Luzo: Reign of a Mafia Don (18 page)

Alberti had
arrived with reinforcements. They had caught the hitmen by surprise. Alberti’s crew had snuck up on the shooters, killing them and now scanned the docks for hidden dangers. The crackling sounds had ceased. No longer under fire, Luzo stepped in to the clearing. He walked toward his brother, with a proud grin.

Luzo lowered his gun. Gratitude is inadequate
, Luzo thought as he reached forward to pull his brother in a hug. Movement on the ground by an injured attacker resulted in Luzo’s split second reaction. He shoved Alberti to the ground and fired his last bullet.

Two shot
s echoed simultaneously.

Luzo
bounced off the car. Men were running toward him. Alberti was on his feet, telling him to hold on, that he was there. Luzo was sliding down, painting the car with his blood as men were trying to hold him up. He concentrated on his fratellino.

He opened his mouth to tell him, “Ti amo.” Instead blood flowed out.

He blinked
and went blind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The vehicle was easy to spot. Amateurs and ambushes were as old as dirt. No one was creative anymore, Ernesto thought as he used the landscape to blend with the trees. The pair of so called professionals inside had their eyes on the roadway, undoubtedly planning to intercept the returning honeymooners.

The barrel of a submachine gun could be seen through the glass as the driver lifted his arm to check the rearview mirror. He only saw the trees.

Sometimes it requires more than vision to see. Instinct, that gut kicking unease is an internal sensory that can warn of danger. Ernesto listened all the time, even if he was tired, he never remained immobile and fatigued. Soon his sons would be given assassin tools necessary to defend against men like these.

Novice sit and talk instead of staying silent and listening.

The snap of a branch or the strange rush of wind is what may be heard if they did.

Amateurs.

Beginners learn their craft from trainers in classes and not in the field. Ernesto’s father was hands on from the time his son was able to comprehend –danger.

Rely on mirrors, sit laughing about donnas and do not take the job seriously is what kills a rookie. They never make it to veteran status because professionals such as Ernesto Serano teach them deadly lessons they do not learn in these warehouse killing
universities.

Beneath the car, on his back, directly under the driver’s seat
Ernesto blasted and then repeated the action to the opposite side. Their jubilation was cut short.

Seconds later an automobile sped by. The
honeymooner’s laughter filtered from the open window. His sorella’s voice was unmistakable.

Ernesto
slid out from beneath the car and walked casually through the dark field to his old vehicle which had been a present from his father on his wedding day. Shortly after, his father was killed along with the Giacanti’s by men like Ernesto who had come in the night. They were trained and used the element of surprise to overrun the villa.

Nicolo and Vincenzo would not be amateurs.

He would teach them death during field lessons.

Professionals must start young.

***

Gina caressed her husband’s face. He blinked when he saw her tears. The donna never cried. It was strange to see the porcelain skin glow a pinkish color because at times he wondered if blood flowed inside. Maybe, their bambini softened the ice. She bent over the hospital bed and kissed her husband’s parched mouth.

“Oh bello…I am glad you are awake.”

Luzo looked down his body. The bandage to his abdomen told him the location of the wound. Pain branched sharply and his head fell back. His eyes ascended again. The donna smoothed a hand over her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. She did not wait to break the news or wait for the physical pain to ease.

In a hospital bed, burning inside and unable to get up for a stiff drink, Gina told her husband, “I have miscarried bello. When I heard of the shooting I was distraught. The doctor said I
lost the baby.”

Luzo closed his eyes.

There are no words for a tragedy.

Gina covered her face. The sobs were loud. She made them louder as she thought of the devastation if
she had really been pregnant. But she played the part from the pain she could imagine if her money child had truly perished before she had an opportunity to seize Luzo’s fortune.

There are no words for cruelty to want to have a man’s bambini but cannot. A bambino would give Luzo
an heir and he would not discard her so easily when he tired of her micio.

Ugh, she hated the Sophie’s of the world with fertile bodies. What she hated most was being used as a pawn to blend mafia.

Luzo’s hand patted her arm and then slipped back to the bed. The small gesture of empathy showed he cared and was not mad. But, the pat had a footnote.

Luzo
hoarsely said, “Go home. I am tired. Do not visit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"
Ah...these wars...these wars fratellino. Governments policing others when there is a failure to sanction wrong-doings of its own nation perplexes me. Propaganda stirs boys to pick up arms to defend illusions. I was once such a boy Carlo, but I see differently now that I am older. War is business, men become rich from chaos. I have brokered the deal with our cugino here in America. Let him earn money from these famiglia’s of La Costra Nostra who lick the crumbs dropped from crowded tables. Our banquet includes an international cuisine and there is elbow room to dine without impediment. We can be generous, besides America has their eyes on the problems of the Vietnamese; they are oblivious to the rumblings within the underbelly." Luzo scoffed and then said, "Send the shipment in the morning por favore.”

Carlo’s voice was somber. “I will ensure the cargo is loaded. You have missed my son’s birthday…again.”

