Atavus (16 page)

“I’m never sleeping, you putz.”

“This is worth some money. A couple of grand will do since you dozed on the job.” Aaron handed his dad a sheet of paper. “This is the address. I used the camera on the computer to spy on the other side. Slummy place.”

Nico hugged his son. “A couple of G’s is reasonable. You’re the bomb!”

Aaron grimaced. “Dad, por favore, stop embarrassing yourself.”

Nico slapped his son’s neck, turned to the mirror, and then rubbed his chin, still smooth as a baby. “Hey, you still love your old man?”

Aaron’s mouth twisted into a boyish curl, rivaling the wayward strand on the edge of his temple that pointed upward. “Who’d you bang now?”

“Why is it that you go there when I’m trying to have a serious conversation?”

Aaron began typing. Nico didn’t have to look at Aaron to guess he had begun breaking through firewalls. There are hacker algorithms that require advanced mathematical skills. Aaron proved he possessed more than the basic. Darren was the actual pro; he blew past his brother and old man. Then he thought of the amateur con artists on social media and career liars who weren’t computer savvy yet tried to outsmart the F.B.I. Hackers used that acronym for sites like Face Book and Instagram. That’s where the novice people and posers posted fictitious stuff and some lead double lives. The psychology is genius, feed into a person’s desire to be liked and followed, more like stalking, Nico opined. Likes and Friends were not all real likable friends and the concept is lost on the blind.

The trust given without a care to an entity called the computer had taken on a brand new meaning. Hackers went there, crooks as well and stole identities and a lot more, even sabotaged reputable businesses with spam or horrible viruses for money or malice.

These social sites had their pluses and pitfalls. They’re fun for the sensible user, but detrimental to the lonely and gullible.

These communities made a trackers job much easier. He’d find a target because sites compile data based on habits of these addicts, or he'd simply access that proverbial ‘cloud.’ Yes, even reputable companies are watching and profiling individuals.  Confidentiality is gone when someone voluntarily provides strangers with their daily activity. They are granting strangers access to their lives and inviting visitors into their homes.

“Hey, come have dinner with me. I’m giving you permission to follow. You know where I’ll be because I told you the location, date and time. Ciao my invisible Like Friend.”

That is how Aaron discovered this person and accessed the camera on their computer and phone to see the images of an interior to give aid to an enforcer.

Aaron was talking. Busting his dad’s chops as his fingers walked across keys, eyes on the screen. “
Be-cause
you are a guy –and guys are horny. Just be-cause you’re an adult doesn’t mean you’re re-formed.”

Nico brushed his hair. Rolled deodorant under his armpits and applied lotion to his ass while Aaron worked. He walked to the outer room to dress, talking to his son in an affectionate parental tone.  “You guys make me proud Aaron. I like the way you look after your mom and sister, even Sal and the others.”

“That’s what family does, right?”

“Right,” Nico said, sitting to put on his socks and peering around for his favorite soft leather boots. “If anything ever happened to me son, I want you to understand I’ve always loved you guys –always.”

“Don’t do the whole, in case I die here’s what I want you to do stuff. Just stop talking about ‘if’ and be ‘certain’ to stick around.”

Nico swept his hand under the bed and touched leather. He found his lucky footwear. He and Ari hadn’t told the boys about Alexandros. He wanted to tell the boys with his wife present; however, he thought maybe it was better to just tell them individually and be done. “I will.”

“Did you know Evangeline said her family’s looking for Corrado?”

“No,” Nico replied, putting on the final boot.

Aaron entered the bedroom, laptop open to show his dad the page had disappeared and a message that apologized for the technical problem promptly displayed. “Poof!”

“Good work.”

“Grazie papa,” Aaron teased doing his fingers in an exaggeration of Italian mannerisms. “And papa, save the confession. You and mom talk loud. Besides, Darren and I figured it out.” He flopped next to his dad. “So, dad. It appears you and I need to have a man talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Aaron said in a role-reversal. “I know how you got duped into thinking you were being a hero by sexing you-know-who but you’re smarter than that. The strongest Greek gods had weaknesses; Achilles –his heel, Hercules –went temporarily insane and murdered his family. Brave and powerful Hercules despite this atrocious evil act, -and you had better not try harming us dad, anyway, his punishment was he had to perform twelve labors. You know all about this stuff.” He patted his dad’s knee. “We still love you dad, but you’re going to have to prove you love us back by keeping your dick in your pants except when it comes to mom. Yuck, did I say that? Anyway, I understand how hard that is when pretty girls go ‘oh please help me’, and bat their eyes because they do all the time when they like you. I’m a dude and they do it at school but I don’t fall for it unless –nevermind anyway you’re married and must have self-discipline. I’m sure you can overcome the impossible. Hercules did.”

