Ti Amo (Battaglia Mafia Series) Read online

  Ti Amo

  Ti Amo

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Ti Amo © Copyright 2012 Sienna Mynx

  Cover art by Reese Dante

  Cover Artist: Jimmy Thomas

  Electronic book publication December 2012

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, The Diva’s Pen LLC.

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  Prelude to A Reckoning

  June 1961 - Mondello, Sicily

  “Papa?” Giovanni rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his small fist. He felt his father’s touch, and heard his voice. When he blinked in the darkness, he realized it wasn’t a dream. Papa had returned. Most nights when Papa wasn’t in Mondello, Giovanni shared his mother’s bed. She’d read to him or told stories of the kings and knights of Ireland until he fell asleep resting against her breast. His mother always smelled like the flowers in her garden. When his father returned, the privilege of his mother’s gentle care was revoked. He suspected tonight his father had woken him for this purpose. Soon he’d be marched out to his cold room to sleep alone. He smiled up at the towering shadowy figure. Little Giovanni didn’t mind. He was glad to see his father home again.

  The Don was a tall man, bulky in the chest, shoulders and arms. He wore fedoras that always cast his steely dark gaze in a deep shadow. He smelled of cigars, cedar wood, and whiskey. Tomosino stared down at his son in the dark, waiting.

  “Yes Papa?” Giovanni asked.

  “Up boy. Come with me, and don’t wake your ma-ma.”

  Giovanni nodded. Only four-feet tall he needed a bit of assistance to ease out from under his mother’s protective embrace. In pajama feet he held on to his father’s large pointer finger. Together they left the room. One they entered the hall his father reached down and scooped him up. Giovanni was five years old and very capable of walking. For his father to lift him in his arms meant he would be taken out into the night. He held to his father’s neck, alert, a bit of fear mixed with excitement tightened his gut. He was going for a ride with Papa. Ma-ma would cry if she knew.

  Many of his father’s men and brothers waited around vehicles with large bright headlights, making them appear like shadows against the glare. Giovanni was placed in the backseat of a car. Uncle Rocco reached from the front seat to pass him a grape sucker. Giovanni smiled.

  “Prego!” Rocco said, which meant have some.

  It tasted like the ones from the vineyard his uncle took Lorenzo and him to visit in Chianti. He loved the fat grapes and bitter olives they ate from the vines. He licked the sucker several times grinning. Ma-ma would be upset that he had a sweet treat after bedtime, but she was sleep. She wouldn’t know. Don Tomosino ruffled his hair. He called him a little candy muncher, and the men in the car laughed with the Don. Giovanni stuck out his purple tongue and showed it to his father, which made the Don wink. The drive wasn’t a long one. Their vehicle headed from the cozy serene streets of their small village to the country roads. He could barely see out of the window from the back seat. The glass looked dark and smoky. The only true light was the amber glow of his father’s cigar. Giovanni secretly inhaled the sharp tobacco smell that reminded him of licorice and burning wood. He and Lorenzo couldn’t wait to be older so they could smoke cigars.

  “Papa? Sing with me! Lucciola lucciola, gialla gialla… metti la briglia alla cavalla… che la vuole il figlio del re… lucciola lucciola vieni con me…”

  Giovanni rocked from side to side. The Don sang the nursery rhyme slapping his hand on his thigh. It was his favorite, one he’d sing often when they went fishing. Uncle Rocco turned in the front seat and sang too, clapping his hands. Giovanni unleashed a gust of laughter. They could be so funny when they sang along.

  When the car stopped the door was opened for the Don, and he exited. Giovanni scooted across the seat careful to hold to his candy and stepped out to join his father. Don Tomosino took his hand. He was no longer treated like a baby in the presence of men. Giovanni understood the difference and managed to step with his chin tossed upward and back straight as they crossed the field through tall itchy grass. This he did like a big boy. Soon he saw the others that waited.

