Don Corrado appears uncomfortable in his Sunday garb. Having evaded the mass and crowd, don Corrado is drinking coffee, with a San Pellegrino chaser, while waiting for his enforcer priest to return from his business in the basement.
From the comfort of his Augusta, sumptuous and stylish recliner, don Corrado, his back always to the wall, has a wide-angle view of the chamber. The bar is dripping in ancient, ornate tapestries and plaques. The coffee itself is imported from various regions to satisfy the discerning palate of any visiting crime lord dignitary. Thanks to the women of the church, the bar carries a wide variety of desserts and pastries. The shell-shaped sfogliatelle, favored in Naples, is his favorite. He cannot help but think, Crazy Neapolitans managed to get one thing right.
A slight head turn left, presents a depth of perception of the double French doors. No one could enter unnoticed. A slight head turn right gives don Corrado a clear view of the railway yard. There is a lack of movement on Sunday. The railway cars,
like overblown coffins, wallow in the midday sun.
Finally, Father Alfonso, clad in a ankle length black cassock with attached white collar and a large silver crucifix necklace, enters and nods. He grabs a small bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water from the fridge and sits sideways across from on Corrado as if in a confessional. Methodically, he adjusts his eyeglasses, strokes his beard and prepares to deliver his report, from trusted director to chief executive. With a second thought, he opts to open with banalities.
“Tell me don Corrado, how is your feisty youngest daughter, Regina, these days? Is she still the Gothic, tomboy, ball buster feared by the young boys?”
Don Corrado feels flattered. He enjoys talking about his favorite female regardless of the severity of a situation.
“Oh, yeah. She’s regal.”
Chuckling before the punch line, don Corrado decrees, “That one will be the death of my wife and the proud jewel of my heart.”
“And, your eldest, Allegra. How is she doing?” Saddened, don Corrado is speechless.
“I understand that Allegra is coming home for a visit. We should have a party in her honor,” says Father Alfonso.
Don Corrado shakes and stays mute. It is evident he wants the pleasantries to cease.
“Father Alfonso, please report.”
Without further hesitation, Father Alfonso returns to the ‘family’ business.
“The mayor is dead. Other preparations are
in motion. By noon tomorrow, the mayors of Siderno, Cosenza, Napoli, Bari, Messina and Palermo will be joining our former collaborator. Coffins will become the new statutes of piazzas across southern Italy. Regional governments and officials will learn how to cooperate once more. They will reject Rome’s anti- Mafia commission.”
Taking a swig of water directly from the bottle, Father Alfonso’s liturgy continues.
“The carabinieri (Italy’s military police) interfering with our drug trafficking and La Guardia di Finanza (the Treasury Police) investigating our bank holdings will be extremely afraid and truly happy, after tomorrow, to divert their attention to traffic violations and Communists. Our politicians’ repentance and reformation will make it so.”
Don Corrado, unenthusiastic, looks at his friend and confessor.
“What about La Stregheria? The professore and his witchcraft society still control the Vatican Bank. Without the Vatican in our hands, we are mere gangsters and hoodlums. We need the supremacy of the Pope under our rule. Bribing carabinieri and politicians is not enough. They are fickle and change sides like the unpredictable Scirocco wind.”
“Your sons will be convincing,” says Father Alfonso. “They are traveling to Rome under the protection of Giacomo, lieutenant colonel of the carabinieri, with an enhanced offer Cardinal Pio, Vatican’s Secretary of State, can’t refuse. The Cardinal has sinfully enjoyed our woman. Plus, he will be overjoyed when your sons propose making him the next Pope. I will ascend as Pio’s assistant to
head the Vatican Bank and one day soon, you will be the Presidente del Consilgio (Prime Minister) of Italy. Together we will unite the powers of the state and church under Mafia rule. Nothing is complicated. Connections and judicious extermination have a way of making matters simple.”
Don Corrado, impassive, measures his words and speaks with cool serenity.
“If this fails, we will lose respect. Our coalition will dissolve. It will start the greatest Mafia war of our time. Rather than fight Stregheria, our common enemy, we will kill each other. There will be an indiscriminate execution of friends, relatives, children and even priests and their whores.”
Don Corrado, with raised eyebrows, stares at Father Alfonso.
Father Alfonso, foreverresolute, understands the silent communication of don Corrado’s eyes. Unruffled, he speaks to his lord.
“Thine will be done. I promise it.”
Chapter 7
Rome, central Italy Leonardo da Vinci Airport
Upon leaving the airport terminal, Emily begins a litany of ‘should have’ proclamations.
The taxi ride from the international airport of Rome to Michelangelo, a bed and breakfast lodging just behind the Vatican wall, is approximately fifty minutes. I begin to wonder if the time will bring more pain or pleasure. I resolve to daydream about Ali and ignore the pain rambling beside me.
“What a miserable flight. We should have flown on a reputable airline not that ‘no frills’ contraption. They should not have flown us so high just to save fuel while freezing us to death. They should have provided us with another free blanket and a hot beverage. You should have checked what
reviewers have said about this shoddy company. Those flight attendants need lessons in customer service.”
I snub Emily and lead my family to the limousine queue. I discount the first two waiting vehicles and request a mini-van to house my family and luggage.
‘There is a little bit of a wait, signore. Maybe five minutes,” says the affable attendant at the checkpoint.
“It’s so hot and humid. It’s intolerable. You should have pre-ordered our transfer.” Emily’s pestering is persistent to the point of persecution.
Mark Anthony and Christina are listening to their iPods. Their aural contraceptives keep them oblivious, though already immune, to their parents’ squabbles. I gaze at the traffic and get a glimpse of a lady’s waving hand from the back seat of a passing black car. It is Ali. She is smiling at me, not my situation. I relax but feel sorrow. I wanted so much to get to know her better but did not have the opportunity. Emily smothered me with indignation from the point of touch down.
“Here comes our ride now,” I announce doing my best to regain my composure.
The friendly faced cab driver dismounts leaving his door wide open and runs to the passenger side to welcome us.
“Buongiorno (good day). Welcome to Rome. You are smart to engage me. I am efficient. My auto is comfortable