“Hercules is a mythical character.”

“So is The Indestructible Protezione. Just continue being Nico Serano, a good dad and husband.” Aaron stood. “By the way, why Luciano? Come on dad that sounds like Pussy-ah –no.”

“Watch that dirty mouth.” Nico smirked. Aaron was definitely his kid. “Luciano Pavarotti is a great operatic tenor, if you must know and that’s a solid name.”

Chapter Nineteen

The house was immaculate. A welcome home sign in Italian, draped part of a wall. An impressive buffet of delicacies, meat and wine were on the table. A note, not her husband awaited in a chair.

A domestic helper appeared and collected Nicole’s bags. She didn’t speak, only smiled and she wondered if Giuseppe cut out her tongue because she seemed so docile and solicitous.

When she overcame her shyness, she spoke and Nicole thanked the stars she used English. “Buongiorno Signora, Signore Dichenzo says he will be home shortly.”

Nicole rolled her eyes. Giuseppe and his theatrics were similar to a night at the Met. “Whatever.” She took Carlo upstairs to run his bath.

The woman tripped over herself to intervene. “Ne, I will be fired. I am told to take care of giovani and allow you to rest.”

“By let me guess, my husband.” Nicole continued ushering Carlo up the stairs. “What’s your name?” she asked the woman over her shoulder.

“Francesca.”

“Francesca, when it comes to my home, I’m in charge, do you understand?”

“Sí,” she replied nervously.

“Signore Dichenzo when he is present will agree.”

“Sí, Signora.”

“I am not so tired that I cannot assist Carlo with bathing. In fact I prefer to do it and not put him in the hands of a stranger no matter who hired you.”

The woman appeared on the verge of tears. “Sí, Signora.”

“What you can do is unpack Carlos’ things and bring me his Mickey Mouse pj’s. Those are his favorites, okay?”

“Sí, Signora.”

“What are your hours?” Nicole asked out of curiosity. It was well past ten p.m.

“I am to live-in as a nanny.”

The woman was not old by anyone’s standards, fortyish, maybe. She had unsymmetrical features that were oddly interesting. “Do you have a family?”

The woman halted at the door to the bathroom as her employer’s wife turned on the taps after telling the handsome child to undress. “Sí, two daughters.”

“How old are they?”

“Eight and eleven.”

“Who cares for them while you’re caring for someone else’s child for pay?”

“My genitori.” She could tell the Signora did not understand. “My…eh…parents.”

“I see.” Nicole assisted Carlo in the water, taking a sponge to soap and rub the boy until clean. “After you’re done, I will have the driver take you home. Your new hours are from ten to six, weekdays only at the same pay rate.”

Francesca smiled. “Grazie Signora, grazie.”

“No problem.”

~

Giuseppe held the knife in the air to allow the foreigner tied to the chair see it gleam under the hanging light. “You injure a Sicilian, eh, that is what you do when you visit my land?”

The foreigner, a tourist from Brussels believed he could walk from the stationhouse with his attorney and freely board a plane without repercussions.

“An accident, I did not intentionally do it!”

The semantics were not Giuseppe’s concerns. A Sicilian woman lay in the infirmary with broken bones due to the reckless foreigner speeding through the plaza in a hurry to return his rental car. Intent did not matter; his donna could have been that victim, cars are weapons when misused.

The knife came down with such force, all five digits separated from the hand. The foreigner screamed and the color of his skin deepened to lobster red to match his orbitals. He howled snot and saliva. Giuseppe looked on in disgust as the fluids ran down his chin to pool in a clunk of filth on his chest.

Giuseppe straightened, using the knife to sweep the fingers into the trash beside the seat similar to a chef discarding excess dough from a cutting board. The distressed adult’s whimpering irritated Giuseppe. He did not have an iota of sympathy for the vehicular assaulter of a signora.

