Armored (19 page)

Selange could feel the warm burn behind her eyeballs. Mr. Johnson was good. She held her bottom lip in her teeth, biting down the need to cry. It hurt being in the position of a deceased friend trying to stay the course and not bend to the will of others. Bend Shanda did, many times because she yearned for her father’s love and acceptance. The sadness came from understanding how hard it must have been to grow up with parents who never let you live your life. The Johnson’s sought to shape their daughter into what they thought they should be. They didn’t care if they killed a part of Shanda’s soul or stifled the woman to the point she discovered her strength shortly before she died.

Mr. Johnson misread her silence as softening of the spirit. He pushed on with what he considered was logical reasoning and not brainwashing. “The Feds are going to bring your husband down, whether you sit here in defiance or not. You can help by protecting yourself and your children Selange. They already have surveillance of Matteo Peglesi and Domingo Diaz along with several others on tape.
Alfonzo is innocent; he and his cohorts are supplying the illegal guns and drugs that make their way to the neighborhood where people of color live. He’s helping to kill our kids and none of that stuff you’re doing is going to save them if they aren’t living long enough to get to college.”

She released her lip to speak. “You’re right about the drugs and guns, I’m sick of the killing of our youth.”

Mr. Johnson turned fully and held the bars. “I knew you had sense girl, I knew it.”

Then the man she’d seen with Mr. Johnson came into view. He’d been listening the entire time. When Mr. Johnson introduced him, Selange nodded. A federal agent; that wasn’t surprising.

The agent assumed a lot. Breaking people took experience; but sometimes what’s not taken into account is the staunch loyalty of a woman. He had a folder with pictures he shoved through the bar’s opening for Selange to look at. “Can you identify any of these people?” he asked.

Selange opened the folder. There wasn’t one picture of Alfonzo among the group. She perused the photos at leisure.

Matteo and a profile shot of someone in a yarmulke.

Matteo and an unidentified man in military style attire.

Matteo and a group of Arabs in full garb.

All grainy images; but in each photograph was Amelda’s husband.

She passed the document back. Yes, she could identify a few of the others. “Can I have some fresh water?” she asked.

“Sure!” The Agent answered. He disappeared and returned like an obedient dog to its master. “Here you go. Now tell me, did you recognize anybody besides Mr. Peglesi?”

Selange unscrewed the cap and drank half. The cool liquid descended and she sighed. “Um, I really wish I could help you. But I don’t know anyone in those photos that you don’t already know. It’s unfortunate that you’d lock an innocent person up on bogus charges just to look at a photo album.”

The Agent’s expression soured. “Pity you won’t cooperate.” He turned spiteful. “You could be home with your children, because I’m sure they’re scared.”

“Why would my children be afraid?”

“Oh, you don’t know. There’s a mob war going on. I hear some of your family members were killed. That’s the thing with criminals; they frighten children and give them nightmares.”

The Agent marched off and she heard the clang of doors. Mr. Johnson remained. “Damn girl, we’re trying to help you!”

“Yeah, I really think you believe the crap they fed you. Look at what they’re doing Mr. Johnson. I thought you retired from the force. Why do you think they’re reaching out to you now? They’re using you because they know how much you wanted to belong, but they didn’t hesitate to throw you to the wolves when they were done. Get smart and stop thinking with a meaningless career title and think as a father for a change.”

Mr. Johnson exhaled gruffly. “You were always one stubborn girl; Shanda too.”

Selange’s gaze was steady. “There’s a boy. He has the sweetest smile when you read him bedtime stories. He likes pancakes, who does that sound like?”

Mr. Johnson looked at his feet. His shoulders heaved with an intake of breath. “Shanda loved pancakes, she sure did.”

“Her son is your blood. For once in your life put aside your career and side with family. Choose today whether belonging to a fraternal order is more important than blood. Choose wisely.”

The sonovabitch muttered. “I have. I side with the law.”

Selange blinked the tears away.

Alone with the sounds of strangers she couldn’t see shouting, doors opening and closing sending drafts of stagnant air, she focused on Alfonzo’s face and held tight to him for strength.

That bastard Mr. Johnson could not change; ice flowed in his veins. Her husband had a heart, she saw it every day.

The man in the picture with Matteo that the police could not identify was Don Meroni of the ‘Nhandrangheta. She’d seen him in pictures with Carlo in Sophie’s photo album. Although the image was not very clear, the outline of his nose, posture and the shoes.

She knew her shoes and those were made by the
reclusive craftsman Olivano. He’s an elder cobbler who retired but when requested on occasion designs footwear for wealthy friends. An Olivano shoes is a rarity, the authenticity is the signature logo of the shoelaces, black or gold with white O’s.

Oh,
and the gold tip of the shoelace is 24k real.

She needed a phone –badly.

C
hapter Twenty-Four

Upon Giuseppe’s arrival to Nico’s place, he was escorted to the makeshift studio a short distance from the house. The media frenzy had begun. They’d awakened to speculation of a mob war from irresponsible journalists who disavowed police accounts of the armed home invasions and the ongoing police investigation to formulate their own theory of what occurred.

The problem with the new wave of reporters is their lack of consideration for the innocent casualties in their quest for sensationalism. They’re not Nobel Prize investigators, but ratings hookers, fabricating in some cases conspiracies, revealing government information and getting people killed for the sake of a story.
The sad reality is sometimes, the less the public knows; the happier they can live. Look at the fearful, clutching purse mice, believing every man of color is a killer or rapist and governments should unveil top secret information simply because tax payers demand.

