Ok, phew I got this done! Awesome! (like prussia, kesesese) Anewayz, i really wanted to upload a part before break ended so here it is! It's shorter than the last one but I hope you guyz like! Btw, my friend has commented that it's painful to watch Romano get tortured xD. So I hafta say: Sorry, Romano! Hang in there!
Cosa Nostra: Part 4
Palermo, Italy
January 11, 1963
2:06 am
The strong smell of rubbing alcohol penetrated his nose and stung his eyes as he tentatively removed the cap on the plastic bottle. It was a miracle he managed to limp home clutching his wound, which was literally spurting blood through his fingers. Using his knowledge of shortcuts through the complex system of Palermo alleyways, he had navigated from the northeast side of town to his bleak, empty apartment in the southwest. Once he kicked the door open, he had forced himself through an excessively painful process of first cleaning the wound with raw soap and water then removing the bullet with the little supplies he had, which was a small blade and tweezers. He was beginning to see black spots.
But the worst wasn't over. Reluctantly, he stuffed a towel between his teeth. He could not afford to have citizens hearing screams of agony coming from his apartment. It would only spark panic in the frightened atmosphere that pervaded the city.
With violently shaking hands, he took the other towel, soaked it in rubbing alcohol, and pressed it on the deep wound. His entire body seized up in agony as his teeth sank into the towel. Muffled screams like a tortured animal. God, save me! God, save me! God, save me!
After twenty seconds of sheer torment, the piercing pain simmered down to a milder burn. Romano slid down to the floor and spat out the ragged towel. Leaning against the wall, he gasped for air as round beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. Then, he tightened a roll of gauze around the shoulder, hoping that he had managed to effectively stop the bleeding.
He reached up to wipe away the sweat on his face only to find his cheeks stained with tears. Tears he shed without knowing. He bit his lip and cursed himself for being weak. It was only a bullet. One bullet. How many bullets had burned his flesh during the past few decades? On the battlefield during the countless wars that progressively escalated every century? He's had worse before. What was so different this time? What made him so weak? And a single thought intruded his mind.
I'm alone. He shook his head angrily. Stop thinking about that. But it's the truth…If you're going to think about that, then don't think at all! But thinking is my only freedom...
Romano lifted his arm up to the bedside table and fumbled around blindly for another towel, but instead his hand landed on the cool, comforting smoothness of leather. He paused. The Vulgate Bible.
He released a long, weary sigh. The very voice of misery. Then, he pulled the antique Scripture into his lap and timidly nudged it open. The book was the only one of its kind, with Latin on one side and the Spanish vernacular* on the other. And an eon ago, it was also the book Spain used to teach him Spanish. I was never a good student, Romano thought with a humorless chuckle. The buzzing in his ear was becoming an indefinite drone, inundating his five senses. I remember…when Spain used to joke…that the only thing we had in common was our being Catholic. And even so, I was never a good Catholic…
A knock on the door. It shook every flimsy wall of the room.
"Padrino! Padrino, it's me."
Romano swore quietly under his breath. This was the last thing that he wanted to deal with right now, but he had known it was coming the moment he decided to abandon the cache. He got to his feet and inched his way to the door with the support of the wall. Maybe this is what it feels like to be Atlas*.
He swung open the door with his uninjured arm to find the youth standing in his doorway nervously, still looking rather dazed. Romano hadn't gotten the chance to closely examine the boy until now. He sprouted an inch or so above Romano, well-muscled and strong in the height of his youth. However, his face was that of an awkward boy, still uncertain of his place in the world. He had light brown hair and matching eyes, with a straight, statured nose but round jowls. Eighteen at most, he had neither the toughness of a soldier nor the cruelty of a Mafioso. He was staring at his capo expectantly.
"Oh. It's you," Romano sighed. The very sight of this boy knotted up his stomach. For some uncanny reason, the younger Mafioso reminded Romano of Veneziano
"The Don wishes to see you immediately, padrino," the youth said, his eyes trained on his capo's injured shoulder.
"I see," Romano grunted, and hesitantly limped out the door on wobbly legs, shutting the door behind him with his foot.
"You are hurt, padrino" the youth stated, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of the nasty wound.
