. Her adrenaline spiked and her stomach churned with such a raw hunger. “Sure sounds like fun,” she said forking some of the fresh rolled rigatoni and savoring the rich spicy garlic tang to the sauce.
Fabiana blinked at her confused. “You feeling okay?”
“Oh yes! Girl, I feel great.”
****
“Per favore!! No! No! I’m an innocent man!” Francesco squealed as he was thrown into the kitchen. The cooks and wait staff immediately fled from the stoves, leaving all food unattended. Lorenzo cringed inwardly over the sniveling ball of apologies Francesco curled into. Did the man have no pride? Nico grabbed Francesco by the collar and forced him to his knees. The man slumped over with his palms tightly pressed together and head bowed. Was he praying? Lorenzo cut his eyes in disgust. What would be next? Pissing his pants? Could he not hold it together long enough for Lorenzo to think of a way out of the mess? Francesco would be useless. Stupid fucker.
“Un figlio di puttana!” Carlo chuckled, the toothpick in his mouth switched to the other side. He and the others got a thrill over the sight of the man whimpering before them. Lorenzo had to agree. Francesco was a bastard, the dumbest of them all. Yes, he was innocent, but the begging and crying only made him appear all the more guilty.
The raid on the club wasn’t their fault. They never dealt in human trafficking. Someone had set them up, and he half suspected who. The truth of the matter was he and Francesco had committed another crime against his Don and their family, and Lorenzo had to quickly think of a way to keep his true sins from being revealed. Lorenzo feared the truth would spill from Francesco’s quivering lips and blow his world to smithereens. If Francesco even hinted at their business dealings Lorenzo silently vowed to put a bullet in the coward himself.
The praying stopped. Francesco openly wept. His head hung low and his shoulders shook through his sobbing. The doors to the kitchen opened. Lorenzo didn’t bother to look up. Tension rippled through the men like a cold wave, and he knew Giovanni had entered. Lorenzo’s gaze lifted from Francesco to confirm. His cousin locked eyes with him and then swept the room of those gathered. Francesco’s head lifted, and his eyes stretched to the point of escaping their sockets at the sight of Giovanni. Even Lorenzo felt a twinge of dread over what was to come next. Violence was in their blood. They were all their fathers’ sons. Giovanni ignored Francesco, whose attempt to crawl over for mercy was halted by the hand of Nico. Instead he approached the stove and a large boiling pot of tomato based gravy for some pasta dish. No one spoke as Giovanni removed a spoon and sampled it. Lorenzo glanced to Carlo. His best friend was focused on Francesco, a bloodlust in his hateful stare.
“Bennisimo!” Giovanni exclaimed after one taste. He turned his gaze to Lorenzo. “I always say the food is much better here than the pussy you try to sell out of the back door.”
The men laughed in agreement.
“We didn’t have anything to do with those girls cousin.” Lorenzo grunted.
“I’m no fool. I know where there are lies, underneath there is some truth.” Giovanni tossed the spoon to the stove.
“Don Battaglia! I can assure you, I have done nothing. I swear it.”
Giovanni set his focus on the pleading man. He studied him for a moment. Francesco crawled, scuttled over to him and grabbed his pant leg. He reached up and snatched Giovanni’s hand to kiss his family’s ring. Francesco vowed to prove his innocence if he was shown mercy. Lorenzo looked away incensed. Even though he loved his cousin, the jealousy over Giovanni’s role in the family ate away at his pride. He didn’t know how much more of this scene he could stomach.
“Bring her in.” Giovanni said to Dominic. He stroked the top of Francesco’s head like one would do a pet. Lorenzo tracked Domi’s movements a bit curious. Who was her?
In less than three minutes Dominic returned with a very frail, very pale, young girl. Lorenzo guessed her to be no more than thirteen, and by the way she was dressed he could tell she’d been abused quite often. Draped over her thin shoulders she wore Dominic’s suit jacket. Underneath it a tattered sequined green mini with a thin grey halter-top. Her feet bare, her thighs and knees were covered in bruises, scrapes, and welts. Shock registered through him. Yes. He dealt with whores, but they were over the legal age, and willing. The raid on his place, he assumed, was a set up. Possibly by the runt Calderone out of Genoa, and he intended to deal with it. Now this child before him revealed he had no idea what Francesco had sunk their business into.
