Italian King by Zoe Beth Geller
Dante
My bedroom shutters are fully open as I stand at the window and gaze at the olive grove behind my house. It’s still early, but the morning is warming up quickly. It’s going to be a hot day with no breeze. The windows need to be closed soon and that’s why I’m so happy to have Rosario, who lives in the tiny house in the back, to take care of everything for me, especially when I’m not here.
Riccardo will be here soon to drive me to the airport. I love having my own jet. We could take the train, but let’s face it, I’m me and I like to get in and out quickly. Plus, I don’t have time to waste. And of course, it’s safer.
Riccardo shows up with a hot cappuccino, which I gladly accept. I will be carrying a briefcase with numbers inside to show Conti. I just hope this isn’t a setup to even old scores. I have men on the ground who have overheard that becoming a grandfather has softened him up a bit.
The jury is out on that, but how safe can I really be outside of Tuscany and central Italy where we are in control? Even on a good day and during good times, yeah, I can walk the streets, but I can’t be caught mingling with underworld figures. That would risk a strike.
I understand. I would do the same. It’s usually not personal when someone needs to be handled. With a don, well, a warning message would be sent first. Maybe a capo would suffer an untimely death. It’s not like we don’t know what the other families are up to or planning to do. The criminal world has its food chain, and everyone knows someone. If not, we have ways to make them talk.
It’s like office politics, but the consequences if you aren’t good at the game can be a lot more permanent.
“Blue, um, power suit,” Riccardo busts my chops, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s drinking his black coffee and wearing a grey suit. The salt and pepper color in his manicured beard doesn’t distract from how handsome he is being both Italian and Israeli. But her prefers life alone. His light hazel-green eyes watch me over his paper cup, amused.
“What? Should I be wearing black?”
“Your funeral.” He smirks.
“You fuck.” I give him a half-cocked grin. “What, you want to pick out a pine wood box as well?”
“Oh hell no. God, if you pull this off, you’ll be like the king of kings.”
I tuck in my white dress shirt and run my hand over the stiff collar before I slide into my matching jacket. It’s easier to wear than carry. I pick up the black briefcase with my free hand and we’re out the door.
“Maybe I am dead already.” I give him my best evil look before we break out in what might be called a nervous chuckle.
Riccardo opens my door, and I slide into the Rover. I like to drive my sports cars for fun, but the mundane work stuff, not so much. I hate traffic and I find myself cursing all the time, so it’s probably better for my health that Riccardo drives. Plus, I don’t carry a weapon.
Riccardo carries his old man’s revolver under his jacket, which I appreciate, especially on a day like today. But he’s even tempered, so I don’t have to worry about him flying off the handle in a moment of crisis.
We’re at the airport and walking onto the tarmac in under forty-five minutes. The airport is near Prato, a smaller suburb outside of Florence. It’s so old, only smaller planes land here, but I prefer it that way.
The flight takes no time at all so I mix myself a Bloody Mary on the way just because I’m thirsty and tomato juice is considered part of breakfast. It’s a fruit only red and not orange, so why the fuck not?
When we deplane in Rome, my black Ferragamo loafers hit the hot tarmac and I regret not arranging this trip in winter. Then again, that’s the time of year when we get lots of rain, so pick your poison.
We have a limo service waiting and make our way to the Mercedes van for the forty-five-minute drive to the meet. The closer we get to the Colosseum, the more congested the traffic gets. As bad as traffic is in Florence, Rome’s traffic is insane. Cranking my head around, I am finally able to see the back part of the beautiful ruin as we circle from the lower end and wind up the hill on a long bend, wrapping around it like Cleopatra’s deadly asp. I hope I’m not about to get bitten myself.
We arrive at the elegant Hotel Palazzo Manfredi and take an elevator to the terrace. The doors open, and with the sun directly overhead, the view of the Colosseum is breathtaking. The terrace is surrounded by glass windows and covered with a pale awnings that let the sunlight in but keeps out rain.
We spot our table immediately as I make out the face of Conti himself, surrounded by four others, younger, in their thirties and forties, no doubt his sons or capos. I approach with Riccardo on my heels, showing respect.
I extend my hand to Gio Conti. His eyes are dark and brooding. I can tell he’ll not willingly go for anything I’m about to propose. But he’ll learn submission before I’m done with him. I’m like a dog with a steak bone that way.
“Hello, Dante,” he says politely but coolly as he gives my hand a tight grip. We look each other in the eye and neither of us flinches. It’s like we’re kids playing a game of chicken. And here I had hoped he would be wiser at his age and stop making everything a challenge or an exercise in one-upmanship.
Riccardo suggests we sit, and the others follow suit. Conti doesn’t introduce his people, only one, who is his son, Mario. My extra bodyguards are standing at our backs, looking a bit conspicuous, but that’s how it’s done. No one else is on the terrace. It’s just us.
It’s the first time I’ve met Conti in person. He oozes the sliminess of the criminal world and I see in an instant that while he might dress up, he will never lose the cutthroat vibe of a desperate kid on the street willing to do anything, even screw over his daughter, if it means he’ll be a don for all eternity.
