Ok, finally put some romantic hints-ish in. I know, i know...I'm more of a suspense kind of writer though. Hope you liiiike! And don't be lazy on the footnotes. they really help explain stuff, so i've been told...
Cosa Nostra: Part 2
Florence, Italy
December 21, 1962
The double doors were a deep red mahogany, polished so finely that Romano could see the outline of his own reflection framed by the detailed carvings of saints and angels that lining the borders. The Italian let out a low grumble of irritation, though he had expected it beforehand. Such perfect polishing could only mean one thing: Germany.
Of course it's that bastard. Doesn't he have somewhere else to be?
And without a second thought, Romano lifted his fist and pounded hard on the door five times, right into his own reflection.
Footsteps. Voices. Something…pasta. Click. The door was flung open before Romano could react as someone fell forward right onto the disgruntled Italian, both of them tumbling onto the ground with a loud thud and a crack.
"COSA DIAVOLO? VAFFANCULO! VENEZIANOOOO!1*"
"AAAH! MI DISPIACE, MI DISPIACE!*…Oh, Madonna*, it's really you, Romano, I'M SO HAPPY I COULD SING!"
"Get OFF!"
"Germany, Germany, it's Romano he's here for Christmas I told you he'd be here is the pasta ready we should eat pasta together!"
His brother finally jumped off to announce his grand arrival to Germany, who was standing in the doorway with red oven mitts, a steaming steel pot, and an exasperated sigh.
Romano picked himself up, rubbing the fresh bruise on his shoulder. He was starting to regret taking three midnight trains and a boat just to get here. I see nothing has changed…even after almost five years. Shouldn't've gotten my hopes up in the first place.
He paused to study his younger twin. The lighter hair color and brown eyes aside, they were the same. But yet they weren't. One was cheerful, glowing with excitement. The other, a scowl. The same features. With different faces.
"Come on, Romano! We're making pastaaaa!"
It was the same insomnia yet different at the same time. Romano lay in his old bedroom, listening to the sound of his brother's snoring emanating through the wall, and sighed. Somehow, Veneziano managed to sound uncannily merry even while he snored. It was calming.
The sleepless man stared blankly at the ceiling. He was at a loss. The horrific images no longer haunted his mind. But they were replaced by something just as dreadful. No, not something. The lack of something. The hollowness in his chest was suffocating.
The past few days he spent with them were torture and bliss. They cooked like before. That old familiar feeling of kneading fresh dough. The smell of pizza as it slowly baked. Veneziano laughed the same way he always did, often and often without purpose. It was almost peaceful. Only it wasn't. Because as Romano stood there, badmouthing nothing in particular, he was happy. And he was not.
There was a detachment. This wasn't reality. Not his anyway. For him, this was the past. The long gone.
He closed his eyes, haggard but acutely alert at the same time. A face appeared before him. A cheerful face. A face he's been missing. A face he's been trying to forget. A face he couldn't forget.
It was a mistake to come here, he thought to himself.
Palermo, Italy, 1958
"There's someone who I think would be interested in meeting you."
The newly-appointed Mayor of Palermo* was a dark-skinned man with short silvery-grey hair. Perhaps a little portly, his square jaw was rounded off by a thick neck.
Romano walked alongside the man as they wound through the booming town. The mayor seemed congenial enough, heartily introducing each promising aspect of the growing seaside city as they passed. Romano was only here on a short visit to meet with the mayor of this growing city. It was a hope for future economic prosperity, no matter how much he just wanted to be back at Rome with his bed sheets over his face until noon.
His mind began to wander as nonchalance settled in. Blue skies, white clouds, seagulls, the sound of the calm waves…it made everything somewhat hazy. The mayor went on about the potential of construction in the city, but Romano only half-listened. The man rattled on and on. Did he ever stop?
And suddenly, he did. Too suddenly. That was when Romano noticed that they were no longer walking through the buzzing streets filled with busy townsfolk, but a grey little alley with an uncannily ominous atmosphere. Alarm and suspicion settled in, than immediately turned to irritation.
"Hey, what's the idea?" he snapped impatiently, but regretted it as soon as he saw the mayor's smile. He was smiling very politely. Very polite, but very macabre.
"Mr. Vargas, or should I say... Romano Italiana…"
Romano took a step back, fear and surprise stirring together in dark green eyes. "How do you know who I am? What do you want?" he demanded in an attempt to sound authoritative.