"Yeah. It's nothing. Just one bullet." They began slowly towards the middle of the town, the shabby office building home to Palermo Centro's seat of power. Romano suddenly realized that for all these years he's spent in Palermo, this was the first time, despite the fact he's going to see the greatest evil in the city, he walked down these streets like a normal citizen.
"I'm really sorry. I don't know what happened. I just couldn't think or move." Distress grew on the youth's face as he eyed the bandages guiltily.
"Like I said, it's just one bullet. It's fine. I've been through way worse during the War."
"You fought in the war, padrino?" The youth frowned, puzzled. "Excuse me, padrino, but you only look a few years my senior, much too young to have fought…"
Stronzata. Why did I say that?
"Uh, yeah. I look young, that's all." Romano ducked his head to avoid the youth's questioning gaze. It was hard to lie to this boy.
They stayed silent for the rest of the way.
Under the synthetic, white light stood the Don, La Barbera. But not the one Romano had expected to see. Black hair, oily, mid-length, and in slight waves. A long, curved nose and a square jaw. Thin lips that formed a permanent scowl. A black cane in his hands. It was Salvatore's brother, Angelo La Barbera*. And if there was one person Romano detested more than Salvatore La Barbera, it was this man. Salvatore was greedy and merciless, but Angelo was a malicious monster.
Romano stood in front of him, head bowed low to avoid the man's sinister gaze. The rest of the little squad of Mafioso Romano was in charge of stood to the side. All wore somber or nervous expressions.
Angelo La Barbera began to pace to and fro the room, watching them intently from the corner of his eye. "So," the Don began, "Signor Vargas. I was just passing by this afternoon to check up on some things for my brother. Unfortunately, he can't be here himself today. He's a busy man, you see, just like myself. But the first thing that I hear when I get here? That we lost yet another cache," – he stopped in front of Romano with that bitter scowl on his face. He leaned down, his face only centimeters from Romano's – "But of course, I'm a reasonable man. So explain yourself, Signor Vargas."
La Barbera's breath reeked of tobacco. Romano cringed. "We were under attack, padrino," he answered in a flat monotone. "My men and I were there to relieve those who were under atta-"
Romano was cut off as La Barbera roughly seized him by the collar, forcing him to look into those eyes so dark and despicable. Romano silently glared.
"Then kindly explain to me, Signor Vargas, what happened to the money!" Romano's hands clenched into tight fists. The putrid smell made him want to hurl.
"There was no time, padrino. The Grecos' men set the building on fire."
Smack. A white flash, then the images refocused. Sharp pain on the side of his head. Hot blood rolled down his right temple. Romano was sprawled out on the floor, moaning incoherently. He lifted his head to find La Barbera looming over him, stroking the cane with an entertained smirk.
"Don't get too cocky, Signor Vargas. I know what you are, and that doesn't stop me from punishing you." Angelo la Barbera hissed in his ear.
Another crack.
"Aaaaaahhhhhh!"
The cane landed square on his injured shoulder, not a millimeter off. Romano writhed on the floor in agony. The pain seared through his flesh like flames igniting in a forest. He tasted blood on his tongue. He had bitten the inside of his mouth in a desperate attempt to stop his own screaming. Dark black blotches crippled his vision. Everything was a blur. He heard laughs, cackles, echoing all around, forming a prison of haunting sound. The cane continued to batter him from all sides. His chest, his stomach, his ribs, his skull, and his burning shoulder.
Spain….Spain…save me…
"Stop it!"
It stopped. A foreboding silence.
Romano found himself lying face down on the concrete floor. His breathing slowed as he recollected himself and strained his eyes to see who had rescued him. He squinted up to see the defiant face of the youth with light brown eyes so much like his brother's. The youth glared at La Barbera but could not erase his own fear.
La Barbera turned his attention on the youth, intrigued. Romano saw it flash across the Don's charcoal eyes. The kill. Romano's blood froze.
Angelo la Barbera gestured for the boy to step forward. A moment of hesitation. Then, he stepped into the light. Romano tried to get the youth's attention from where he lay behind La Barbera. The beaten nation could only vigorously shake his head at the boy, dark green panic thick in his eyes. No. Don't do it. He'll kill you. But he won't kill me. He can't kill me!