Nico also understood the attention span of the public was as short as the single released by the ‘so-called’ singers.
Damn shame people were living vicariously through others and not making the most of their lives.

He shut the door, confident the entire media circus would die down when
an actor or singer divorced, which was often.

He checked on Tony this morning, and told the guy to lay low. He and his woman were with Nicole at Alfonzo’s home, guests of Giuseppe Dichenzo who decided to take over another man’s house. The fucking prick didn’t even know Alfonzo would arrive in a few hours or that he was injured and the last thing he needed was a congregation under his roof during recuperation.

Uncle Willy was treated at a local hospital and released. Nico arranged for a private jet to escort Tony’s mom and loquacious Uncle to the U.S. Nico figured that’s the least he could do after their harrowing adventure in Sicily. A plush plane with the comforts of home was a minimal contribution to their silence.

“So what did you learn from Amelda?” Nico asked.

“Matteo had an affair with Geovonna.”

Nico was unfazed. “How did she find out?”

Giuseppe leaned his shoulder on the wall to peer out the window. He could see Nico’s rustic home. His cugino liked to ask questions but failed to reveal necessary information that affected the entire family.

Giuseppe changed the subject. He had questions of his own. “Why did you and Alfonzo withhold why mama married that cazzo?”

Nico didn’t mince words. “We knew you’d kill him. We didn’t want to risk Sophie’s life.”

“You have little faith in me cugino and so does my brother.”

Nico snorted. “Your track record isn’t the best in the patience department.”

“And your track record is above reproach?” Giuseppe asked as he pushed angrily off the wall to face Nico. “If you were not my cugino I would have killed you. Sometimes I regret that I have not.”

Nico’s eyes were slits of danger, weighing many things. “Never threaten me Giuseppe. I am not the enemy.”

“Are you sure of that cugino?”

“I know where my loyalties lie. My concern is that you believe different.”

Giuseppe stepped forward. His mood was black. He’d killed people he believed had his best interest at heart, only to find they were pretenders waiting to knife him in the back. “You slept with Bianca. We sat in your father’s parlor and I saw then where things would lead. Do not bother to deny to me that you were attracted to her before you learned she was Protezione.” He sneered. “Did you think to question why she took off suddenly after your crazed mother was killed?”

Nico didn’t answer.

“She is pregnant cazzo. You lack the discipline with your pene and that is your trouble.”

Nico’s solid features cracked. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah, secrets that are easily figured out.” Giuseppe tapped a finger on his temple. “And yet as intelligent as you are with your computers and killing, you cannot figure out people. You upset me Nico. I struggle inside to understand what makes you tick. I see
blackness in you and wonder will that poison spread to me because we are famiglia.”

“Cool it Giuseppe.”

“You are upset. Bene, you understand how it feels to stir in anger. You and Alfonzo exercised poor judgment when you withheld information from me. Mama told me this morning about this painting and the potential threat to her life. Did it occur to either of you Yosef could be lying?”

Nico’s face tightened. “Of course.”

“Did you investigate thoroughly?”

“I always do.”

“Yosef has brought his troubles to our famiglia, because of him Carlo may have died…I cannot have another I love die!”

Nico lowered his defenses. Giuseppe lashed out when hurting. He was frightened also for his son. “But he didn’t, and as long as we are famiglia we will fight to protect each other to a dying breath.”

Giuseppe heaved. “Carlo is all I have left of her…I will not let him be harmed because of this stranger in our midst, capisce?”

Nico closed the gap between blood. “I am an asshole at times but so are you. Yosef did not lie; a hit was placed on your mama.” Nico’s chest expanded. “Do you think I will go along with a fake marriage without turning over every stone first? Sophie is like a mother to me. I will die for her, for you, many times gladly for every child in this family. Look me in the eye you spoiled fucker and name once that I have failed to stand against our enemies?”

Giuseppe frowned. “I cannot.”

“Mi dispiace Geo. Perhaps I was wrong not to inform you, but do not cut my heart out. We are not at war with each other.” Nico’s face softened then. “Carlo has my protection as do you. Fear nothing!”

Giuseppe rolled his shoulders. His maddening thoughts settled. Nico was insufferable but right. He gestured toward the door with his head, feeling like a kid reprimanded by a parent after a tantrum of words. “I have Matteo’s computer in the car. The password is Geovonna. I have read the cazzo’s treachery. He was responsible for the death of his father and our Alberti. There is more on there but I could not gain access.”

Nico shook his head in frustration and stormed out the studio. Hearing of Matteo’s vileness angered him. The news of
Bianca further escalated his ire.

There is a possibility he might lose Ari forever.

C
hapter Twenty-Five

The largest island in the Mediterranean, Sicily is squeezed between Europe and Africa, between Christendom and Islam. A spectacular region that cradled Alfonzo’s family. He’d been caught between two worlds, light and darkness; always wanting the light, afraid to let go of it
.
The most violent awakening occurred when he turned away from the blinding light; to find in the darkness a restoration of sight.

His faith was strong. He had willed himself to victory. The old footage he often watched of the World Series game between the Diamondbacks and the New York Yankees after the 911 bombings when the Yankees were down in the fourth
inning is what gave further inspiration. The turn which uplifted spirits was the home run by Tino Martinez.