not hear me, chooses to ignore me, or simply does not understand the import of my sentiment. She and the kids are already through the open door of the pasticceria selling Italian gelato. I sit on one of the luggage and marvel at the traffic policewoman’s personal pleasure and pain as she struggles to untangle the intersection knot. Miraculously, she survives standing amid the crazed drivers.
I shout at the traffic clogged spectacle, using the patrolwoman’s own words. “Hey, che cazzo? (What the fuck). You have not driven in my shoes. You don’t know the true meaning of chaos.”
I turn my head to view the posterior wall of the Vatican grounds. Do I really want to play tourist tomorrow? Having met a depraved, presumably religious Italian, perhaps the Pope is the decadent leader of the whole lot.
Chapter 8
Rome, central Italy Vatican Square
The sinfulness that lurks in the darkness of Vatican City wanes with the breaking of dawn. Early light interrupts evil’s nocturnal reign. Daybreak brings respite and a semblance of respectability. It is easier for the vile and the criminal to intermingle with the morning crowd. It is curious but true: drama and death fade and become better disguised, indeed less important, in a setting clearly bursting with wondrous art and architecture. Today, on the Holy See’s birthday, the daytime sacrifice of eight souls will hardly raise a fuss.
St. Peter’s Basilica, an extraordinary and charismatic place, is part of the world’s eternal landmarks. Pilgrims, architects, scholars, students
and untold numbers of sightseers have visited this world’s smallest, independent nation. St. Peter’s Square, the architectural symbolic key of Roman Catholicism, is the cradle of justice.
At the center of the keyhole of Piazza San Pietro stands an Egyptian obelisk. The Emperor Caligula transported the spear-shaped, pink granite block to Rome. The obelisk symbolizes life’s flow between Heaven and Earth. This morning the devil incarnate, an assassin with a past military career, lounges at its base.
He is the professore’s top advisor and hit man. He wears black loafers, low-hung navy blue trousers and a cream-colored polyester windbreaker with a trivial embroidered, stylized letter E, for Emilio, on its lower lapel. His tutor, the professore, gifted the jacket in gratitude for a past killing. A collared and buttoned, pale yellow polo shirt bulges at his belly. These work clothes replace Emilio’s usual relaxed attire. Habitually, Emilio favors a low cut, sleeveless white undershirt (which townsfolk commonly refer to as a “wife-beater”), baggy shorts, socks and sandals. His jacket hangs unevenly, deranged by the innermost pocket weight of a gun and its silencer.
Emilio stands as motionless as a Bernini sculpture. Sacrilegiously, he sips a shot of espresso from a Styrofoam cup without his customary added grappa to ‘correct’ it. An Azzuri Italy flex-fit cap, bathed in golden sunlight, shadows his craggy face. His fiery eyes scan the symmetry of the Tuscan colonnades that enfold the piazza. Satanic Emilio is on the lookout for his first consignment of unsuspecting marks.
For days, the media has publicized today’s celebration of the Pope’s birthday. La Repubblica newspaper predicted that throngs of up to a hundred thousand Christians would fill the piazza for the afternoon of colorful and pompous celebrations. The midafternoon festivities will supply the ideal conditions for slaying a collaborator but now corrupt cardinal. It will be just dessert after this morning’s exterminations of members of Calabria’s Corrado Lupo crime family.
At first, the remarkable statues atop of the St. Peter’s Basilica outnumber the visitors outside of Michelangelo’s dome. As quickly as the morning light burns the faint fog, Christians, Jews, and followers of other faiths stream into the square of the world’s most recognizable church. Some of them, to start their merry-go-round, head for the souvenir shops on the south-west side.
The growing crowd marvels at the elliptical designs, the formidable buildings, colonnades and statues. It is indeed a breathless, panoramic site with sufficient distraction for the soon to unfold despicable deeds.
If anyone even noticed Emilio, it is that he blocks a photographic moment of the Egyptian obelisk. As if by courtesy, he moves and crosses the cobblestones and travertine blocks toward the eastern fountain. He detests embellished stone and misses the honey scent of saffron. He likes the smell of a wooded field, preferring manure to the aroma of cooked cobblestones covered with pious overtones and roasting human perspiration.
Pleased, Emilio spots his prey. They flank a
massive colonnade. Two ‘respected’ brothers, their useless, pretty wives, a baby and two brats licking cones of gelato. They are the sons of don Corrado: two obedient Mafia soldiers.
The Calabria families are on time. The professore understood his rivals well. His source of intelligence was accurate. He detests the Corrado Lupo brotherhood. Sending Emilio to deal with his nemesis would send a clear and powerful message—‘Do not fuck with me and keep away from the Vatican.’ Emilio is well prepared with details, what-
ifs, and wherefores and feels as if he knows his targets personally. It is like playing a game with manufactured toys.
The brothers engage inaheated, entertaining dispute about calcio (soccer). One, slim and handsome, wears aviator shades, white and gray- checkered shorts topped by a gray tee shirt and a white cardigan, sleeves drawn up his forearms. The other, a much younger replica, sports a yellow tee shirt underneath a solid blue unbuttoned shirt with sleeves ruffled and rolled up. His shorts are a solid pink adding rather than mocking his masculinity. Both wear two-toned running shoes. They are flamboyant. They are obsessed. From argument to laughter to gestures of disbelief, they are on a verbal rollercoaster. Emilio despises their indulgence in their wardrobes.
Aloud to himself, Emilio sneers, “What blowfish. These Casanovas are an arrogant mother’s charms.”
Emilio smirks at their exaggerated pretensions. He shakes his head saying aloud, “Darsi
delle arie (showing off) is going to get you killed.” He accentuates his point by spitting on the pavement.
The brothers’ wives proclaim fashion. These selfish chattels are dressed well, comfortably and colorfully. The spoils of prostitution, gambling, and the drug trade are wasted on these women.
The older woman has long brown hair parted in the middle that drapes inches past her shoulders. Her dress is a shapeless one-piece sleeveless crimson-colored fabric that ends at mid- thigh. Her shapely legs and calves, enhanced by solid black high-heeled shoes, amuse the imagination. Her brown leather shoulder bag is large enough to accommodate all the necessary toiletries for her toddler who is outfitted in a red and white jump suit with “Italia” stenciled on his chest. The younger woman appears juvenile. Her bottled blonde curly hair is beyond her waist. Her white sheer blouse, immodestly covering a light-blue bra, is connected to her milky, blue patterned, tight-fitting miniskirt. The orange color of her sky-high stilettos blends poetically with her tanned long legs. Her white purse is as minuscule as her remaining time on Earth.
The two young daughters are obviously twins. Both have very short brown hair and are dressed in white shorts. One youngster wears a rose-colored chemise with pink-flowered matching flats. The other presents the mirror image in green. All of the females wear little make-up. This will facilitate the embalmer’s handiwork.
Emilio moves within steps of the family. His presence escapes the haute couture state of mind of the clan.
The youngest complains of fatigue. The taller sister obsesses and placates her shorter sister with exaggerated care.
The
