Respect by Aleatha Romig
Chapter 21
As days turned to weeks and weeks into months and months to another year, the pieces of the figurative puzzle slid about the board. Pictures of conspiracies began to materialize, yet were always incomplete. Like riddles, the puzzles often refused to give up the entirety of their story. It was up to the eye of the beholder to understand.
Life as we all knew it continued for most. The casualties were no more than normal. Our three-person family adjusted to life in Rye. My commute was longer, but the peace of mind at knowing Angelina and Lennox were in a safe zone made it worthwhile. Of course, a longer commute meant that once again I wasn’t present as often as Angelina would like or expect.
Our marriage was a never-ending sea with waves of highs and lows. Our highs were earth shattering. They blossomed with the promise of more. Wine on our balcony. The resonance of Long Island Sound the background melody for our lovemaking. Yet as with any wave, there were crashes—lows. We were both hot-blooded Italians, and at times we said and did things we later regretted. After the crash, the wave would again begin to build, upward to more.
Life took on its own avenues. Seasons passed.
Long gone was the excitement over designing our home. However, new excitements took its place. For the most part, Angelina busied herself with many things Lennox. Getting to know the other mothers and our neighbors kept her occupied while I was engaged in business. The local parish had a school for Lennox to attend, which pleased her family in knowing our son was still enrolled in private school. No longer in kindergarten, he was advancing within the second grade.
Demetri Enterprises was continuing an upward momentum. The structure had moved beyond New York. We were nationwide. It was more than I would have ever dreamt. However, it was also time consuming. Each offer or proposal took weeks or months of research. By expanding beyond our local borders, Demetri Enterprises had begun to look like more than a local entity. The expansion gave my company the clout that it wouldn’t have had only years ago. Each move took Demetri another degree off the radar of the local prosecutors as well as the feds.
While our personal lives ebbed and flowed, life within Cosa Nostra grew tumultuous at best. As Vincent had said, we were all in a pressure cooker, and someone kept turning up the heat.
Carmine’s attorneys earned their pay by keeping him out of the limelight. He made a few appearances for grand jury testimony, but somehow he never seemed to have the answers they found helpful.
Nevertheless, between the everyday disagreements that arose within and between families and the added stress of the subpoenas and grand jury command appearances, nerves were stretched taut. It didn’t take much for people to snap. Arguments could erupt in the least likely of places.
On an otherwise seemingly average late-autumn Thursday night during drinks, one particular discussion grew louder than necessary. The point of the weekly assembly at Evviva’s was a display of solidarity to those within and outside of the family. It was a coming together. It was where Carmine had welcomed me into the fold. The scene caused by two soldiers raising their voices and shoving one another accomplished the opposite.
I’d been talking to Testa when the disagreement erupted. He had come to my office to drive me to the informal gathering. While he still drove Angelina in and out of the city, she’d made her case for driving herself and Lennox around Rye. Perhaps it was a false sense of security brought on by the distance to Brooklyn, but I agreed.
I wasn’t a fan of being driven. I liked the freedom to drive myself, the knowledge that my car was near. Yet over the year or more since we’d moved to Rye, Testa and I had developed a Thursday night routine. I’d drive to the office in the morning, and then he’d take the train into the city. Maybe after all the questions of my loyalty, I appreciated having someone who trusted me by my side. I couldn’t pinpoint the reason I liked arriving and leaving with him. I just did.
He and I had been discussing Angelina’s car, of all things. Minivans were the current rage for families with children. I liked the idea of the larger vehicle. Angelina, on the other hand, was not interested. She was happy with her Lincoln and was eyeing the new smaller BMW sedans.
The raised voices came out of the blue, angry and accusing. A table tipped and drinks spilled as one of the soldiers was shoved. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. If I’d been on alert, I may have paid more attention; however, there was usually a calm to Thursday nights, a fellowship of sorts.