  Three men were on their knees, one visibly trembling, the other slumped over as if praying. They wore blindfolds, and their hands were bound in front of them. Men Giovanni couldn’t recognize because of the dark seclusion of the location stood behind them with weapons aimed at their backs. Uncle Flavio approached his father and said a few things. The Don nodded. He glanced down at Giovanni and stroked his cheek.

  “Watch son, and learn,” he began. “Betrayers. The weakest of men.” His accusatory finger leveled on the now sniveling trio. Giovanni licked his sucker, unsure of the meaning of his father’s words. “Lies and secrets among brothers for personal glory are never allowed. Weak! A sickness. It can spread like a disease through your family making them all untrustworthy!” The Don bellowed. He swept his gaze at the others gathered to make sure his point was heard. He then smiled down at Giovanni. “You do what is necessary to keep the family healthy, by taking care of your enemy!” Don Tomosino made a tight fist and pounded it into his open palm. “This is justice.”

  “Sí Papa.” Giovanni licked his sucker and stared at the men curiously.

  Don Tomosino nodded.

  Those with guns raised their weapons. Giovanni paused between licks. His eyes stretched in confusion. Were they going to hurt the men? Before his tender years could make sense of the scene before him gunfire exploded in the night. The sucker fell from Giovanni’s hand. With each shot fired his body shook with a violent tremor. He wanted to run, to scream and run, but he stood still. His father put a cigar in his mouth and chuckled deep in his throat. Tonight Giovanni learned about justice.

  October 1991

  Bologna, Italy

  “Where?” Lorenzo asked.

  The dancer batted long lashes sprinkled in glitter mascara up at him. He studied her petite face, pale; she had rouge splattered cheeks and bright red lipstick smeared over her lips. She wore a hot pink wig with blunt cut bangs and not much else. Her eyes were a dull shade of brown, soulless. Her small nostrils appeared inflamed from constant rubbing. He imagined if she’d lay off the nose-candy and face paint she could be quite attractive. Her sultry gaze slipped to the right. A few men gathered around a raised stage. They drank and smacked on fish and chips between tossing lire at the dancers’ feet. One in particular looked familiar. Slouched in a black leather jacket, Fish’s head was slightly tilted back and his gaze transfixed on the dancer. Fish had lost weight, a considerable amount, but the scar gave him away. He turned up a mug of malt, and Lorenzo got a clean look at the ugly slash across his neck.

  “Porco!” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Well I be damn, he’s here.” Carlo chuckled a few feet behind him. “You found the slippery piglet.”

  “Andiamo.”
<
br />   Lorenzo had hunted Fish for two years. From Roma to Istanbul he’d searched for the bastard and always came up short. News returned that Fish frequented this spot the past few days dropping more lire than the average farmer in these parts. A tip from one of Carlo’s puttanas proved to be the final lead.

  Excitement over victory boiled the blood in his veins. He felt the temperature spike under his wool coat. He wiped his gloved hand down his face. This was the bastard that stuck a bomb under his car and tore the only woman he’d come close to loving in years away from him. He was bound and determined to get his revenge. The coward murdered Giovanni’s princess and took part of his cousin’s humanity with her. Petie ‘the fish’ Lupo had ruined all their lives.

  He and Carlo started through the bar. A few dancers paused in observance. A few men drew back watching them closely. Topless women on raised mirrored platforms in spiked heels rolled their hips and fondled their nipples for leering patrons. The dim lighting, reddish in color against the black walls, was an excellent shadow for their arrival. They would have to strike and move on. The club was owned by the Bonaduce’s and they were no friends of the Battaglia’s.

  Fish sat close enough to the spotlight to be seen. In Lorenzo’s haste he bumped a dancer who squealed with delight and tried to entice him by pulling on his coat sleeve. Her dramatic flair gave away his presence. Fish spotted him and was up and running. Lorenzo and Carlo began to turn over tables and knock naked women and their customers out of the way in pursuit. Fish hit the back door of the club and raced into the alley.