"We simply want to talk, Mr. Italiana," a smooth , sinister voice emanated from behind.
Romano whirled around, arms up in defense. But before he could react, two men had already seized him by the shoulder, slamming him painfully into the hard, brick wall. He barely had time to comprehend what was going on before-
Darkness.
Claustrophobia. That was the only word to describe it. Cramped and dark, walls of concrete cold against his burning skin. Burning with pain. Bruises and cuts covered his entire body. The blood coursed through each and every injury. Another heartbeat, another cringe.
The injuries were nothing. It wasn't the first time the mafioso did this to him. But it was the first time they kidnapped him and locked him in some damn cupboard with a steel door. He sat there with his hands and feet bound, blindfolded and a dirty rag strapped over his mouth and nose. Even breathing was a burden.
In the dead silence, a distinct click from the outside, then a loud clang. The door was unbolted. A stream of artificial light seeped through the cloth covering his eyes.
"You!" Suddenly, a hand seized him by the collar and roughly dragged him to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, searching for something to lean against. Anything.
"Walk! Strunzo…" the gruff voice yelled, and the rough hand shoved him out into the open.
Rip. Tear. White light burned his eyes. The air tasted damp, almost like musty steel. Then, images slowly came into focus. A man. Mid-aged. Black pinstriped zoot suit. Dark brown hair. Prominent nose. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Wrists, fingers, covered with sparkling embellishments of gold and silver.
A wide smile spread across his face as Romano stumbled closer.
"Ah! Signor Italiana…" he chuckled, "I hope you're enjoying yourself in this lovely little city of ours."
"Vaffanculo!" Romano spat, hands in tight fists dangling at his side. But horror was creeping sneakily through his veins.
"Calm down, miei colleghi buono!* Now, allow me to introduce myself…Salvatore La Barbera*. Of course, if you want to bother with titles, capo mandamento* of Borgo Vecchio, Porta Nuova and Palermo Centro will do."
"You got some nerve doing this to me, La Barbera." Romano glared, unwilling to show any signs of fear. It was one thing to give up on the battlefield with enemy nations, but another in some shithole with a dirty human.
"Oh, no, no, Signor Italiana, you've got it all wrong," the mafiosi laughed, his malignant grin spreading ever wider, "I've got no nerve. In fact, I'm quite a coward. But I've got a guarantee. Your guarantee."
"Stronzata!* Whatever it is I won't do it!"
"Oh, but, you wouldn't say no to your own fratello would you?"
"What? What're you bullshitting about?" Immediately, all his defenses gave away to panic.
"You should know by now, Signor Italiana, that this thing of ours9extends far beyond just this little island," the mafiosi said in a low, musical voice, the ominous grin still on his face. He paused to enjoy the terror growing in his captive's eyes.
"In fact, we find it quite an easy job to keep tabs on dear Veneziano. Or so I hear from my friends up North," he continued, pretending to examine the sparkling platinum ring on his finger.
"I…I don't believe you!" Romano shouted, his voice wavering with his confidence.
"I knew you wouldn't, Signor Italiana. That's why I've prepared a little something to convince you."
He reached for the wooden desk beside him and, to Romano's absolute horror, produced a necklace with a black pendant dangling dangerously from its end. A black cross.
"But…It can't be…" Romano mumbled under his breath, teeth clenched tightly as his two hands automatically seized his sides. But I'm sure it's the one…the one that potato bastard gave to Veneziano…the one my stupid brother never takes off…
"But it is, isn't it, miei colleghi buono," La Babera hissed slyly.
"What the fuck did you do to him? Tell me, NOW!"
"Oh, nothing. Not yet, at least. But it all depends on your decision, my dear Signor Italiana. I think you should give this some careful consideration. After all, I know how important this is to you. I have a brother myself, you see." A sinister cackle.
"Spit it out, bastardo!*"
"Well, the Cosa Nostra could do with someone on the inside. We're expanding, you see," he said with a casual wave of his hand.
Expanding… Romano's thoughts flashed to the new Mayor Lima. Of course! They're infiltrating the government. It'd make trade monopoly that much easier…
Clink. The black cross fell to the floor at Romano's foot.
La Barbera's face was suddenly dark and merciless. No more smiles. "Decide, Signor Italiana," he sneered.
