Trophy 17

If there was one thing a man might admire about the Mafia, it was tradition. Even in the dire straits of his current situation, Vincenzo abided by the old customs. His household staff went to considerable time and effort to take good care of the men he called in to deal with the emergency of Bella’s vanishing and the demand for ransom. Only his most trusted torpedoes were called in, men who Vincenzo kept loyal with formidable displays of largesse such as this:

The garden of Vincenzo’s house bordered a terrace, looking into the mansion’s parlor through double windows. Many tables were set out on the terrace’s cobblestone, umbrellas over them to cut away the summer sun’s burning heat. On a long table were platters of salads, bottles of wine, freshly cooked pastries, decorated cakes, and hors d’oeuvres of seafood, reminding the guests of past occasions in which Vincenzo had provided live lobster and calamari.

Each table had freshly cut rose petals scattered across the tablecloth. Candles in Italian wine bottles would be brought out if the meeting stretched into the evening.

The guests brought their own cigars and cigarettes as a sop to Vincenzo, who did not smoke himself and did not encourage the habit, but understood that the nerves could use a balm in pressurized situations such as this.

As said, a man might admire this—but to Vito, it struck him as posturing. Impotent, useless posturing. The man’s wife… his unfaithful wife… was kidnapped and his father spared even a moment’s thought for wine buckets? For shrimp and cocktail sauce?

Vincenzo’s thoughts of his son were hardly more charitable: “Where the hell have you been?” he roared as soon as Vito emerged from the parlor, making a beeline to the nearest shadowed shelter. “This is an emergency! You’re supposed to be here at times like this, to see how a man handles himself in a crisis!”

“So handle yourself,” Vito said, taking a seat.

Vincenzo grumbled and did a line. Cocaine was not provided as readily as the other amenities, but reserved for the don’s gluttony. Others had to take a hit inside the mansion, if they dared leaving Vincenzo’s presence when he might have need of them. It went without saying that they had not become torpedoes without making themselves useful to their don.

“You know what’s going on?” Vincenzo demanded of him, wiping the white from his nose.

Vito resisted the urge to scoff. Did he know what was going on? He’d been there, hadn’t he? And it was only by killing Romano, rushing home, burning his clothes, and taking three showers that Vincenzo would never find out just how much his son knew. After the drug binge Vito had been on, he was too anesthetized for anyone to be able to read on him what had really happened. It might as well have been centuries ago…

“Yeah. I got the gist of it.”

It sucked for Romano—for Bella too, he supposed—but that was the flipside of the kink. Bella got off on doing this under her old man’s nose (his old man too), but she had to know that neither of them could afford for Vincenzo to actually find out. If Bella were in his shoes, she’d most likely do the same; then again, maybe she wasn’t smart enough to.

The point was, Bella was probably getting chopped into little pieces right now. Cost of doing business. What good would it do for things to get testy between Vito and his dad, over a piece of ass even, on top of what had happened to poor Bella? And Romano, too, if you thought about it.

Vincenzo’s phone rang. He snatched it up, dilated eyes not bothering to check the caller Id before he answered. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? Get off the line! We’re waiting for—oh. Fuck.”

Vito sat up in his chair. He’d never seen his father obsequious before. It was like one of those surreal little cracks in reality that let you know you were dreaming.

“We have your money. Just tell us where to deliver it—yes, I’ll listen.”

And Vincenzo stood there, listening raptly. Silent for as long as Vito could ever remember.

The weakness of it. Whoever this guy was… and sure, Vito had gotten a look at him, but like that would help them identify anyone, it wasn’t like he could look through mugshots… he had Vincenzo bending over and spreading cheeks.

The great Vincenzo Belucci, the war hero, the man who’d brought the Scagliones to heel… and rested on his laurels ever since, fat and lazy, with a young wife he didn’t even bother to fuck. What a waste of flesh. It was like all but the dregs of his strength had gone into Vito’s mother and made him—God rest her soul.

Give him a war, he’d show Vincenzo how to handle things like a man. It was all the sitting around, keeping the nagging mummies of the Organization happy and getting your ring kissed, that Vito couldn’t handle. Vincenzo thought that was hard? Shit, anybody could do that, but who would want to? Vincenzo might have the wife, but Vito got to dick her, as well as a hundred other advantages. Vincenzo thought that made him spoiled? Fuck no, that made him pragmatic. His father not getting that was just one more way he was a dinosaur.