  Cristo! I should have had Carlo covering the back!

  They followed.

  The family was barely keeping it together thanks to the weight of this never-ending war. Bologna, once neutral territory for Calderone and Battaglia, had now become the forbidden zone. Angelo took refuge under the protection of the Bonaduce’s in a secluded village that was always heavily armed. Don Francesco Bonaduce was extremely upset over the unrepentant way in which Giovanni had taken his thirst for vengeance out on all of northern Italy in pursuit of Angelo. Especially the unsanctioned murder of the now deceased Don Calderone and his son Giuseppe. Codes were broken and alliances soured. The families fought to hold on to their turf.

  Without Flavio to consult, Don Giovanni Battaglia, led with an iron fist and a heart of stone. If he suspected another family aided Angelo in any way, he took extreme measures to make examples of them. The Polizia di Stato always remained one step behind, and the code of silence among these men prevented Giovanni’s name from being fingered as the cause of the mayhem. His gun dealing and trafficking with the Irish and subsequent trade in Sicily and some countries in Africa made any effort by other families to resist futile. Lorenzo once thirsted for this unyielding power and ruthlessness, but even he could no longer hold his head up without shame. They’d done some really brutal shit to those who were innocent and those who were guilty, all in the name of revenge. It had to end. Finding and killing the Fish and Angelo Calderone may finally bring his cousin back, the man of compassion who wanted to legitimize the family. It was his only hope, and tonight he had the future within his grasp.

  ****

  “Have I told you I love you?” she whispered. “Ti amo. My beautiful, strong man, I love you so much.”

  Full lips, soft and lush, brushed his. She cradled his face in her delicate hands and her fragrance, sweet as vanilla and crisp as a field of flowers in spring, unfurled in his nostrils. When he parted his lips to speak, her kiss greeted him. The tip of her tongue flicked the roof of his mouth before plunging inside in a tantalizing swirl that left him breathless, desperate and needy. No woman has said the word love to him since she died.

  Giovanni drank the sweetness of her kiss, reclined into a stack of pillows with her breasts pressed against his chest. His senses reeled as if short-circuiting. His pulse raced and thoughts of loss, heartache, and lonely pain mixed in with this dreamlike reality. No. This wasn’t a dream. It was the death he prayed for. He found her again on the other side and he was free to have the love they shared for eternity.

  Tightness coiled in his groin, and he could feel it bulk underneath the soft press of her sex. Her hands pushed gently against his shoulders, and her body covered his, keeping him conveniently in place. Now he felt loved. Whether she said it lately or not, he felt it deeply.

  “Mirabella,” he breathed through their kiss. His beautiful Mirabella had only been his for a brief time but she forever changed his heart, his desires, and his peace of mind.

  Her lush thighs, and the sweet moist center under the petals of her sex, buffeted him in warmth with her straddling his waist and moving in a lovely slow slide along his erection. The longing and desire he suffered day in and day out burned away his hope for them two years ago. How could she be dead when she was in his arms once more? To answer his question Mira released him from her teasing kisses and her head lifted. She smiled down at him. The smooth brown skin of her oval face held pale golden undertones. Eyes the deepest shade of hazel brown shone with brilliance, reflecting her forgiveness under a dark ring of lashes. Her slender nose and full lips rounded out the face of an angel.

  “I’m yours. You’re safe with me,” Mira said.

  “I lost you.”

  “Shhh…” Mira pressed her finger to his lips and kissed his brow. “Have faith. Please Giovanni, for us.”

  Giovanni blinked awake. The darkness of his room was complete. There wasn’t a sliver of light to focus on. He lay perfectly still staring into the empty void swallowing him. He waited for an eternity until his heart stabilized. It was the same dream, with her again reminding him to have faith.

  He had none.