The man he thought he knew stopped his sniveling and stared at the girl. His gaze glazed over with something indecipherable for Lorenzo. The stupid fucker actually looked at the child with lust.
Giovanni walked over to the girl. He lifted her chin with his index finger so she could lift her gaze upward to his face. He spoke softly to her in Spanish; his cousin spoke six different languages. Lorenzo only knew Italian, English and Spanish. Giovanni told her she had no reason to be afraid. She was to do as he asked and then she would be returned to her family. He cast his gaze behind him to Francesco who now managed to stand. “Who is this man to you?”
“My master.” The child answered.
Francesco shook his head fiercely. “I found the poor thing. Saved her. I gave her a place to stay. Protected her. Tell them. I protect you don’t I?”
Lorenzo’s rage gripped his gut turning it sour. He itched to draw his gun and unload. He was wrong. Again he was wrong! This motherfucker was trafficking young girls. Doing it under his nose. He took a step forward and Giovanni stopped him with a look. He cleared his throat and spoke to the room. “I knew nothing of this. Francesco never brought that girl here, any girls this young here.”
“Take her away Domi,” Giovanni ordered.
The girl rushed Giovanni and hugged him. Lorenzo noticed the discomfort in his cousin’s face but saw that he tolerated the child’s gratitude. She glared at Francesco. Spat at him and cursed him in Spanish as Dominic led her away. Francesco put his face in his hands. Lorenzo could do nothing but be a spectator in silence. To say anything more would damn him for sure. For his family he was now guilty by association. There was no explaining it away. There was lowlife scum in the Cammora that dealt in the prostitution of kids, trafficking, drugs. But it was not something the Battaglia’s did. There was pride to be taken in their family. Pride Don Tomosino died protecting, and Giovanni swore to uphold. Yes, Lorenzo wanted them to move into the future, but after witnessing Francesco’s actions first hand he had to wonder if again he was wrong.
Giovanni approached Francesco, never taking his gaze off him. His hands eased into his pockets. Carlo and Nico both stepped on either side of Francesco. “You like bambinas?” Giovanni asked.
“No. She looks older than…”
Giovanni slapped him.
Francesco whimpered.
“You like babies?” he repeated.
Francesco looked to him again. He didn’t know how to answer Lorenzo supposed. Giovanni’s gaze hardened. “You are a sick man. Aren’t you?”
Francesco nodded.
Giovanni patted the cheek that he struck. “I’ll cure you of this sickness.”
“Carlo!” Giovanni commanded.
“Madonna santa! Wait! Wait! No!” Francesco squealed. Carlo grabbed one arm and Nico the other. The two of them lifted Francesco up from the ground. Renaldo swiped all pots and dishes off the steal table and Francesco was slammed on top. “I swear to you on all that is holy and sacred, I only wanted to help her. Lorenzo! Speak for me!”
Lorenzo raised his chin slowly and shrugged his shoulders. “Che me ne frego? What the fuck do I care?”
Giovanni plucked a knife from the butcher’s block. Lorenzo silently cursed the fool and the mother who birthed him for his despicable crimes and denounced their alliance. He wasn’t sure if Giovanni believed his innocence, but he was innocent. His cousin set the knife aside and folded the sleeves of his shirt up to the bend in his arms. He selected two large oven mittens from the stove and Lorenzo stepped back. He could act. Say something to spare Francesco his fate. But after seeing the abuse heaped upon that child he agreed with Giovanni that this punishment was just.
“No! No! Noooo!” Francesco begged. Giovanni lifted the pot and carried it before him. The sauce continued to bubble within its self-contained heat. Francesco kicked and bucked against the strong arms holding him down. Giovanni dumped the bubbling hot sauce over the man’s head and face. The screams were ungodly. Francesco thrashed as his skin and hair boiled away from his skull. The men released him and the death screams filled the room. He bucked so hard he flipped over the table and landed with a thud to the floor. His feet kicking, his hands and arms twitching, nothing but horrific gurgling sounds escaped him.