He loves power and games, perfect for the life he’s chosen. But as part of the older crowd, he’s about to get left behind as he doesn’t comply to our modern image. I doubt he realizes that.
“I’ll get right down to it. We would like to use the Port of Civitavecchia to move goods, and in return, we are prepared to offer you this.” I slide a paper towards him, showing the breakdown and his percentage.
He doesn’t even look at the paper. “No. I don’t have to let anyone in my port. I control it, it’s my lifeline, why would I share?”
“Don Conti, I promise you, we’re just bringing in goods. We won’t infringe upon your territory. You’ll make more money, and everyone is happy.”
He downs a scotch and slams the rock glass on the table. “I don’t need to make anyone happy but my wife,” he says, drawing the words out slowly with a bit of a huff before ceremoniously jabbing his elbow into his son’s ribs.
He has no idea I know his dirty secret. He’s had a long series of extra-marital affairs and I suspect he won’t be able to buy his wife’s forgiveness with another expensive piece of jewelry if she ever finds out what I know.
My lips never part, making my smile undetectable.
I order a couple of scotches for Riccardo and myself and we exchange pleasantries until we make excuses about having other business to attend to, which is a lie, and he knows it. This is all a formality. To be honest, I didn’t expect anything less of him given his reputation and prior dealings with my family. But how far will he go to resist our past agreement with him— the one he reneged on?
I’m a patient man in general, which is a good character trait for a don, but I have my limitations. He’s been screwing us over for years and spreading lies about my family. Fuck yeah, this is personal. His lies have been pissing me off for years, and nothing would please me more than to get the revenge my old man couldn’t.
I collect my briefcase, make a small half bow to show respect to Conti, and we leave with our guards following in their black business suits and Polaroid sunglasses, looking like the American Secret Service agents I see in the movies.
“Hmm, interesting,” Riccardo muses aloud as we make our way towards the elevator.
I quiet him with a glance. We still have to be careful what we say. We don’t know where all his men are, and some could be the wait staff. I wouldn’t put it past him, because I would do the same if I wanted intel.
I turn to Riccardo after the elevator doors close and I feel that it’s safe to speak. “He’s smart for keeping the port, so he can squeeze anyone, even if he’s in business with them. I don’t relish doing business with him, but since we can’t use the port on the other coast due to the earthquake last year, he’s got us over a barrel, and he knows it. But like I said, let him enjoy it. We have the one thing no one else has . . . and he loves his wife,” I say with a sardonic tone. “You do know how much he loves his wife, right?”
Riccardo smiles. “Yeah, I picked up on that. Too bad he’s never stopped fucking around on her. Imagine a man his age with a—how young is the latest one—twenty-five?”
“Yeah, everyone knows that but his wife. We, however, have the holy grail in Juliet.” I smile at last, showing my straight pearly white teeth as we climb into our waiting limo.
“Oh yeah, we do.” Riccardo texts the guys back home to make sure they are still sitting on the girl and not raising any eyebrows as they do so. The last thing we need is a fuck-up.
It’s getting too hot to wear this jacket outside, but the cold air from the vents keeps me comfortable in the limo. I’m no global warming expert, but I swear the summer heat starts earlier every year and lasts longer.
I decide that today wasn’t a defeat but pretty much what I expected. Conti is cocky. I’m good at chess and this was my opening gambit. It’s a game of strategy.
Getting off the plane in Prato, Riccardo wants to eat dinner, so we stop at the piazza in Fiesole and stop at my favorite local Italian restaurant. I love that families are still hanging onto their restaurants even though we have chains like American sub shops and Irish pubs popping up like garden weeds.
When it comes to food, I never skimp on quality. I would have preferred to eat near the university as I’m curious about Juliet, but I can’t risk being seen again. It’s bad enough I went there earlier this week.
Hot rolls are brought to our table and I break off a piece, dip it in the olive oil and let it melt in my mouth. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started eating, but now, I feel like having two meals. The antipasti arrives followed at a leisurely pace by the entrée of veal and a side of pasta. I eat till I’m satisfied, content. My day is complete.
But I can’t get Juliet’s dark eyes off my mind and I don’t know why. She’s so young, early twenties if she’s a day, and way too innocent for a man in his prime surrounded by guards and living the life I do.
The next dayis Sunday and I head to Mama’s house for family day. She spends the entire day preparing dinner with the help of her long-time friend and maid, Isabelle. Mama always says we are her reason for living, especially now that she’s alone.
Mama is adamant about everyone attending Sunday dinner and trust me, it’s not worth crossing her on that. Given that I live alone, and Riccardo is the only person in the world I interact with outside of a quick lay, spending Sundays with family isn't really so bad.
I pull up to the large circular stone driveway. This old Tuscan house is really too large for her to take care of, even when Dad was alive, but we all know better than to even think of suggesting she move somewhere else.
I walk in and Mama rushes to give me a kiss on one cheek then the other. She immediately starts rattling on about the food and how she doesn’t think she made enough for everyone, even though she’s never once run out of food. She’s wearing an apron just like when we were kids, even though she’s always had a housekeeper.
“Relax, it’s fine.” I kiss her on both cheeks before she takes off for the kitchen in the back of the house.
