Omerta: Book One: Battaglia Mafia Series, #8

Prelude

There Is A Little Boy Inside the Man Who Is My Brother

Sorrento Italy – 1977—

THE GUN IN HIS JACKET POCKET couldn’t be brought upstairs. Out of respect for his mother he tucked the weapon into the soil of a potted plant situated at the foot of the stairs. Sealed by chrome the shooter’s handle was all that could be seen beneath the long slender fern leaves. This was Giovanni’s preferred hiding spot when in a hurry. And today he was in a big hurry. Running up the stairs two steps at a time he rushed into the hall and found his cugino had already arrived.

Did Flavio send for you too? Giovanni huffed between deep breaths. He removed the cap from his head and approached with the calm swagger that the sons of la Camorristi practiced. Though he was in a hurry, it was expected of the Don’s son to always appear unfazed even in front of family.

"Che cazzo?" Lorenzo, his cugino, chuckled. You sprung a leak or something?

Giovanni looked down at the puddles he tracked into the hall. Thunderstorms were rare in their region of the world but when a rainstorm came the torrents got the best of the villagers who preferred to travel by Vespas and motorbikes. It made navigation of the winding cobblestone roads in the hamlets much easier. The downpour had soaked through his black and red ‘Members Only’ racer jacket so thoroughly it clung to his arms and chest like latex. He found Lorenzo seated outside of Patri’s office dry as a bone in his sanitation workman’s gear. His cousin must have been there for a while. He and a few of the boys were forced to work the sanitation yards to cover the Battaglia interests on certain days of the week. The questions he had for the summons were many, but one persisted over the others: Why wasn’t Lorenzo at work today?

What the hell happened to you? Lorenzo asked. He shook his head in disgust and turned his gaze away.

It’s rainwater not piss. Give me a fucking break, Giovanni replied.

Giovanni stepped forward. His withdrawal would provoke Lorenzo to stand. But he remained seated with his head now bowed between his shoulders. There was something wrong. Not just with the weather or the early summons he received to return home. There was something wrong with Lo, and that always meant trouble for him as well.

"Che? Tell me. Why are we—?"

"Zitto! Let me think! Shut your mouth." Lorenzo tossed up his hands in frustration.

"Vaffanculo! Don’t tell me to shut up." Giovanni snapped back.

Lorenzo groaned. He slumped forward again. Keep your voice down. They can still hear behind that door.

Giovanni gaze cut again to the closed door.

Lorenzo continued, I got in late and woke later than expected. I was rushing, hurrying to work before I could leave Flavio sent for me. I’ve been waiting over an hour, Lorenzo mumbled with a dismissive hand toss. His knee shook, and his foot did a rapid tapping at the heel. When Lorenzo looked up through the jungle foliage of hair that covered his brow Giovanni understood a plausible reason for his cousins’ distress. Lorenzo had a split lip with garish black and red bruises under his right eye that stretched to his cheek.

"Let me guess? You and Santo went down into the peninsula. Visited one of Patri’s Italo-disco clubs again?" Giovanni asked.

You’re always too busy to join us, Lorenzo remarked.

"I heard three tourists were taken to the hospital last night after a big fight destroyed the front of Luce Rossa. I know Patri will be pissed. Luce Rossa is a honey pot for him. One of the better ones. Was it you two? Did Nico join in the fun?" Giovanni sat back and rested against the wall.

Fucking foreigners.

Eh?

It’s the fucking foreigners!

Aaah... I get it now; you always have someone to blame. Giovanni shook his head.

"Che cosa? Blame me? Really? You don’t know what happened. I say it’s not our fault, because it’s not." Lorenzo answered.

Patri will disagree.

"They come here and try to take our women, flash their cash and shit. Santo and I had to send a message to a maiale who had no manners. Not to just him, but to everyone—even the workers. Are we the fucking Camorra or not? I’m the nephew of the greatest man... Don Tomosino and—"

Save the speech for Patri, Giovanni yawned.

Lorenzo grimaced.

It sounds rehearsed? Eh? Lorenzo asked.

A little.

Then I’m fucked.

Giovanni nodded in agreement. The Italian disco scene brought in more foreigners than any of the men were used to. Whereas Lorenzo preferred everything from food to his women to be Sicilian and Italian in that order, Giovanni did not. He thirsted for travel outside of Italy. To mix it up with other foreigners. He’d like to see the Great Wall of China, surf the shark infested waters of Australia or South Africa, visit the Statue of Liberty in America, stand in front of the Taj Mahal. He had no desire to assimilate into the blood legacy of their fathers—though it was expected. If he had gone to the club with Santo and Lorenzo instead of spending the night taking Catalina and Dominic to the street festival in Naples, he would have knuckled up with any foreigner in the very same way. Maybe even drawn ‘Danny Boy’ (his beloved pistola) to even the score.

I miss Carlo, Lorenzo mumbled. "Questa vita is never fun or easy with him gone."

This life isn’t supposed to be fun or easy.

What are you saying? Rocco and Patri have had it fun and easy for years! Lorenzo spat.

Have they? Do you think Rocco is having fun now in Chianti bottling wine that no one drinks?

Lorenzo chuckled.

Giovanni smiled. Aye! Is there any news? Will Carlo be approved for an early release?

"Flavio says no. Carlo has more time on the books because he keeps getting into fights with the other inmates. Carlo says he’s defending himself, but I know it must be hard to not to want to crack skulls every day in that cage. Each time I visit him he has bruises and cuts. And Patri won’t do shit about it. È una merda, Gio. Carlo deserves better."

Giovanni glanced to the closed door. He shook his head. It was better not to go down that road. There lingered a festering bitterness over Patri’s refusal to help Carlo and it grew deeper with each year that passed.