Lorenzo glanced around as others stood there watching his death throws curiously. “I had nothing to do with what he has done. NOTHING!”
After a pause and once Francesco went still and silent, possibly dead, Giovanni tossed the empty pot, and removed his oven mittens. Lorenzo braced for whatever was to come next. To his relief his cousin turned and walked out of the kitchen. Lorenzo glanced to Carlo and silently pled for understanding. His best friend nodded that he believed him. Somehow he’d convince Giovanni. He had to.
****
After three carafes of the best wine she’d ever drank in her life, they barely made it through the door. “I’m going to bed.” Fabiana announced with an exaggerated yawn. Her friend spun on her heel and started toward her room.
“Freeze.” Mira said. She stepped out of her high-heels and staggered across the plush carpeting down into the sunken living room area that separated their en-suites. Mira began to gingerly remove the diamond studs from her ear. She swayed right and left as if she’d topple over. The urge to explode in a fit of giggles kept forcing smiles to her lips even though she meant business. “Out with it Fabiana.”
“With what?”
“This Mafia business. That’s what.” Mira placed the earrings in the side zipper of her clutch bag then flopped down on the sofa. Fabiana threw her hands up in defeat and marched in to join her a bit more steady on her feet.
“Oh, girl, we already talked about this.” Fabiana patted her mouth, suppressing a genuine yawn this time.
“I don’t think you told me everything.”
Fabiana put on a serious face when she sat folding her legs under her. Mira had to admit that her friend was far better at managing the treacherous highs and lows of running a fashion house more so than she ever was at designing actual clothes. She trusted her. But the idea that they were in trouble with people in another country sobered her.
“I was approached three days after we arrived in Naples. Wait. No. You received a message from the Camorra three days after we arrived. I declined the request for a face-to-face meeting. I also told them to go to hell when they threatened us with a fine to operate our own business. They demanded monthly payments that were not only ridiculous but also damn right insulting. We already have to pay them for the trash disposal that is littering the streets.
“Why would we have to pay them for our trash disposal?”
“Things are different here Mira. They control sanitation and other things in the city. These bastards think they’re entitled to full access to our building. If we didn’t comply, they’d have us removed. Bullshit! All of it is bullshit scare tactics. Our solicitor and attorneys here in Italy met with Teddy and me. We were to ignore them. Things like this happen all the time to foreigners. What I didn’t know was that they could have our building seized.”
“So it’s the Mafia that’s locked me out of my business?”
Fabiana rolled her eyes. “I told you no at first. After what Lorenzo said, I have to wonder. He’s a good ally. Let me work with him.”
“We can’t wait long enough for you to seduce some thug to give me my designs. This is a disaster! Christ!”
“Calm down. I’m handling it. He’ll help us.”
“No! We have to get my designs out of the building and be in Milan in days, not weeks.”
“Lorenzo says his cousin would be willing to make a call, except he now wants to invest in your company. I’m negotiating. They are offering protection from future harassment.”
“Extortion?”
“See this is why I didn’t want you to know. You’ve been under so much stress—”
“You don’t keep something like that from me!” Mira said. Fabiana looked away. They sat in silence for several minutes before their anger subsided enough for either of them to speak without voices rising. Fabiana went first.
“Things are done differently in southern Italy. Not many Americans leasing along the Spaccanapoli. It’s expected.”
“I don’t like the sound of this. We’re in another country. Things are done differently here like you said. Did you or Teddy notify the Embassy?” Mira pressed.
Fabiana let go a gust of laughter. “No. They won’t do anything.”
“This isn’t some game Fabiana. Extortion is serious. Everyone wants a piece of my business. This can’t be legal. They can’t get away with this.”
“The Battaglia’s are legit. What they are offering means the doors to the building open, and you won’t have to be harassed any more. I told Lorenzo we will consider his offer if they help us first. I’m sorry, but I know what I’m doing.”