Romano stared at the little black cross lying so dismally on the grey floor. Tears of frustration stung his eyes. Dammit, I don't know what to do…I never know what to do. I'm such a strunz. Useless. He cursed himself silently in his head.
Before, he would always be there. He'd always smile and try to cheer me up like the pathetic fool he is. He'd know what to do…
"My patience is limited, you know," the Mafia boss said with a bored yawn.
Romano said nothing. Just stood there, head bowed.
What should I do? What can I do…I'd kill to see his stupid smile. Maybe if I wait long enough, he'll barge in and save me like before…
"Decide. Now." The tone of finality.
"I…I…I'll do whatever you say."
Affanculo! Spain! Where the fuck are you?
Florence, Italy
December 24, 1962
"Wake up, fratello! You don't want to spend Christmas Eve sleeping, do you?"
Romano snapped awake to his brother's high-pitched exuberance. And so early in the morning too…
"C'mon! It's already time for lunch! The pasta will get cold!"
Or not…
Romano dragged himself to his feet with a grunt and rubbed his eyes sleepily. He didn't know when he fell asleep. He just knew that right now, every bone in his body felt as heavy as rocks.
"Oh! That's right, that's right, we have a visitor! ~Veeee..."
He lifted his head to look at his brother. The latter could barely contain his excitement and was bouncing on his feet even as he stood there.
"Who…"
"Feliz Navidad*, Romano!" Animated, lighthearted, enthusiastic, almost sing-song. Sunny. Now I'm just hearing things…
But there he was, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a big sunny grin on his face, same untidy brown hair and bright green eyes. The same sunburned face Romano could not forget no matter how hard he tried, even after all those black nights accompanied by the Devil.
The disgruntled Italian rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, as if hoping and dreading to erase the Spaniard's image in front of him. But he couldn't. And so he did what he always does in similar situations. He became extremely annoyed.
"Merry Christmas my ass, you bastardo!" Romano lunged. His only missed Spain's face by an inch. His fist slammed into the wall right next to the victim's alarmed face. "Five years! And not a single word!"
"R-Romanooo!" Veneziano was tearing up in a frenzy behind them.
Spain mustered an awkward, panicked smile. His words tumbled out like a waterfall. "W-wait, Romano! I did try to…but I…I called, I swear! Every week! But you never pick up! I tried calling your office, too! And I even wrote you, even though letters are quite slow between the two peninsulas* and I apologize for that but international mail has low efficiency but conditions are improving and I'm sure our postal services will be up to speed again soon enou-"
"Every week?" Romano stopped short. Every week. It must have cost a fortune*.
Romano took a step back, still eying his former guardian with a suspicious gaze. He looked sincere alright, and Spain usually felt how he looked. He knew that all too well.
"But how come I never received any calls or letters?" the Italian inquired quizzically.
"You…didn't?" He blinked. Blank stare.
"No…not a single word." Romano averted his eyes. He just couldn't stand that earnest look in Spain's eyes without feeling ashamed of himself.
"Oh, ¡Gracias a Dios!* You didn't!" Spain suddenly exclaimed and bounded over to suffocate Romano with an overjoyed hug. "I was beginning to think you were giving Boss the cold shoulder!"
Romano choked under his tight grip, and struggled to slip out of the deadly grasp. Spain seemed not to notice. After a long thirty seconds of suffocation, he finally let go, wearing a wide grin. Meanwhile, Veneziano was happily hurrahing as he bounded through the door calling for Germany excitedly. And for once, Romano was too distracted to be bothered by his brother's clinginess to the German.
"So why are you here anyway? It's Christmas Eve, shouldn't you be…dancing the Jota15 with your people or something?" Romano grumbled, still averting his eyes.
"Oh, Romano, you're always so cruel to me!" Spain cried overemotionally, "I rushed over the moment little Veneziano called to tell me you're here!" Then he regained his sunny disposition. "Besides, I can dance the Jota anywhere!"
Romano rolled his eyes and sighed. Nope. No change. Zip.
"But come to think of it, it is quite strange that you never got any of those calls, si?" Spain pondered as the two of them ambled slowly towards the door.
"Hn." Romano only grunted in reply. He reached for the doorknob.
But it's not strange at all, considering the Cosa Nostra regulate all my active phone lines. I wouldn't be surprised if they blocked all outside calls except for ones from work and occasional calls from Veneziano. And even those are only for cover. No, La Barbera doesn't trust me at all…
"Don't think too hard. Knowing you, you'll probably get a migraine or something…" Romano muttered under his breath.