Giuseppe’s attention focused on the crybaby’s lawyer who aided in the tourist’s release. His eyes held such venom, as he looked upon Giuseppe they brought a snarl to Giuseppe’s lips. The person with the right to feel offense lay in a bed, broken and unable to go home to her children.

Anyone who stepped on lands as a visitor, treated well by gracious hosts and the tip becomes an injury to innocent people should pay for the damage. Giuseppe had yet to go abroad for relaxation and behave with disrespect as a guest. He was mafia, not a simpleton.

The manipulator of laws was an international attorney from Brussels; perhaps he did not understand the ways of Mafiosi.

Giuseppe walked to the chair and kicked the man in the chest, toppling him over. “Stronzo, do you think your degrees in deception rule over real justice?”

The lawyer grunted, unable to move more than his eyes. His mouth, feet and hands were bound. The tip of Giuseppe’s shoe struck his face, a long booger of blood emerged from his nose.

A vibration to Giuseppe’s chest stopped his foot in midair. The energy transferred to his foot for an intended second kick lessened. His shoe touched the floor to pivot and stroll to the side of the room to answer his moglie’s call. “Amore, mi dispiace. Sí, we will discuss that when I arrive. I will be there shortly. Ti amo, ciao!”

He returned the cell to his pocket withdrew his gun and shot the lawyer as he wiggled right in the torso and he stilled. The weapon’s angle changed direction and a volley of bullets was the final bill sent to the client’s throat. Nicole waited at home expecting to talk, which he would do once he cleansed blood from his body.

Chapter Twenty

Maria’s eyes searched the ceiling, listening to Bruno’s masculine breaths. They were heavier than normal, intermittent groans signifying his distress. He worried about his adult son, like many parents, regardless of their age. Her hand fell from the comfort of the object that symbolized hope and faith. There is the hope for believers, that their sins are cleansed after repentance. There is faith that she had not turned so far away from good teachings to become bad.

Bruno was a wonderful husband. She saw the struggles upon him in his sad eyes during waking hours. The identical burdens of men who lived with violence. For what will he die? He would kneel to the force of love as she, but the greatest of love existed in the Almighty. This is what she believed amidst the murderous doings of tortured souls. They could not discard their guns, for there was no trust that those leveled at their hearts would do the same. Men cannot be trusted; there is history to prove her inner thoughts. They learned nothing from the wars or death of families. They were plagued with a sickness that could never be purged until the earth was wiped clean to begin anew. That is the sad reality.

Maria touched her husband’s arm, caressing the fine hairs atop his sun kissed skin. Her fingers descended to his wrist and she took hold of his hand, sliding down and rolling toward the troubled man. She put her lips to his mouth, taking in his despair and breathing love to his heart. His eyes slowly opened. They were masculine pools of beauty. His fingers interlocked with hers and squeezed in unity. The gentleness of her lips was met with ardor. Her desire to comfort had ignited a fire. Intense pulls on her lips claimed her moisture when he released her hand to part her thighs. The wetness below is where the liquid settled, sent there by the feel of her husband.

She listened in the stillness for the potential cries of his grandson Alexandros. The baby was in their care during Bianca’s honeymoon. The marriage was sudden, Maria thought, but Bianca’s personal business was not for her to question.

The bride and groom were sailing on her new husband’s fancy yacht, likely making love under the stars. A romantic honeymoon at sea is a wonderful way to begin a marriage.

The vast sea was symbolic of an eternity of wedded bliss that was her belief.

Bruno sucked her skin, unsnapped the clasp to her thin gown for access to her body and descended lower.

Maria’s head reclined and her spine arched at the scorching fire of a man’s touch that beneath the dapper clothes was sinful. Her breaths were ragged pants, resulting from manipulative hands, one massaging within the other her breast vigorously.

“Bruno…Bruno,” she said in ecstasy as he cleaned her with a washcloth tongue that caused her to cry from pleasure before rising to insert a rod of thickness that made her full.

Bruno elicited passion and loss of reasoning in his sensual touches. She nibbled his mouth as Eve had a delicious apple under a charmer’s observation. His eyes were lustful, and actions decadent. The strength to lift a grown woman effortlessly or make her shout an obscenity was the effect of Bruno’s lovemaking.