“It’s a nice night. Everything is set up outside,” she says, pointing at a long table on the patio as she scuttles away.
I walk out back and greet my brothers, Sal and Marcello. I guess after three sons, Mama gave up on having a girl.
Isabelle has been with the family forever and she brings out a platter loaded with slices of fresh mozzarella and vine-ripened tomato, decorated with basil leaves and drizzled with a balsamic glaze made from what’s left over in the wine barrels.
After I greet my brothers, I notice the table is missing someone.
“Where’s Carla?” I ask, turning to Sal as he pours us each a glass of wine.
He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Women. She’s upset. She heard I kissed her best friend.”
“Did you?”
“Eh, I’m Italian, aren’t I?”
I knock him upside the head, lightly, not to hurt him but still make my point. “You’re an idiot.”
He looks back at me innocently. “What was I supposed to do? Carla said I didn’t kiss all that well. I had to defend my honor.”
“What honor?” Marcello pipes up, taking a sip of wine.
“What about you, Dante? God, do you ever get laid? You never have a girlfriend. I’m tired of Mama nagging me with a million questions.”
“You know I’ll never get married. I have limits on how long I see someone before that’s that, on to the next one. It keeps my head in the business. As long as I’m in charge of that, there’s no room for anyone else in my life.”
“Yeah. Dad never had time to play with us. And then there was that time we had to leave town in the middle of the night . . .” Marcello’s voice trails off.
I raise my glass. “To happier times.”
“Salute,” my brothers say in unison.
An evening breeze caresses my face and for some strange reason, I’m reminded of Juliet. I find myself imagining what she would be like in bed and berate myself for even thinking about her that way. She’s too young.
Riccardo joins us under the canopy of the umbrella pines and my brothers acknowledge him before the two of us walk out of their earshot.
He asks, “Ready for the plan?”
“Sure. I’ll stumble onto campus tomorrow, invite her out, and then we’ll nab her.”
“Then we’ll blindfold her and drive all over, so she won’t know where she is,” he continues.
“Perfect. With any luck, Conti will cave in short order. We’ll get what we want, and he’ll get his daughter back. Although, after meeting him, I don’t think he will leave us alone even after we let her go. His love of greed and natural flare for sickening and unpredictable behavior makes him dangerous.”
“You think we need to take care of her? What did your consigliere say? Did he approve?”
“Nicolo said it’s a calculated risk. The man is a known psychopath who instills fear in his own men by reputation, imagine his presence in front of them. I can’t imagine being around such a whack job. I hate to bring an innocent girl into this. It’s not her fault who her father is. I think it’s our best play to get what we want. We’ll be prepared with some sort of contingency plan.” I hope this satisfies my siblings’ concerns over another war with the twisted Conti family.
I don’t know how I overlooked this huge detail. There’s nothing to stop Conti from pursuing us even if he gives into our demands. He’ll be angry we went after family, even if it’s family that he thought he had kept hidden from his enemies.
“I wanted to smack that smirk off his face yesterday. He truly is insufferable. Maybe we’ll have an impromptu wedding. After all, I do have two brothers who need wives,” I state, and it would get Mama out of my personal life.
“That would get Mama off your back for a minute,” Sal chuckles.
“Maybe a minute,” I agree. “Not much more.”
Being the oldest puts so much more shit on my shoulders. It’s not just the business, it’s taking care of Mama and my brothers and our employees. This business with Conti has me wondering what will happen to Juliet once we set the plan in motion. His stubbornness and greed have forced my hand. Not that I need an excuse for using force when needed. No one in my family will ever call me weak.
“Beautiful view from here.” Riccardo looks out over the valley below. It’s a choice piece of real estate for sure.
Cherry blossoms are in bloom and the sweetness wafts up from Mama’s orchard below. The pink petals are colorful against the dark bark of the tree limbs, and I’m reminded of a young woman’s succulent lips once again.
Thankfully, my thoughts are interrupted before I get a hard-on fantasizing about someone who doesn’t know anything about me but my name.
“Mangia! Mangia!” Mama calls us over to eat. The dinner table is long, and the trees make a perfect canopy over it. During the day, they provide shade, and now as night begins to fall, the lights strung in the trees turn on, creating the perfect ambience for a perfect meal.
The bread is fresh from the bakery around the corner and the meat is from the butcher shop Mama’s gone to forever. I remember as a small boy standing next to her with my nose against the glass case and seeing fresh ground beef in a bowl next to steaks and sausages. Next to it, the veal and chicken are on skewers ready for grilling, like Mama used to make when Babbo was home early enough to eat with us. Looking up, the cured meats hang from the ceiling, the salami, pepperoni, and my favorite, prosciutto.
I’m at the head of the table with Riccardo at my right and Mama my left.
“Ma, you made enough food for an army,” I protest, and of course, she waves me off like it was nothing when I know she spent all day in the kitchen.
“I’m just so happy everyone is here. When are you going to bring a nice girl to dinner? You never bring any girlfriends to dinner. I’m your mother, I want to see you with a girlfriend, Dante. It’s not good being alone. Trust me, I know.”
And now, Sunday is complete.