Armored (7 page)

Him.

After breakfast, he had to meet Nico, anyway. Tiffany was good with people, besides it was her idea for this pre-wedding bull crap with his mom. He put the skillet on the stove and shook his head. His mom’s reference to his ex-wife had pissed him off.

Tony had no desire to revisit the past. Helen remarried and he had moved on, too. The problem is his mama hadn’t. She only liked Helen because she kissed her ass. Helen never stood up to the judgmental, sanctimonious hypocrite who failed to follow the advice she volunteered to others. His mama couldn’t cook and lay in bed watching TV or sleeping off booze. An eight year old boy remembers arriving home from school hoping to have a hot meal; instead what he ate usually consisted of stale bread and cheese found in a dirty fridge.

Tony taught himself the culinary skills necessary to have those meals he envisioned. He didn’t wait around for the recovering alcoholic to get off her
butt to take care of him. That never happened. He’d grown up as she waited for her to accept his father wasn’t coming back, the man was dead.

He groaned as he ripped open plastic and dropped the slices in the simmering skillet. His mama was tripping. How the hell did she set her mouth to ask if Tiffany planned to prepare breakfast?

Slender fingers gripped his shoulder, kneading gently. Tony inhaled the anger and Tiffany’s scent. “Hey,” he said rotating his head to catch a glimpse of her silhouette.

“Morning love,” Tiffany said as her hand slid along his shoulder to the arm holding the handle of the pan. “Let me do that for you.”

“I got it,” he answered because he did. He didn’t require his woman to do something he could do himself. “I have to go out for a couple of hours. Are you sure you’re going to be okay with Dragon Lady?”

“I’m taking your mom to the spa.” Tiffany squeezed one of his butt cheeks on her way to the fridge. “Nice ass there.”

A smile came. “Spa and now I have a nice ass. Um, am I getting buttered up for something?”

Tiffany’s low chuc
kle had a hoarse quality to. Her seductive voice caused an arousal. “No, but if I were doing that, then would you let me eat you when I’m done?” she replied.

The bacon began to sizzle. Tony turned the strips over with the wood utensil. He always disliked the scrapes inside his mother’s stainless steel pans. She didn’t take care
of nothing, not even her child. His forehead wrinkled; the tension in his body said he wouldn’t survive a week with his mama. He made the conscious attempt for Tiffany’s sake to try. “No, you can’t. I’m not into cannibalism, besides-” Tony adjusted the heat to low and went behind his fiancé when she bent down to retrieve fruit from the drawer. He returned the squeeze. She stood laughing to face him and he gave her a kiss and said, “I’d rather do the eating.”

Her arms circled his neck; she clutched oranges in each hand as she went on her tip toes to respond. She answered with forceful
lips, bringing a moan from Tony who considered screwing her right there.

The
hot tongue action was cut short by his mama. She walked right in the kitchen and sat. “I smelled food…smells good too…made me hungry. Ya’ll go right ahead and pretend I ‘aint here.”

Tiffany’s lips slid away to say good morning.

Tony released hold of Tiffany’s waist. “But you are here and since you’re so hungry, watch the bacon and help Tiffany cook. I have to leave for work.”

“On a Saturday?” His mama asked.

“Yes, on a Saturday!” Tony snapped before giving Tiffany a peck. “Try and have fun today. Hopefully, your kind gesture is appreciated. I’ll call you.”

“Bye, baby,” Tiffany replied, aware of an underlying tension and wondering what the heck happened before she woke up between mother and son.

Once Tony marched out the kitchen, his mother rose. “That boy’s a mess. You sure you wanna marry my son, girl ‘cause sometimes he gets on his high horse and that fucked up attitude aint helping?”

Tiffany’s eyes widened at the woman’s description of her son. “He’s far from a mess and hell yes I want to marry him.”

C
hapter Six

A swivel of the head, and a glance below occurred from the contemplative blue eyes of a Don. The seductive scenery absorbed Alfonzo like his woman
in the prelude before the really good fuck. He couldn’t look away from nature’s striptease, nor did he want to, that’s how things are with his seductive woman.

A palm sought to contain the rising organ
between his legs as his mind drifted. Simply thinking of Selange was an intimate caress.

“Ah man, I am one horny ass.” He grumbled and focused on the approaching landscape.

The twinkling lights were a beautiful garden at the foot of Christo Redentor. His regulated breaths were a synchronous human rhythm. Meditative and in tune with the sways of the aircraft, he drifted on the current as he viewed Pao de Acucar, Guanabara Bay, the Lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean. From the base of a smoky cloud, he acknowledged he was infinitesimal. This was more than another trip taking Alfonzo far from his family. He was in the bosom of the sky; where souls passed through and at peace.

He tucked a leg up on the seat; pushed is knee to his chest and held on. Up high he was an insect with wings, a male in the universe, destined to die. People never liked talking about death, somehow the conversation is taboo. Written instructions in a will shouldn’t be discussed unless you’re old is the norm. To discuss the subject makes many uncomfortable, especially if you’re relatively healthy and young. People start to wonder if such talk comes from suicidal or depressed tendencies. He was neither, a practical guy slash Mafioso.

“Ah man,” Alfonzo scoffed, just thinking about the shit. The lifestyle alone had a high probability he might not reach old age. He wanted to see his kids grow up, blow money on their weddings and even hold some grandkids –damn straight, but every time he turned around there was somebody getting whacked. What was a shocking tragedy for regular people was commonplace for a CEO of crime.

He
sniffed the pressurized air.