My first thoughts were one, shock that anyone would disrespect the Costello ‘drinks’ in such a manner, and two, curiosity at who would be so bold.
The entire room stilled as every eye went from the two soldiers to Carmine. Without so much as a look of agitation, the boss motioned to Stefano and Jimmy. Almost immediately the two young agitated soldiers were taken out back.
I recognized one of them; he’d been around for a while. The other I wasn’t sure about. “Who’s the young one?” I whispered to Testa.
“Nicholai. They call him Nick. He’s got a hot temper, but the word is that’s he’s good at collecting.”
A hot temper wasn’t an asset as far as I was concerned. I was pretty good at keeping mine in check most of the time. It seemed like the only person who was capable of eliciting that emotion from me was the same one who induced my others. Whether it was love or anger, Angelina could draw it out. We were evenly matched. I did the same to her. Perhaps that was what love was about.
Nicholai looked rather scrawny to me, not like Stefano or Jimmy. I scoffed, thinking how they’d show him a thing or two, reminding both of them to mind their manners, especially in front of the boss.
There was something to be said for diversion as a strategic tactic. It worked best when the victims were unaware. Once it became known, it was too late.
The noisy display by the soldiers had been just that—a diversion. As the room began to regain its low din of conversation, everything changed.
Forever.
We’d been on the cusp of change for years, but we hadn’t realized the possibilities. That night would forever be etched in my memory, stained with crimson, its copper scent a stench I would never forget.
Vincent was standing near Carmine, yet his two main bodyguards were absent, taking care of business in the alleyway. Gioconda was talking to Mancini near the window. If it were a movie, the camera would pan the room, forever memorializing each person’s place for posterity.
It happened fast, a commotion. Attention diverted.
There were times in life that moved quicker than light and others that seemed painstakingly slow. As a pawn in a game much bigger than I realized, I couldn’t be sure which passage of time occurred that night. It was too rapid to account for everything and yet too deliberate to not feel each second as it burrowed into my being.
Our weekly gathering had continued to occur at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Little Italy, Evviva’s, a hole-in-the-wall, its entrance on a downtrodden street that guaranteed the keeping of tourists at bay. Despite the appearance, the food was outstanding and the drinks even better. The menu wasn’t why we congregated in the same place week after week, or year after year though. It was because the location was protected.
With the feds hot on the trails of all the bosses, each don had to be careful. This restaurant was owned by Scopo, one of the trusted Costello capos. Not only did Scopo pay his employees well, but Carmine also paid Scopo generously for the honor of housing the weekly meeting. The entire building was constantly swept for bugs. No one would be listening in on the gathering and especially not in on the later meeting downstairs in the basement.
Electronic surveillance was an ongoing issue for all the families. The feds were using audio tapes of private conversations. Catching a prominent member on a tape was ammunition to make him squeal. Rats were surfacing from every hole in the city, ready to turn state’s evidence to avoid jail time. While no family was immune, I hadn’t been privy to any ousted rats in the Costello regime. Then again, it seemed un
As the conversations began to resume, with no warning the front door swung open. The action could have gone unnoticed except for the gush of cool autumn air that momentarily dispersed the smoky haze.
It’s funny the assumptions a reasoning mind can make. For a split second, I assumed that someone had arrived late. That was all the time it took—a microsecond.
The shooter had one target.
Without a word or preamble, the single shot rang out.
Had he entered with a drawn gun?
Who let him in?
Questions came and went as fast as the cool air from the doorway.
A second gun blast echoed from the walls.
It would have taken out the shooter had he not fallen at the right moment to his knees.
Gioconda’s unsuccessful shot didn’t stop the rest of the men. Every gun in the restaurant was leveled at the first shooter, poised and ready, including mine. The kid—no more than nineteen or twenty—had tossed his revolver on the ground as if it were too hot to handle at the same time he’d landed on his knees. With tears on his cheeks, he placed his hands on his head.
