Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Mario
It’s cold in New Jersey in November. My two capos and I sit in the rental car with the heat on full blast outside Alberto LaTorre’s house. There’s been a lot of activity—vehicles coming and going. People carrying boxes out to cars. Carrying hair dryers and curling irons inside. Now a white limo sits out front. Must be a big occasion—a wedding, maybe.
I tracked my Uncle Junior’s grappa exports to the LaTorre family in the Newark area. Forest Hill, to be precise. The don is some kind of relative of my Zia Maria—a nephew, maybe.
This might be a wild goose chase—I have no evidence that Carlo’s in America—but I had to come check it out for myself.
The door swings open again, and I lift the binoculars, feeling more like a cop than the don of the most powerful crime family in Sicily. Several people exit, getting into the various cars parked within the gated property. Sure enough, a beautiful girl in a merengue of white tulle emerges, flanked by an older couple who must be her parents and three young women–two of them twins–in bridesmaid's dresses.
I put the car in drive and pull away, turning down a side street, where we won’t be noticed. If Carlo’s part of the LaTorre Family, he’ll be at the wedding, and my men and I can probably blend in, unnoticed. There will be no better place to get a bead on my baby brother.
I idle until the limo passes and let two more cars follow before I pull out to stay on their tail. They weave through the suburb with its towering trees, the branches glittering with a coat of ice. Snow begins to fall—big wet flakes that melt on my windshield as soon as they land.
The limo pulls into a parking lot of a Catholic church bearing the name St. Mary’s Cathedral. I accelerate and drive past, taking a trip back to the main street to get a coffee. Better to show up late to the wedding than be noticed as early arrivals.
An hour later, I drive back. Good thing we always dress sharp, so we look ready for a wedding.
We head in and sit on the bride’s side in the very back, just as the wedding march music begins.
The bridesmaids file in—twins and another young woman, all about the same age as the bride.
Two little flower girls giggle and throw pink rose petals which catch in the froth of white skirts.
And then the groom. I stop breathing for a moment when I realize the groom is Carlo. So my baby brother is marrying into the LaTorre family. He always was smart and ambitious. He knew exactly how to secure his place.
Carlo looks older and yet unchanged—still the same proud face, our mother’s hazel eyes looking out with cool appraisal, even on his wedding day.
I shift behind Tony, who Carlo doesn’t know, to block the view of my face.
Carlo walks to the altar, drops to his knee and makes the sign of the cross. When he straightens, he has eyes only for his bride, who’s walking down the aisle on Alberto LaTorre’s arm.
I assume the marriage is political in nature, not that I doubted my brother would play the part of doting husband to a “tee”, but Carlo’s stoic mask crumbles as he watches the beautiful young woman walk toward him. His eyes redden, his nostrils flare. The two stare at each other, and she, too, grows teary, then giggles a little and leans on her father.
I didn’t doubt Carlo would find success wherever he landed, but seeing him in love makes my chest tighten. His life hasn’t been a complete misery, then.
An older woman sings Ave Maria, and the ceremony proceeds in Latin. Carlo’s focus remains on the priest or his bride until he kisses her like she’s the most precious treasure he could hold, and they turn to their guests. Only then does his gaze land on me and his body goes perfectly still.
His new wife smiles tearfully as he walks her down the aisle, but Carlo’s face is made of stone.
My aisle is the first to exit, and we’re handed little plastic bottles of bubbles with the instructions to wait outside the church and blow. I toss mine in a frozen flower bed and walk to our rental car and lean against it. I have no doubt Carlo will find me here.
Carlo
“Give me your gun.” I grab Sonny’s arm and yank him back into a church hallway.
“What is it?”
“My brother is here from Sicily.”
Sonny looks at me blankly.
“My brother Mario. I left Italy because he wants me dead. Give me your fucking gun.” I yank it out of the guy’s holster and shove it in my jacket pocket.
“There you are. We’re supposed to be doing photos.” Al sticks his head around the corner. He must notice our deadly expressions because his battle face appears. “What’s going on?”