of the Villa. Bemused, Darby turned to see what was happening. Amid the majestic urns, Signore Dominetti had seated himself in the sun, to listen, no doubt, to the tenor’s arias. The CD player had been turned up full blast. Just inside the door, sat Donaldson, vigilant, yet relaxed. Darby listened to the aria being sung. It was Aquinas’ Panis Angelicus, written for the Mass in the thirteenth century. It was all he could do to keep from humming it under his breath.
Panis angelicus
Fit panis hominum.
Should he speak to the old man, or let him imbibe his sacrament of loneliness? After several interludes, the gray-headed don rose and walked out toward Darby. “May I sit with you?” he asked. “One can only take so much opera! Sì?”
“My honor, sir!” he replied, as he stood up to shake his hand.
The two reseated themselves. Dominetti spoke first. “My father, he loved music. The arias of the church. Our uncle, the priest, raised us to cherish them. You know, we are a dying breed. This trial coming up, we’re one of the last families to go. The Russians and Chinese have moved in. The Ukrainians, they are the thieves. Now it is the Internet and politicians. The great families are gone.
“You know, with us, it was a way of life. Sì, crime; lots of crime. But for a reason. You are a priest, no? A professor, too? Yes. You were? Si? So Linda has told me.”
“Yes. Both at one time, or other,” he smiled.
“Well, the priest I like,” he half-crossed himself. “Did you ever study Sicilian culture? Huh? Yes, or no!”
“Not in the way you’re asking. No!”
“Well let me tell you. It was our way of life. Since the fall of the Roman Empire, someone had to take charge. Someone had to expend a little muscle. Even in its last days, there were grandees, dons even then. They owned what estates remained. Gathered what armies they could. Yes, imposed themselves, determined what ports were open, who sailed what and where, and what fees collected. Bribes, yes! That’s how it worked. From the lowest shops in villages to the highest signores in towns, even to the papas, the grandees skimmed off profits. You moved nowhere without their will. As Italians, we inherited all that. No?”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s always been that way. Sì? Our first family to come over brought it with them. New York was hard. Families had to band together, protect themselves; take a little here, a little there, bribe the police, the judges and bailiffs, whatever. You wanna a job? Only the don could get it for you. Your sons needed shoes, then the shoemaker knew he had to provide. Simple, but it worked. I grew up that way.
“My father, he owned the butcher shop in our vincinanza, our neighborhood. It was a front. Sure, we had to pay for the slaughtered cows and pigs, but we made the best sausages in town. Mama made pasta! Myself—my brothers and sisters—we cleaned up; we had our chores to do. I was always big, big hands, you see,” he clenched them. “It became time for me to collect the rents, you know. I was smart. Once I beat up three men, bigger than me. No one held back after that. But change was coming. Unions, the dockworkers, cabbies, drugs, police, bookies, racketeering big time. I moved into prostitution and strip clubs; kept the cops bribed. They was the easiest to corrupt. They had families, ya know, and mouths to feed. Plus, they had grown up with us in the streets. But you know the rest. We got into politics, bribing senators and majors, paying them off big. My first murder involved using these,” he held up his hands. “I was sent out to strangle a capo. Yeah, he had insulted a neighbor’s sister-in-law. I was good at it. I left no fingerprints behind. I became my father’s negotiator,” he smiled. “No one ever double-crossed us. My father was proud. Then, another family moved in. Killed a carload of cousins. We struck back, but only through the police. The judge was one of ours. All of them got life! Things settled down.” He glanced uneasily toward Darby. “You know what I mean?”
Darby nodded in concurrence.
“We did a lot of good, especially my father. The family honored him. On feast days and saints’ masses, people in the Bronx brought gifts to us and laid them in front of my father. At every wedding and funeral, he was seated first, down front, along with my mother, before the service could begin. But an uncle became jealous. He wanted to be the don. He undermined my father’s business, set up a rival gang, and murdered some of our family. Then, the worst happened,” Dominetti paused. His voice turned hoarse, barely audible. Tears welled in his eyes. “They came to me with a threat. I was to leave the family, or they’d kill my father, along with my mother and sisters. My wife was already dead, my only son, in college—now a lawyer. I refused to budge. We rallied and fought back, tried to regain what we could: brothels, unions, casinos, retirement funds, judges, you name it. I knew too much. They knew it too. They put out a contract on my father. Two months later they killed him, right in front of our shop. My mother got away, but not my sisters. That’s when I went to the cops, to the DA. ‘Hey! I’ll make you a deal.’ They knew who I was. They showed me their file. ‘OK!’ they said. And, so, I’m here. Dead meat,” he smiled. “Cowboy there,” he motioned over his shoulder. “For all I know, they’ve bought him off, too. Why not have a glass of wine with me! I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course! The Villa’s got quite a cellar. But what a story! Here, let me show you the way. Come on.”
They went by way of the kitchen to find Jon Paul and Linda. “Good!” said Dominetti. “After this, I’ll bring a bottle of my own down for supper.” All four of them descended the steps to the cellar.
“Hey, whut’s goin’ on here?” asked Curly. He’d crept down in the basement to check on the pipes. “Ain’t you got no respect for me or Hettie?” he coughed with a smile.
“Tell her to come on down,” Jon Paul motioned. “But, remember, one of you has to drive home.”
“Huh!” snorted Curly. “Since when’s bein’ sober got anything to do with drivin’?” He held out a cup from a rack near the wine, grinned, and wiped his lips in anticipation.
Within minutes, Hettie joined them. Darby took a long drought and excused himself to search for Stephanie.
He found her sitting on the front steps of the Villa in its cold shadows. “It’s warmer in the back, you know,” he nodded. “Kind of cold here, isn’t it?”
“I don’t feel like basking in the sun,” she said, as she glanced up. “I don’t want to go home. Grandmother’s coming in the morning,” she looked out despondently across the drive. “I don’t deserve better, I guess. I’ll probably end up being a waitress somewhere, if I don’t get off my butt. I know it’s my fault. That’s what everybody tells me. ‘Stephie, you have to try harder.’ Like I’m not trying all I can. I can’t focus like the rest. I’m the butt of everybody’s jokes. They think I’m weird, different, some kind of kook. But I’m just me. Just Stephanie Gay, shy, like any other kid from a broken home—not that Grandmother doesn’t try. There’s just no way she can understand. Motivation’s not my thing. The Zoloft I’m on doesn’t work. I wish I were dead or had never been born. You ever feel that way?” she forced herself to smile.
Darby reached out and clasped her hands. “Come on,” he pulled her up. “Let’s walk up the road. I’m a sun person, you know. In another twenty years, I’ll be dead, or lying somewhere in a cold grave. Eternity’s a long time. Why not enjoy the sun while we can?”
“You’re right! I wish my daddy was here! Or someone to be proud of me. Girls laugh about their dads, how silly and clueless they are, but their eyes light up when they talk like that. Come!”