Vincenzo lowered the phone slowly. Vito focused on him again. His cracked lips were moving slowly. “He wants us to deliver the money to Slocum Street.”

“Slocum?” asked Bianconi, one of Vincenzo’s numerous ass-kissers. “That’s in the Somalis’ turf.”

“Somalis work for the Scagliones,” Vito added, unable to resist needling his father. Vincenzo was so smug about besting the Scaglione family—only no one had sent them the memo about being bested, apparently.

“We’ll sort this shit out later,” Vincenzo promised. “Bianconi, you take the money there. We can worry about hitting them back later. For now we get Belladonna back.”

“Aw, I didn’t know you cared,” Vito cooed.

Vincenzo wrapped a fist on the tablecloth, spilling rose petals into the air. “Belladonna is the key to our alliance with the Scagliones, you little shit! I won’t break our arrangement for the sake of looking tough!” He eyed his son like something stuck to his shoe. “I’d say you’d understand when you’re older, but you’re old enough now. Figure it out. You can always run around with your pop-gun once we’ve gotten to the bottom of this.”

“Yes, father,” Vito said, docile enough that Vincenzo huffed with satisfaction.

It wasn’t that he was cowed. He realized now that if and when they did get Belladonna back, his cover story would suddenly be written on tissue paper. Liable to rip at any moment. Safer by far if mommy dearest never made it back from whatever hole they’d stuck her in.

“Father,” he continued, “if I may, I’d like to carry the money there.”

“You?”

“It’s family business, isn’t it? Family should take care of it.”

Vincenzo thought and for a moment, he looked respectable. Like at that very moment, someone could’ve been rendering him in marble to stand for all time.

Then he snorted and wiped his nose of cocaine once again. “Yes, you go, Vito. Bring your stepmother back and find out who we’re at war with. Then we’ll know what name to start putting on the gravestones.”

***

It sounded so much like a slap that Bella woke up thinking she’d been slapped, but there was no sting, no ache. When her open eyes focused, she saw that Frank had dropped a paper grocery bag onto the floor beside her bed. It was stuffed to the brim with books. Bella picked up the one on top of the stack.

“What’s this? You’re starting a fuckin’ book club?”

“Reading material. I thought you might like something to keep you busy.”

Bella leaned out of bed to pick through them. “’A Sword of Pain and Memory.’ ‘Coven of Vampires.’ ‘The Bones of the Star-Kissed King.’ ‘The Foxglove Academy And Its Ruin.’ What kind of gay shit is this?”

“It’s every bestseller at the bookstore. And you’re lucky I found a bookstore these days.”

Bella sniffed and rolled back onto her pillow. “This is what everyone is reading? No wonder the world’s going to shit.”

“You’re why the world’s going to shit. Turning a blind eye on evil. Being complicit in it. Not for any reason. Just because it’s convenient.”

“Yeah?” Bella lifted her head enough to look him in the eye. “You gonna kill me then? Since I’m such a bad girl.”

“I don’t kill jay-walkers. There’s a line.”

Bella rolled her eyes. “Too good to die, too bad to live. Story of my life. You know, I was born into this? I never had a choice. Not like you. Everything you’re doing, it’s because you want it. I never did.”

Frank’s voice depth-charged into bitter sarcasm. “The mansion, the cars, the servants—it must be awful.”

“I never said it was awful. I said it wasn’t my choice. I had to marry Vito; my family forced me into it. Everything else is just gold plating on a cage.”

“You had a choice,” Frank remonstrated. “You’re a beautiful woman. Smart. Independent. What was to stop you from going to school, getting a job?”

“My fucking family, that’s what! The Beluccis and the Scagliones were at war. The Beluccis would’ve killed me just so I couldn’t make any more Scagliones. The Scagliones would’ve killed me for knowing too much, and they’d be right to, because here I am, telling you everything in my head!”

Bella stood, unable to keep lying down with a white-hot flame applied to the kindling of her old memories.

“I’m a victim. I was a victim of Vito and now I’m a victim of you.”

“Then you should be thanking me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You are my victim. At least I’m honest about it.”

Bella sighed. There was no arguing with him. He had her and he wasn’t about to be swayed by any inconvenient facts she could throw at the juggernaut of his decision-making. “How about some Midol?”

Frank cocked his head to the side instead of doing something as prosaic as asking her what she meant.

“For my period. I’ll be getting it soon. Unless you want to knock me up?”

“I don’t plan that far ahead.”