The door slammed behind them with a soft click as their voices were lost in the thumping on wooden stairs.
Palermo, Italy
December 24, 1962
7:00 PM
Christmas Eve in Palermo. The streets were just as deserted and barren as any other night in the past four years. Just as broken.
In the center of town, below an obscure and crumbling office building, sat nine men under the artificial white light which flickered in sickly trembles every few minutes. The walls were the bland grey of concrete, thin cracks snaking through its battered structure. There was very little furniture. Only a black armchair next to a desk pushed against the wall with a decrepit old lamp sitting on top of it, the lone spectator. A wooden door was across from the desk on the other side of the room, and another door, steel and bolted, sat ominously in the far right corner. Nine men, all in black suits and ties, sat in a circle on creaking old chairs in the center of the room. Some leaned forward, some leaned back. Some twiddled his fingers, some sat with hands interlaced lying on his lap. But all nine had two things in common: money and ambition.
One man with a square jaw and specks of grey on his black head, stood up. He spoke in a taut monotone. "All members of the Cupola* in Palermo are gathered. We are here to discuss the issue of the murder of Calcedonio di Pisa." He sat back down stiffly, dark stony eyes fixed on the one sitting directly across from him. Salvatore La Barbera, reclining on his chair with a lax expression, arms crossed and the same thick brown cigar dangling from his lips.
"Alright, alright, Ciaschiteddu*," La Barbera exclaimed with a bored sigh. "You're the one who called us here. So cut to the chase."
A long pause. Agita* was tangible within the little circle of men. All eyes were on La Barbera and Greco, who were both currently fixing the other with an icy stare.
Finally, Greco opened his mouth to speak. "Fine, La Barbera. To be frank with you, I have no doubt in mind who," –his coal black eyes narrowed into slits- "initiated the murder."
La Barbera leaned forward in his chair and propped his head up with his forearm, eyes glinting in a dangerous scowl. "Oh, really? Enlighten me then."
"Gladly," Greco answered through gritted teeth, then grew slightly nervous. There was not a single sound besides his own voice. The other six men were waiting, honing in on the tangible web of tension, so fragile yet so unbearable. Don Greco cleared his throat and began.
"It's no secret that the last large-scale babania* shipment to the US resulted in…some conflicts. Those damn Americano claimed the shipment was light and accused us of foul play. As you all know, the shipment was organized by Manzella in partnership with La Barbera's and my Families. However, Manzella gave all his authority to Di Pisa. When the Americans gave Di Pisa a lower payment than the original amount agreed upon, Di Pisa accused the Americans of fraud. Meanwhile, you, Signor La Barbera, in turn accused Di Pisa of fraud. However, as we all know from the results of the last meeting, the rest of the Commissione supported Di Pisa. And despite your sly words, La Barbera, you were enraged. Which makes you," –his eyes were daggers pointed straight at the glowering La Barbera- "the prime suspect."
A deadly silence fell upon the Cupola. The rest of the Commissione awaited La Barbera's reaction while exchanging anxious glances. But he did not seem fazed. Just the opposite.
He faced his opponent, a wicked grin twisting the corners of his mouth. "That is all very well, my dear Ciaschiteddu, but where is your evidence?"
Another long pause. Greco tried to conceal his uneasiness with a bluff. "You have viable motive."
"Yes, but so do most of the men sitting here." Sly dark eyes scrutinized each face in the room, and slid back to land on Greco. "Yourself included."
"It's evidence enough for me," Greco seethed, his hands tightly gripping the splintered wooden armrests.
"Well, then." La Barbera's voice suddenly dropped to a pernicious rasp. "If that's the case, I guess there's not much else to say, is there?"
Greco's mouth formulated a retort, but no sound came out. The opposing man's calculating yet menacing gaze sent a frosty chill through his spine.
La Barbera stood up and gestured towards the door behind him. "Now, signori. I trust we have wasted enough time this evening."
All eight men promptly took their leave. Greco was the first out the door.
Palermo, Italy
December 24, 1962
11:00 PM
The room under the office building was empty, save a single man reclining in the black corduroy armchair next to the decrepit lamp and desk, puffing thick cigar smoke out from his mouth. He drew in one last deep breath then tossed the cigar into a wastebasket in the corner of the room with perfect precision. A slight frown was visible on his forehead. A sigh, barely audible, escaped his lips. He sat and pondered.