But the youth was too far gone.
"What's this? A sympathizer?" La Barbera began to slowly circle the youth like a hungry shark.
"H-He s-saved me, padrino," the youth stammered, knees shaking uncontrollably.
"Oh! I see, I see," La Barbera exclaimed, "So you mean to say that he was too busy saving you instead of the money! Ah!" –an earsplitting clap as he feigned an epiphany- "I get it now. So it's really your fault all along!"
The horror that settled onto the youth's face was too much for Romano to bear. He looked away with unshed tears behind his eyes.
Another loud crack, a scream, followed by a thump as the youth landed hard on his hands and knees. Then, his light brown eyes widened as he felt the ice-cold barrel of a pistol against the back of his head.
The last second. Light brown met dark green. The last thing he saw was his capo's wistful gaze. A deafening shot rang across the room. Then, the youth saw nothing.
Romano picked himself up from the floor, never taking his eyes off the limp body that was the boy. His young brown eyes were lost to another world. Lifeless.
Romano trained his eyes on the scowling face of Angelo La Barbera. Crimson hatred. That was all he saw. One day, you will be the one on the floor and I will be the one standing over you. He hadn't felt anything like this in a very long while. It was as if all his emotions had finally thawed out after a long hibernation. They burned like a wildfire. One day…one day…I swear to God I will.
La Barbera peered at the rest of the squad standing by with that awful scowl of his and cackled. "Let this be an example." Then he ordered the body to be disposed of and waved for the men to clear out. After some scuffling and shutting of doors, the only three left in the room were the Don, Romano, and Moretti.
"Now, Mr. Vargas," La Barbera continued pleasantly as if their little intermission was only a coffee break, "I have some work for you. The real reason I came here today." He took a seat in the single armchair, stroking his cane absentmindedly. "There's a rich man who's offered me a very good deal. He's interested in a large amount of babania* and is willing to pay good money for it. But of course, he has to inspect the product first. Unfortunately, he does not speak Italian well. You will seal the deal for me, capisce*?"
He did not wait for Romano's answer, but made a hand gesture at Moretti. Moretti nodded and swiftly exited the room.
La Barbera turned his sly scowl on Romano. "Let's keep this between you and me, shall we? There's no reason we need to trouble my brother about this."
Of course. So he'd take all the money for himself. Un bastardo… But Romano only gave a curt nod and said nothing. He hid his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into palms. You're a dead man, Angelo la Barbera. I have made my vow.
A few moments later, Moretti returned followed by a figure dressed in a well-trimmed navy blue suit. But something about this figure was too…
"Ah, Signor Carriedo, I apologize for the long wait. I have brought you a translator." La Barbera stood up to greet the man warmly.
The pale, flickering light illuminated the mysterious client's clean-cut features. Curled brown strands peeked out beneath his black fedora. A healthy, sun-tanned complexion of golden wheat. Eyes like two pools of liquid emerald. It was the very face Romano could not forget. Spain.
Romano almost forgot to breath. And he would have, too, if it weren't for the gentle admonition in Spain's eyes that told him not to panic. A million things ran through his mind, and at the same time nothing at all.
"Hola, me llamo* Antonio Fernandez Carriedo." The Spaniard held out a hand with the shadow of a smile upon his lips.
Romano's arm trembled as he took Spain's hand in a sluggish handshake. Spain gave Romano's hand a short, tight squeeze before withdrawing his hand.
"Hola, me llamo Lovino Vargas." It was all Romano could do to keep from tripping over his words.
"Well, then, Signor Vargas. Honor our agreement."With one last cackle, Angelo la Barbera swept out of the room.
Romano could only stare. Stare and try his best not to gape. Or bombard the Spaniard with angry questions. He glanced at Moretti, who stood off to the side, watching the two of them intently. It was not wise to act out, and both the nations knew. But for once, Romano had the upper hand. Try as he might, Moretti could not understand Spanish.
"I'd like to see the babania first. I'm sure you would be delighted to give me a tour. I think I will rest first, though. It's been a long trip from Madrid, you see," Spain said pleasantly (in Spanish).