Luzo stared out the huge window. He had a view of the Empire State Building, The Twin Towers and other landmarks from his penthouse skybox overlooking Central Park. Thousands of people gathered to protest the more than a decade war in Vietnam. Smoke billowed from cans as people burned their draft cards. Chants muffled by the distance found a listener in the sky.

The media coverage highlighted many of the guest speakers, notable figures who objected to America’s involvement in what many considered a civil war that would determine Vietnam’s destiny. Conscientious objectors for whatever reason their conscience objected marched and sang all the way to the United Nations.

When mass people turn out to join voices, there is a movement underfoot to prompt change. Luzo turned away from the large window as he clutched the telephone while conversing with his brother.

“I sent a gift
.” He reminded the happily married man.

“It is not the same as the presence of his Zio Luzo.”

“He has his papa, mama and others. He is loved by many.”

An irritable grumble from Carlo bespoke his frustration with Luzo’s incessant travels. “Monticelli will face the tribunal of old age. Give this quest a rest fratello and find time for fami
glia.”

“I will return home shortly do not worry.”

“Bene.” Carlo cheered. “I hear the slogans for pizza in America suggests they taste like an authentic Sicilian pizza, is that true?”

H
eroin refineries had begun to spring across Italy. To control the distribution some Mafiosi relocated to America to oversee their operations. Many of the wars on U.S. soil were over heroin, whether the profit or the strung-out junkie, the drugs led to death. The Sicilian pizzerias sprouting in the north-east were merely fronts for the heroin trade. The Pizza Connection is what the authorities had begun to call the operation.

No, he had not tried the American pizza for fear it may be laced with cocaine. Besides, there is nothing authentic about a Sicilian pizza unless it is made in Sicily by the hands of a Sicilian.

“I will bring one home and you will tell me.”

After he said his farewell to Carlo he put on his suit jacket and exited the hotel room followed by his bodyguard who had waited in the kitchen of the penthouse suite for his boss.

Crazy Nicky had taken on the role of Luzo’s personal security a few years back after the attempted hit on the docks. The International Board of Directors denounced anyone involved. Luzo personally oversaw several executions when he was released from the hospital. Carlo’s reputation and the blood trail in his wake, gained him the status within the mafia that elicited instant respect. Luzo’s trajectory had come, not only by force, but by bringing select mafia heads on par with progression in intellectual crimes. He had become untouchable somewhat, not by use of a father’s ledger but the use of greed that many feared to lose if
he were gone.

The new-age mafia
is what Luzo represented. He did not have to get his hands dirty unless a personal matter warranted. Alberti, ah, his fratellino served as his Consigliere or right-hand man. The underboss of his operation was in essence the control center. His brother Carlo took up command. Orders filtered down the chain to the several Capos or the Caporegimes, each commanding his own network of soldiers to carry out the actual attacks if needed. Associates were the bottom tier of the organizational structure. They were the Directors of banks, politicians, CEO’s of large companies, stockbrokers, judges and the like.

That is the mafia Luzo commanded and his reach was international.
He had power, but not the kind he wanted.

Palazzo Enterprise was akin to the Pizza Connection, except he did not sell poison
; he gave smart people an alternative to gain assets without sitting their ass in a state jail for distributing heroin to poor people.

An American Don from New York faced a potential sentence. Someone in his organization rat him out for ordering several murders of other organized crime figures over a territorial squabble around drugs and he needed a favor.
A get out of jail free card is only in a Monopoly game.

Favors have a price.

Give me Frank Monticelli on ice or deal with your internal problems is what the conclusion would be. The American mobsters hid a fugitive killer and generosity was not in Luzo’s bones for some.

Luzo rode the elevator down to the basement. The front lobby isn’t where he exited or entered unless he wanted to be seen.

He didn’t.

His polished shoes touched the clean tiles. The suit he wore showed his pride.

Italy.

His skin with sun tones and eyes of oceans were the light of Mediterranean meeting Africa’s shores.

He wore his heritages proudly, it was in his stature and self-assurance.

“
You have to work faster. The guests need clean linen. If you can’t get the work done I’ll find another immigrant on the street that can!”

Luzo halted in his tracks in front of the laundry room. Hot air blew out the vents and simply standing close to the door produced heat to his skin. The Caucasian man who exited had a scowl on his face until he spotted his rich guest. The pretentious smile could not conceal the bigot’s true nature.

“Good afternoon Mr. Palazzo.”

Luzo peered in
the untidy room before the door closed and noticed the young Latina working swiftly to shove soiled linen in a commercial wash the size of three refrigerators without assistance or gloves. He froze when she glanced toward the door. The eyes seized his heart and an erratic flutter occurred. They were lovely and pained. He saw beauty amidst the toil. He saw the sweat of hard work and a slave master’s whip, brought on the back of others because he was too lazy to earn his own keep. The doe eyes were his mother’s and his chest began to seize.

Luzo flicked his eyes over the callous employer wearing
the mass produced department store suit, Woolworth’s or those catalogues where American’s shopped without use of a tailor to pull in seams.

“Who are you?” Luzo asked.

“The Assistant Manager.”

“And is that how you motivate staff?”

“Uh, I don’t um -”