Then, he was done pondering.
"Moretti!" Salvatore La Barbera's agitation was apparent. In such instances, no one dared keep him waiting.
Moretti hastened into the room. "Yes, padrino."
The Don stopped and examined the man before him. Moretti was a thin man around thirty-five, tall and gaunt with prominent cheekbones and a nose so straight as if carved from marble. His gaze was steady, unrevealing. "Tell me, Moretti. Have you been to Florence during Christmastime?"
"No, padrino. I haven't had the pleasure."
"Well, you're in luck. I believe our dear Signor Vargas has had quite a lovely time there. Unfortunately, his extended vacation must be…brought to an end."
"Understood, padrino. I shall depart immediately." Moretti began towards the door.
"Oh, and one more thing, Moretti."
"Yes, padrino?"
"Fetch me another cigar."
"Yes, padrino."
The Don watched Moretti's retreating figure with uncharacteristically solemnity. Salvatore Greco's words resounded through his head. "It's evidence enough for me." La Barbera gave a humorless laugh. You asked for it, Greco. This means war.
1 Cosa diavolo? Vaffanculo! Venezianoo!- What the hell? F*ck you! Veneziano!
2 Mi dispiace- I'm sorry (self-explanatory)
3 Madonna- Italians actually say Madonna more often than Mamma mia, contrary to popular belief.
4 Salvatore Lima- (January 23, 1928- March 12, 1992) He was the mayor of Palermo (a seaside then-boomtown located on the coast of Sicily) from 1958 to 1963.
5 Miei colleghi buono- My good fellow
6 Salvatore La Barbera- powerful Mafia boss who ruled the Mafia family Palermo Centro with his brother Angelo La Barbera.
7 Capo mandamento- In the Cosa Nostra, a mandamento is a district usually consisting of three families. The capo mandamento is the head of the mandamento and has a seat in the Mafia Commission.
8 Stronzata- bullshit
9 This thing of ours- mafia speak for either one family of the mafia, or, as in this case, the entire Cosa Nostra.
10 Bastardo- Yes, in Italian, bastard is actually just bastardo.
11 Feliz Navidad- I'm sure this is common knowledge, but just in case, it's "merry Christmas" in Spanish.
12 The two peninsulas- Spain is on the Iberian Peninsula and Italy is a peninsula itself.
13 It must have cost a fortune- remember, this is the 1960's. People didn't have convenient cell phones and elaborate cheap land phone plans. "Long distance" phone calls were quit expensive.
14 Glacias a Dios- thank goodness.
15 Jota- a traditional Christmas dance in Spain that's been passed down for who knows how long. People get together and dance the Jota on Christmas Eve.
16 The Sicilian Mafia Commission- known as the Cupola or the Commissione, it is a loose body of representatives (usually the Dons) of powerful mandamentos (Families) in Sicily. Nine of thirteen men in the "first" commission were situated in Palermo. They are not a "government" or any centralized form of bureaucracy within the Cosa Nostra, but is rather formed to punish severe violations of Cosa Nostra codes or to mediate conflicts between families. It helps maintain a balance of power within the Sicilian Mafia.
17 Salvatore "Ciaschiteddu" Greco (January 13, 1923 – March 7, 1978)- Head of the Greco Family clan, a powerful and longstanding family in the Cosa Nostra. Salvatore Greco mainly ruled in Ciacullo, a suburb of Palermo, and was first secretary of the Mafia Commission. His nickname Ciaschiteddu means "wine jug"(?).
18 Agita- Mafia slang for edginess or agitation. Personally, I'm surprise they have a slang for that….
19 Babania- Mafia slang for heroin, especially in the act of dealing.
Even more footnotes...O.o I go crazy with those, but it's necessary for the full understanding of the thing, especially with Italian terms and Mafia slang and whatnot. Once again, excuse my nonexistent Italian skills. ^^' Reviews? I wanna hear opinions...
Re-edit: Ok, also fixed the numbers-asterisks thing on this and an embarrassing grammar mistake. Me=epic fail. Sorry for the lack of Spamano romance, but do know that this IS a mafia-centered fic and it IS kind of heavy and dark...but i'll get there, in one way or another... }:) oh and did you know that if you reverse that, you get this mustache-pringles-man face? :{