In the time it took his elbows to quake, I assessed his age—too young; his ethnicity—he was Italian, but not true. He probably was not full-blooded, yet he had the look; and his culpability—guilty without a trial.
More questions: to what family did he belong? Did he belong? Who sent him?
We wouldn’t have time to learn.
The boy’s body trembled to the point of convulsions.
Shooting him now would be killing an unarmed man. Yet I doubted there was a man within the restaurant not willing to do it.
It was then that I saw the boy’s target, the man lying upon the ground.
All air left my lungs as Vincent cradled Carmine Costello upon the gritty, worn carpet.
I was no longer concerned about the kid—he was fully surrounded; it was Vincent’s bellowing that dominated the chaos.
“Get the car! Fucking get the goddamn car!” His head whipped from side to side. “Stefano? Jimmy?”
I turned to Testa. “Go, get my car, now.”
As Testa followed my orders, I took a step closer to Carmine. His head lay in his son’s lap. Gioconda moved closer, blocking my way. If I’d been thinking of my own life, the consigliere’s stare would have been enough for me to back away. I wasn’t.
“Vincent,” I said, hoping my calm would help Angelina’s cousin hear me. Through the fog of the turmoil, our gazes met. “My car’s coming. Testa’s getting it.”
His nod was my ticket to get closer. I met Gioconda’s gaze once again and walked past him. Vincent was the underboss. While Gioconda may not approve, Vincent outranked him. In private, in a non-life-or-death situation, there may have been discussion. This wasn’t the place. Gioconda stepped aside with a scowl.
Kneeling beside Carmine’s body, I reached for his thick wrist. There was a pulse. I wasn’t a doctor, and I couldn’t assess if it were weak or strong. I was only certain that beneath my own fingertips, there was a thumping. Blocking out the room, I said a prayer that it wasn’t my own rushing blood that I felt. Briefly, I noticed the floor where I knelt was devoid of blood.
It didn’t make sense, yet I didn’t have time to comprehend.
Costello riddles.
One plus one weren’t equaling two.
My gaze went to the boss’s body. Carmine’s jacket was torn, a hole dead center of his chest.
I pushed away the thought that I’d have to tell Angelina: first her parents and now Carmine. The news would break her. I didn’t doubt it would. And while the anguish could suffocate me, I filed it all away for later. This wasn’t the time. This was survivor mode.
There was a season for grief. Father Mario had told us that.
It wasn’t now.
“Testa,” I repeated to Vinny. “He’s getting my car.”
Vincent’s face searched mine, a million questions passing through his stare, and yet the loudest was the one he’d asked me before—that Gioconda had asked too. The one Carmine hadn’t: could he trust me?
It wasn’t the place to plead my case. I’d decided not to do that over a year ago with Gioconda. My allegiance up until this moment should speak for itself, yet I knew Vincent was reeling from the reality of his father’s unmoving body. I wanted to give him reassurance.
In the room full of confusion, I simply nodded.
Vincent’s eyes momentarily closed, and then as if he’d literally been lit by a flame, he moved his attention beyond me. Heat radiated from his presence. His complexion reddened as his gaze moved from me to the room of watchful eyes. He looked to Morelli and then to the shooter, each passing second the tendons of his neck becoming more prominent. The veins in his face bulged. He had energy to expel, and yet he tenderly held his father.
His voice reverberated through the room. “Take him,” Vincent said, his voice commanding and strong—the tone of a leader. When Morelli nodded, Vincent continued, “You know where I mean. Hurt him. Break him. Find out who the hell sent him. I don’t give a fuck what you do to him. Except don’t you fucking kill him. Leave that to me.”
“Vincent, you concentrate on Carmine. Let me…” Gioconda’s words faded into the murmurs as Vincent’s stare dismissed the consigliere.
As I followed Vincent’s line of vision, the blood that had been coursing through my veins, fueled by adrenaline, came to a screeching halt. Like a flowing stream turning to ice, my blood stopped, pooling in place. It was the vision of the boy. The panic in his eyes as his gaze moved from Gioconda to Vincent stopped my circulation.