"Si, that will be the best arrangement. It is late, Senor Carriedo." Romano stole another quick glance at Moretti. "What time will be the best for you?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, three o'clock. I'll meet you in front of this building."
"Good. That will be good." Romano's speech was short, uptight, and overformal. His overexcited nerves were jumping all over the place.
"Buenas noches*, Senor Vargas."
"Buenas noches, Senor Carriedo."
And with that, Spain turned to leave, but stopped just as he reached to push the door open. "Don't forget to say your prayers, Senor Vargas," he said, then quietly slipped out.
A short pause. Then, Moretti approached.
"When does he wish to meet, padrino?"
"Three o'clock pm tomorrow," Romano said simply. But he was already cursing himself for not asking where Spain was staying. How could he expect to be left alone with the client in such an important bargain? And he couldn't lie to Moretti either, for fear of…consequences.
Romano left the room without another word, his gait stiff and unnatural.
Palermo, Italy
January 11, 1963
4:57 am
Cazzo! What the hell is he doing here? That idiota, he'll only get himself hurt! How'd he find me, anyway? What does he think he's doing? What the fuck?
Such was Romano's thoughts as he sat on his bed, face buried in hands and ready to rip out fistfuls of hair. There were a million questions and a billion worries. Spain will end up getting injured. He can't die*, but what with all the commotion and the war, it was hard not to get shot just taking a brief walk on the street. The image of the youth's limp body crumpling to the floor flashed before his eyes. What will La Barbera do to Spain if he found out the Spaniard's true identity? What sort of torture will Spain have to bear? It was unthinkable.
Romano tried to concentrate on the big picture, but another idea had been distracting him ever since Spain stepped into that room. He knows what I'm doing. He knows I'm…I'm this. He knows I'm a monster. The iron truth. In the end, it was what hurt the most. God, what will I do? What can I do? A surge of imminent tears stung his eyes and nose. Affanculo!
He sprang to his feet and desperately rummaged around for liquor. Any liquor. It didn't matter anymore whether it was Italian, Russian, German, Spanish, English, or French. And the only bottle left happened to be French.
He faltered, kneeling on the grey, concrete floor with the bottle of Romanee-Conti in his hands. Then, he saw Spain's sunny smile as he stepped through the door that Christmas morning with those accursed presents. And the tears flowed. Like a broken faucet.
He seized the cork and twisted it out with sheer barbaric emotion. Throwing his head back, he tipped the bottle to his lips and—
Stopped. He stopped. Because of the smell that filled his nose. That powerful odor that floated out from the wine bottle. It was definitely not wine.
Romano peered inside the scant opening to see a thick, black liquid filled up to a spot a little below the neck. The odor was similar to gasoline. It wasn't wine, it was petroleum. And this wasn't Romanee-Conti. It was an unfinished Molotov cocktail*. All that was missing was the cloth.
He simply sat there on the ground and stared at the bottle. A Molotov. It was a weapon. It was hope. But how did he… And then, a single sentence resounded through his mind.
"Don't forget to say your prayers, Senor Vargas…"
Romano jumped to his feet, hurriedly set the Molotov on his desk, and rushed over to his bedside table, where the Vulgate lay peaceful and undisturbed. Seizing it as if it were a lifeline, Romano flipped the bible open and scrambled to find the page. That page. His favorite verse. The one that they used to read together every night. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A message, a few words...somehow, he had a gut feeling.
His feverish fingers brushed the frail, old pages with familiarity, finally stopping when his eyes landed on the Latin verse. He paused, suddenly choked by an indescribable feeling. A sweet melancholy that didn't make sense.
With a small sigh, he sank down on the bed again and began to read. How long had it been since he'd read Latin? His pace was slow. It was that feeling of remembering something wonderful from long past, something forgotten. It was strange to learn Latin again. Latin, the miracle that had brought him and Spain together.
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to reap that which is planted.
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing.
A time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace." -Ecclesiastes 3: 1
It was just as it was centuries ago, its neat words etched into the yellowed page with beautiful, ancient calligraphy. Romano finally recalled why he loved this verse so much. It was because every time he read it, he would wonder. What time is it right now for me? But he would never have an answer. But Spain always did. "Time to go to sleep, Romano."