Mira shook her head. There was no getting through Fabiana’s stubbornness. “How do you know Lorenzo? Is he the guy you told me about a couple of months ago? The one you met when you came here to finalize things.”
“Yes. He approached me when I visited his restaurant with Teddy, and we shared a bottle of wine. We kept missing each other and could never hook up after that night. I’ve been trying to get my schedule clear to see him. He’s a good guy.”
Mira drifted on the memory of her tall dark stranger. His name was Giovanni. She liked that name.
“Mira?”
Mira sat upright. “Giovanni.”
“Who?”
“Giovanni Battaglia. I met him. Tonight.”
“You did? When?”
“At the bathroom, I forgot to tell you. Francesco cornered me.”
“Wait… slow down.”
“He’s Lorenzo’s cousin. He’s the one who Lorenzo was speaking to.”
“Dial it back to Francesco. What happened?”
“He cornered me. It got all heated, and Giovanni came. The man went running. I just put it together.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. Not really. He introduced himself, and that was it. Really nice looking guy, Tall, with crystal blue eyes.”
“Sounds like Lorenzo’s cousin.” Fabiana nodded. “Why are you grinning like that?”
“Nothing,” Mira chuckled. Her insides felt warm and her head fuzzy from the wine. All she could do was smile. It had been a weird night. Her debut was in less than seventy-two hours. If the Battaglia’s could get her back into her building then so be it. However, she would not take on investors. No way in hell. She wanted nothing to do with the Mafia mess. Mira rose, bone weary tired. “I’ve had enough of this intrigue over the Battaglia men. I’m done. Going to bed.”
Fabiana shot to her feet. She grabbed Mira by her hand and dragged her toward the doors to their outside balcony. “What are you doing?”
Mira was forced outside into the warm night. “Look out there!” she exclaimed. “We did it! You and I together. We’re finally here.”
She held Fabiana’s hand and stood at her side on the balcony. They always vowed to celebrate their successes. Tonight was the first night she truly believed in her talent without reservation. Maybe it was the wine.
“What’s that over there?” Mira pointed.
“Egg Castle. Isn’t it pretty?” Fabiana said in a wistful tone.
“Yes. All of it is. The cathedrals, monuments, bridges and mountains. All of it is like some dream.”
“It is a dream. Our Dream.” Fabiana squeezed her hand. “And it’s just begun. So is your new life, social or whatever. From this day forward you are going to live it. We both are. Deal?”
“Deal.”
****
Giovanni reclined in his smoking chair. He didn’t sleep often. The dreams overwhelmed him when he let his defenses down. He had it within his power to do away with the prostitution houses they owned under his father’s reign. He allowed Lorenzo to operate to send a message to his enemies, to give the appearance of not being soft. The thought of it turned his stomach. They were not good men; he had no illusions that they would ever be. But women were not to be abused and used in this way. He thought of his mother’s suffering, and his adoration for Catalina. He could not face her or Zia with his family sullied this way.
He closed his eyes.
After a bullet was put in the head of the dying scoundrel Francesco, who dared bring dishonor to his family, he gave the order. There would be no more prostitution brothels, period. The men didn’t seem shocked. Even Lorenzo held his tongue against any protest. He was done with the shit.
A nightmare lingered in his memory, and he forced the hot ache in his chest to subside. Tonight he thought he might have awakened with the sounds of his own screams still lodged in his throat. He wasn’t sure. No matter how hard he tried to understand his failure as a son, he found no peace. The first life he actually took with his own hand was the life of the bastard he believed shot his father. Even now he took no satisfaction in revenge.
It was my fault.
He rose from his chair, his shirt hung open and his feet were bare. The clock declared the time to be closer to three in the morning. He had the bitter taste of tobacco and whiskey in his mouth. The room to his suite opened to a balcony and he decided to spend the rest of the evening smoking his cigars waiting for the sun to rise on the Amalfi. Soon he’d return home. Catalina would be expecting him. He needed his family strong. He could forgive or try to forgive this one time to gain his cousin’s faith and trust.
They were brothers. In blood.