What had the boy done and why?
Did he regret his move? Did that matter?
The boy’s fear was palpable as he stared the grim reaper in the eyes. His face fell forward, undoubtedly knowing that before the night was over he’d be roasting in the pits of Hell.
Whatever deal this child had made was signed with blood, binding and unbreakable.
A life for a life.
I wondered what he was promised.
Had he saved a woman—his mother or maybe his sister? Did he satisfy a family debt? What deal would possibly make a young man commit such a heinous and unforgiveable act in front of a room of made men?
No matter what it had been, the payoff would never be enough.
While I couldn’t begin to comprehend what would happen to the boy over the next few hours, I could be certain—in the marrow of my bones—that whatever the future held, it didn’t include an easy death. By the time his heart quit beating, that boy would welcome Hell and Satan himself with open arms.
Pits of fire and gnashing of teeth would be a reprieve from what Vincent and Morelli had in mind.
Another epiphany struck. Though I’d been brought into this life, into LCN, and willingly accepted each assignment, up to this point I’d been spared. For nearly nine years since my proposal to Angelina, my view of Cosa Nostra had been veiled with a rose-colored hue, courtesy of Carmine and Vincent’s protection. Everything that I’d witnessed, heard, and been privy to was a walk in the park on a sunny day compared to what I’d been spared.
My heart ached for the unmoving man.
I wasn’t naive. I knew Vincent and even Carmine had blood on their hands. I knew why Jimmy was called an enforcer. I knew why Stefano was trusted with the boss and his family. I even knew that Testa had earned his right to protect Angelina and Lennox. However, as my gut knotted, I finally understood that knowing and witnessing were two different things.
The room turned back to Carmine as his breathing labored and body flinched.
The boy’s sobs added to the bedlam. A hush fell over the restaurant as heavy footsteps came rushing toward us. Gioconda grunted as Jimmy charged forward. Pushing the consigliere and me out of the way, the hulk of a man fell to the floor and reached for Carmine’s shoulders.
“Testa is coming,” I managed to say as I teetered, shoved aside like a feather by the force of
Vincent nodded at Jimmy.
It was then I saw Jimmy’s hands. My first instinct was to look down at my shoulder, where he’d just touched me. The blood hadn’t made a handprint, yet it was visible against the gray of my wool jacket. I whipped my head right and then left, assessing those who’d entered with him.
There wasn’t anyone else. He’d entered the restaurant alone.
“Where’s Stefano?” I asked.
“We need to get the boss in the car.” Jimmy’s response didn’t answer my question, but it reminded me of what was most important.
Jimmy’s girth was legendary; however, watching as he lifted Carmine—who was also large—to his feet was impressive. I stepped closer and willingly accepted a portion of Carmine’s weight as Vincent held his father from behind and Jimmy and I walked on both sides of him outside the front door. Though Carmine’s face fell forward to his chest, miraculously his feet supported him, enough for the four of us to make it to the curb.
Testa pulled forward, my black Town Car moving just outside the circle of illumination from the streetlight. In the distance the city filled with sounds. There were sirens and horns.
“Go,” Vincent said after we got Carmine in the backseat. “I have business.”
I moved to one side of Carmine, and Jimmy went around to the other. As the car pulled away, leaving the scene of what I’d never forget, we drove the direction of the alleyway behind the restaurant. I turned to the window just in time to see the carnage. Partially hidden by a dumpster, Stefano and the two men who’d caused the disturbance were lying in clumps, red pools shimmering in the moonlight around their collapsed bodies. Were there more? I didn’t have time to count.
“They were shot?” I asked, but couldn’t be sure that it was audible. My tongue was thick and dry as my stomach continued its twists and turns.
Jimmy didn’t have the same problem. With Testa behind the wheel, Jimmy barked orders—directions to turn and places to avoid.