He sighed, marveling at the unchanged power and elegance of those words. But that was precisely the problem. The page was completely unchanged. There were no new marks whatsoever. Maybe I'm over-thinking this? Maybe Spain doesn't have a plan after all. Romano carefully inspected the page from top to bottom, then flipped through the entire Bible forwards and back. Still nothing. He eventually ended back on the same page with the same verse that he began with and, grumbling in frustration, was about to give up when he noticed something strange about the page. He rubbed the page between his fingers as a frown emerged on his forehead. This page was at least twice as thick at the other pages. Could it be…
Abruptly struck by a notion, he raised the book perpendicular to eyelevel and gingerly lifted the page to inspect it under the light. Just as he had predicted, the edge of the paper was skillfully stitched together from the side. There were actually two layers to the page, and when sewn together, formed a hidden compartment between the two layers!
Eagerly, he cut open the thread with a small blade and the two layers fell apart. And out slid two pieces of paper. Romano immediately snatched up the first page and began to read. The letter was a masterpiece of graceful, loopy Spanish, unmistakably Spain's handwriting.
"By the time you get this letter, you're probably very confused. Boss apologizes for suddenly dropping in like this! But I knew you wouldn't listen if I just talked to you about it straight up. But I digress.
We're here to get you out, Romano. The other piece of paper enclosed with this one is of crucial importance. It is a copy of a record containing accurate information about recent illegal shipments of smuggled goods to the United States between the Cosa Nostra and the American mafia. The document is marked with the official stamp of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation so you can be sure it's real (We borrowed from Senor America). The document should be able to get you out unharmed. I don't know what they threatened you with, but you can be sure that they won't lay a finger on you if you have this document.
The next time you see me, we'll be watched for sure. After you show me the cocaine, we'll split and meet back up in the ghetto. Make sure you're not being followed. I'll get you out safely. I promise.
With Love,
Boss
P.S: You might want to open the rest of your presents. But you probably already opened the wine by now. You always resort to alcohol when you're confused."
Letter clutched tightly to his chest, he simply sat and blankly stared at the miracle in his hands. A little piece of hope. Of heaven. Spain. You came to save me. You always came to save me, ever since I was little. I'm sorry I ever doubted you. How do you do it? How did you know?
Suddenly, he was overtaken by a burst of spontaneous joy. No, more than joy. Romano flopped back on the bed, laughing like a crazed maniac until his ribs ached and tears formed in his eyes. Spain, Spain, you idiota! You know me too well! It was the thrill of hope that electrified his body, mind, and soul. He felt his heart pumping blood through every artery, vein, and capillary in his body. For the first time in five long years, he felt alive.
1 Spanish vernacular- the vernacular language is everyday language (eg. In England, the vernacular is English). The reason a translation from Latin to vernacular is rare is due to the fact that Latin was the language of the scholars until the vernacular movement during the Renaissance. Up until that point, scholars all communicate in Latin.
2 Atlas- In Greek mythology, Atlas was a Titan who was condemned to hold up the sky for eternity.
3 Angelo La Barbera-(July 3, 1924 – July, 1975). He ruled Palermo Centro alongside his brother Salvatore La Barbera.
4 Babania- cocaine, if you forgot. xD
5 Capisce- understand?
6 Hola, me llamo- Hello, my name is… (literally, hello, I am called…)
7 Buenas noches- Good night.
8 He can't die- Nations can't die, guys. It's the golden rule.
9 Molotov cocktail- also known as a petrol bomb or Molotov bomb, it was developed in warfare as an improvised incendiary weapon. The classic Molotov is a bottle filled with either gasoline or a mixture of napalm and petroleum. A cloth wick is dipped in something flammable, usu. kerosene, and held in place by the bottle's stopper. When used, the wick is lit and the bottle thrown at the target. Different variations of the Molotov can produce different effects. For example, the sticky Molotov produces a lot of smoke and is good for sticking to targets (good for tanks).
Ok, sorry if the Spanish is bad. I don't know a single word of spanish, aside from counting to four and hi and thank you and stuff. And the same goes for Italian. I have to completely depends on online translators. xD I fail. Anewayz, reviewzzzes?