They were gone; skilled men with families who had taken oaths of protection to serve a matriarch. Semira had become a shadow hovering over their lives. They weren’t able to put the past on pause because all their secrets continued to
affect the present. The more he studied his family history, the more enigmatic it became. He could write a mystery book about the Giacanti’s and nobody would solve the damn thing.

Semira
remained an enigma dogging his steps.

An ancestor he never met continued to occupy his mind. Every time he saw his wife, the past and future collided. He had read something in his father’s journal, which nagged him so bad that he put the book aside. There were too much rambling from a guilt-stricken motherfucker imploring him to
take care of family, honor and mumbo-jumbo. He’d done everything the old man asked, moved to Italy, and anonymously returned some of the belongings to the rightful owner’s descendants he managed to locate. What more was he supposed to do and why in the hell couldn’t the bastard have done the deeds himself? Why involve a son he hadn’t done anything for except heap burdens upon his shoulders for the task? 

“The man’s tripping,” Alfonzo muttered and kicked out his leg.

What brought him to Brazil?

Bruno.

Family.

He quote
d Einstein, “Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation.  For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.”

Alfonzo then removed the business card from the breast pocket of his finely sewn jacket
to view the address. A hand written message on the back was how he knew about the occurrence in Eritrea. Simple words:
My condolences for your many losses. My heartfelt sympathies, sincerely, Tia.

The shipping logo of Bruno’s company and the
office in Rondônia with the number three scrawled near the telephone number highlighted the time.

He returned the card to the inside of his breast pocket. His eyes settled on the embroidery.
Usually there’s a designer logo on clothes with the artisan’s name, but this was Alfonzo’s specialty garment. The A.D. stitched on a flap of silk was the initials for Alfonzo Diaz. Yup.

Soaring over the humongous statute of Christ the Redeemer the Latin phrase Anno Domini, came to mind.

The year of our Lord.

Strange, how a word, a mood, or a location can mix a reflection cocktail for the mind to drink. The fact
remained; he wasn’t a deity or Icarus flying too close to the sun, but a human in a mechanical device fated to die.

Another death.

A.D.

Anno Domini.

Alfonzo Diaz.

A Don.

Me.

***

Alfonzo exited
the car with soldati as bookends. They walked swiftly surveying roofs and assessing everything on the bustling street on a warm afternoon. Alfonzo didn’t like the unsettling feelings keeping him awake to the point he found himself spending hours in the gym until exhaustion KO’d him to sleep or he’d make to love to his wife in different positions like gymnasts.

The door opened before the men reached the front entry. Bruno stood there with his son and their expressions bespoke the premonition of doom which Alfonzo had
experienced for several days.

“Grazie for coming,” Bruno said as he moved aside for Alfonzo and his entourage to enter.

Bruno’s eldest son Corrado is who led the way to a spacious conference room with Plexiglas walls. Alfonzo gestured for the guards to remain in the hall.

Bruno closed the door, walked to the table and leaned his hands t
here but did not sit. “I apologize for this urgency, but I could not speak the entire details without a face-to-face explanation.”

Alfonzo crossed his arms in anticipation of bad news
, a wall of Plexiglas containment made him feel like a specimen in a Petri Dish. They agreed to meet in Brazil at one of Bruno’s many locations. He had shipping offices throughout the world. Porto Velho was considered neutral territory for Alfonzo. In fact, he had come here many times, walked the streets of Rondônia without incident and blended in with the people. This part of the upper Amazon River basin was an important trading center for cassiterite, and a transportation hub.

“I’m listening.”

Bruno gestured. “Please have a seat.”

Alfonzo did, crossed his leg and waited for Bruno and his son to do the same. “Okay, now that we’re all on our asses, fill me in how a fortified village of killers is slaughtered in their sleep?”

“This was during the week of festivals. Mariam Dearit is a joyous time of celebration which is often respected.  They feast and drink Asmara beers until sunset and were undoubtedly in a peaceful slumber when the attack occurred.”

Bruno rested his elbows on the conference table as his son interjected to speak candidly to Alfonzo about the rising insurgence among allies due to Yosef’s entry to the Giacanti family, which was a side topic, important to a degree because traders were concerned with raids by law enforcement who were certain to put anyone associated with the notorious Israeli under the microscope.

“I’ll deal with Yosef and make sure he stays clear of the areas where we have legitimate businesses,” Alfonzo answered.

But, the news that scorched Alfonzo’s heart when the discussion returned to the Eritreans was the revelation he had relatives who were murdered and one was a young boy named Alazar. Corrado speculated the killings may have been unrelated to the family lineage and suggested the conflict with Sudan was the root. However, theories are not fact until proven. Bruno as a precautionary measure housed the survivors at an undisclosed location. Bianca was among them, pregnant with Nico’s child, information Alfonzo was not made aware of until now. Alfonzo
found himself in a precarious predicament, being pelted with knives from every direction. One was bound to hit a major organ.

He had a mafia son’s birthday to attend in Toronto. An eleven hour flight lie ahead to appease a Canadian Don who cleaned large amounts of money for American associates. Despite the tragic news concerning the Africans, he had obligations to fulfill. He prepared himself for the impending drama that would filter to his house over Bianca since his wife had become good friends.

Bruno observed Alfonzo’s jaw clench tightly, a sign of his displeasure; a trait of Luzo’s undisguised.

The blue specks of awareness traveled to Bruno.
An eyebrow arched. “You knew Bianca was pregnant by Nico all along, didn’t you?”