  In the dark he dropped his hand to the side of the bed and wiggled his fingers in search of the wine bottle he’d turned to for comfort. He didn’t feel it. His head was weighed down with a throbbing headache reaching his temples and hammering the inner walls of his skull. Thanks to the late night binge he couldn’t summon the strength to lift it. Instead he turned over to his side and closed his eyes once more. This time he prayed he didn’t dream.

  ****

  Fish saw them. Two tall, mean-looking motherfuckers in long dark coats headed his way. Then he caught the sneer of Lorenzo Battaglia and knew instantly who they were. He leapt to his feet shoving a waitress so hard she fell backward on to the table behind her. Running toward the side exit he pushed other patrons out of his way and didn’t bother to look back, but he heard Lorenzo and Carlo knock over chairs and tables in pursuit of him. How the fuck did they find him?

  The titty club was located in the seedy countryside of Bologna. He’d only been back in Italy for two days. A trip he made because of his ailing mother. He kept his head low and his business short during his stay. Tonight would have been more of the same if he hadn’t had a raging hard-on for a dancer named Kamilla. He lost his woman to Angelo after his life went to hell. Kamilla was the closest beauty he’d seen next to hers.

  The taverns were all lined up in an intricate maze of block shaped buildings with narrow cobblestone roads and alleys. Sloshing through rank puddles of rainwater, barely able to see in front of him as pockets of moonlight guided his way, he paced himself trying to gain his bearings. Fear had a hold of him now, and Fish never responded well on the rare occasions that he was scared. He drew both knives he kept on him. Their long blades shielded in leather, he stumbled twice to unsheathe them. He’d cut and gut both those motherfuckers if he must to survive.

  An unmistakable sound of running feet echoed behind him. They were close. He looked up and the darkness prevented him from seeing the end of the alley. He didn’t know how many Battaglia goons were in pursuit of him or if any waited with guns raised.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” he panted.

  Fish would have to take a stand. The darkness could be his friend. It was so thick thanks to the cloudy sky it would be possible to surprise ambush one if not both of them. He may be trapped, but he would take those bastards out with him. An
d it had been some time since he ran his blade into soft flesh.

  When he stopped running, the men chasing did as well. Fish stood there with both knives in his hand, breathing hard, face drenched in sweat. The temperature was much colder in northern Italy than the southern region this time of the year yet his fear had sent a fever through him and boiled his gut.

  Lorenzo stepped out of the shadows.

  Fish licked his chapped lips. The pair curled into snarl. “Mi difenderò! I will defend myself,” Fish shouted.

  “Lecchino!” A younger voice snapped. Carmine stepped out from the shadows and came up behind Fish. He pointed the gun to the back of Fish’s skull, and Lorenzo’s brow arched in amusement. Apparently Carlo had thought to put some assistance in the alley. It was time for Fish to squirm, and tell him where the fuck Angelo hid. Fish’s shifty gaze lowered, and the blades dropped from his hands.

  “Lorenzo?” he spoke in a breathless voice. “You have to know it was never personal.”

  “It has always been personal.” Lorenzo challenged.

  “Where is Dominic? I worked in favor of the Battaglia’s against the Calderone’s for years. I can be of use to you again.”

  “A di merda! You worked in your best interest only!” Lorenzo scoffed.

  Fish slowly raised his hands in surrender but his sneer and steely glare held a deadly warning. Men like him didn’t respond well when cornered. Not even when they were outnumbered. Lorenzo trained his gun on him ready to act if needed.

  As of late, Lorenzo could never get close enough to Giovanni to mend the rifts between them that were slow to heal. Yes, they were bound together by blood and cause, but Giovanni held grudges. Most men in their world often did. Lorenzo knew his cousin never truly forgave him for what his betrayal had cost them both. He held strongly to his last secret. The real reason Giuseppe had needed to die was thanks to the assassin’s bullet he’d put into Papa Tomosino because of Lorenzo. He would kill everything living with the name Calderone to ensure that secret never surfaced.