Swept away with the raging storm, drowning in her husband’s sea, Maria clutched Bruno’s broad shoulders, meeting the tempest with rapid pelvic thrusts as his hands kneaded her skin and lips made her nipples firm.

He demanded that she give him more without saying a word. She clutched under the swirls within so heavy and delicious she shrieked in joy. He claimed her flesh, scorching her with such intensity; she burned crimson at the licks of fire and cried out like a wanton woman in bed with a wicked pleasurer. She could not hold back from Bruno in intimacy, he possessed her, every part of her unlike the only other she remembered.

Lovemaking with Bruno she could not compare to another because she did not think of anyone but a lover husband that set her body on fire.

Her respirations slowed with the orchestral stroking of his hands. The gentle massages as torrential rain showered her internally were with whispered words of a love song. “I have loved you many years Maria. In my dreams you were my bella donna. I will love you always, mi amore.”

Maria smiled when the churning winds of erotic thunder passed. When he kissed her, she did not doubt his devotion and pledged her heart in return.

Later, when Bruno slept, his breaths were softer, and there was peace to his countenance. She cuddled in his arms, thinking, she would ask Alfonzo’s aid in the search for Corrado. Too many days had passed and she feared the worse. Her heart squeezed, Carmen lost her son, now Bruno’s was missing and she prayed for Alfonzo. He was her only child, and daily prayers had kept him safe.

A spiritual father listened to a mother’s pleas for her son’s salvation.

Then she sat up slowly. Why had Selange lied?

Why did she incorporate faith into her untruth?

Why did she seek to ensure that she was believed?

The questions continued and as Maria deliberated on the answers, she gasped.

What did Alfonzo do? Did he lie about his involvement in his cousin’s death and if so, why?

Chapter Twenty-One

The apartment building on the Southside of the Bronx was unofficially guarded by youth who hadn’t moved in over an hour. Nico’s borrowed car idled at the tip of an incline in the South Bronx. He lit his cigar, cracked the window and listened to upbeat salsa music blaring from an apartment as he enjoyed his cigar, and thought of Havana.

After a bit, he checked his face in the mirror. His skin was darkened by makeup, a nondescript cap covered is hair, an earring, fake tattoo on the neck and goatee made him appear badass. He was a no-nonsense dude of Caribbean descent. Today, his name was Girolamo Cupa, a Dominican from the Kingsbridge section of the BX.

Nico leaned back and surveyed the block again, puffing casually. He remembered reading, Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities.

“Falò delle Vanità,” Nico said aloud in Italian. It sounded good in his native language.

The novel, didn’t paint an appealing picture of the Bronx. Nico despised negative generalizations of people or communities. They were inaccurate at best or catered to fears of the already biased, in his opinion. Every province and country has a slum, visit China, India or Russia, lately?

Yeah, the Bronx is the poorest borough in New York, but the level of  poverty depending on comparison to say, Calcutta might be considered luxury living.

Anyway, Nico blamed the politicians and thieving homeowners who burned down their properties for insurance money to high tail out and other ethnicities took up residence. Nico had traveled all around the world and until a person did, they had no idea what a slum or poverty really looked like.

He took a long pull on the cigar.

Word association predetermined Nico’s disguise. Bronx, Bonfire of the Vanities, Dominican priest Girolamo Savonarola publicly burning thousands of vanity items in Florence, Italy, on the Mardi Gras festival of 1497.

He checked the transmission, a unit was being sent to the address, to check out a 10-50 a few doors over to where he needed to go. He crossed his arms, the people were certain to disperse when the squad car appeared. Nobody in his or her right mind wanted to risk being profiled by NYPD.

Sure enough, the minute the patrol car passed and then stopped at the corner, the non-disruptive group calmly disappeared. Nico stubbed out the cigar and then exited the car, took on a bop in imitation of Aaron, Darren had a strolling glide, like his dad. Aaron also thought he was a tough person.

He reached the step, saw the officers approaching another group of people hanging out, minding their business and figured he had some time to get his job done properly.

He ran up the stairs to the second floor, picked the lock and walked into the ‘dump’ Aaron described accurately. The inhabitant had no sense of style, hell a blind person could’ve decorated better. Money ‘aint got shit to do with taste.