You think Patri is angry at you? About the discotheque? Does Patri think I was with you? Giovanni asked.

Why would he care?

You moron. The rules! That’s why, Giovanni said with a snort.

"Eh? One set of rules for you little cousin and then another for me. I have to go off and work the sanitation pits and wallow in shit all day while you get to fuck girls down in Positano."

Aww, don’t start your complaining, Giovanni grumbled.

I’m not complaining. Just stating the truth. What if I were Patri’s son? His first born. Would this be my life? Lorenzo plucked the collar of his sanitation uniform.

Maybe, Lorenzo shrugged.

Bullshit! I'm the stooge. Patri only makes the money in the clubs because Santo and I hustle in the drunk tourists to be robbed by the Roma whores. We keep the cash flow going and everyone knows it. Even with the leashes on our necks.

You should never fuck with business Lo, It's Patri’s number one rule. You’ve done it more than once. You shit where we all eat.

Lorenzo shrugged.

I break rules because I have no choice. Every rule out there is to keep me in line not to advance me. And that’s the difference between you and I, said Lorenzo.

"What can I do to change it? Nothing! Niente di niente!" Giovanni tossed back.

"Eh, fuck it. I miss Carlo. That’s my real problem. He’s the only brother I have that understands me."

The dig hurt. Giovanni covered his feelings. He knew Lorenzo suffered after the imprisonment of his best friend. He knew Lorenzo constantly went to Sicily to visit the jails and pay the guards to make life easier for Carlo. He grabbed his cousin’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

I will cover the damages for you, Giovanni offered. We aren’t just cousins. We’re brothers—not you and Carlo. Your problems are my problems. Plus, I’ll tell Patri that the scuffle only gives us a tougher reputation and that always benefits the clan.

Your funeral, Lorenzo mumbled.

Giovanni laughed. Bury me with a Roma whore so at least I can get some good pussy out of it.

They both laughed. Sex was something they could always agree on and lately their experimental moods pushed them both toward whores instead of the prissy Catholic girls who wanted to be married before they could ease their hands under their skirts.

Giovanni slouched back against the wall. Lorenzo glared at the door with flared nostrils and a dented brow. They waited together in silence. Giovanni glanced over to his cousin. Lorenzo was his own worst enemy. But he wasn’t to blame. Patri ignored his accomplishments and his mother hammered on his failures. Maybe if Lorenzo’s father had lived he’d have more balance. It often felt like his cousin was as much of an outcast as Carlo. Maybe that is why they were so close.

"Forza, ti copro le spalle—Have some strength, I’m covering your shoulders," Giovanni said.

Lorenzo nodded and rolled his neck like a prize fighter about to enter the ring. This meeting is strange.

Strange how? Giovanni asked.

Your mother is inside. And so is mine.

Inside? With Patri and Flavio? Giovanni asked.

I’m telling you. Since Rocco is banished Flavio and Patri are acting weird. Now they have my mom in there? It’s going to be a bunch of yammering bullshit and the only bloodshed will be mine.

Well my mom is in there, so whatever it is she’ll make sure Patri deals with you fairly.

Deal with me? As if I’m guilty! he scoffed.

You said— Giovanni stammered.

Eh? Don’t justify it. Besides let’s not argue. It could be something else.

Like what?

Mancini? Lorenzo proposed. I heard that there’s a truce now between the families. Patri and Don Marsuvio are doing business again. Guess you didn’t stick Armando hard enough in the gut. It could be you that is in trouble. You might have to suck Armando’s dick one last time for an apology.

Giovanni felt his temper rise. He hated to think of the time after he stabbed Armando, and Lorenzo knew this. Not because he regretted what he’d done. He’d wished he killed the bastard. The angst he felt was much deeper. It was the beginning of the divide between him and his father. All his life he had tried to prove himself strong. From jumping off cliffs when he was six into the sea, to standing by and watching his father murder his enemies. He even learned how to be a marksman with an axe. But when he stabbed Armando over a girl he proved his true weakness. Lorenzo had been crowned Patri’s favorite. And it hurt until the reversal came. Maybe the rivalry between him and Lorenzo wasn’t their faults. Both boomeranged between acceptance and ridicule with the Don.

I also heard Patri has promised Catalina to Armando Mancini. For marriage.

"È una stronzata!" Giovanni leapt to his feet. That’s bullshit.

Lorenzo’s left brow arched. He paused for dramatic effect. Is it really? Do you think those fucking Sicilians would forgive you for attacking their golden boy if it didn’t come at a price? I heard Madre telling Zia about the plan. Catalina’s part of the deal for the truce between our families. Even trade. You stab Mancini’s little prince, Patri gives Mancini our princess in return.

Giovanni’s nostrils flared, and his chest constricted. He clenched his hands into tight fists. "Over my fucking dead body will that bastardo ever marry piccoletta. It will never happen."

Whoa, there big man, hold your nuts! Lorenzo laughed. "Stop swinging them in my face. We both know you can’t stop Patri from doing shit. And trust me it’s not because of you and the knife. It’s because Patri would sell any of us off to have control in la Camorra and the Mafiosi."

This is no laughing matter!

I agree. But you’re acting like you the boss is always funny to me, said Lorenzo.

Giovanni grimaced.

There’s no way we can stop it if Patri wants it. Maybe Armando won’t want to wait until Catalina’s old enough and he’ll marry someone else?

It shouldn’t happen. But if it does, then we need to protect her, Giovanni said.

If a great white shark could smile when it smelled blood in the water it would look the way Lorenzo did at the thought of violence. Giovanni was no pussy, but he didn’t enjoy maiming, killing and torturing the way Lorenzo, Santo, and Carlo did.

I’ll fucking cut him myself. On my life Gio. When the time comes, whenever it comes, I will gut him.

Giovanni smiled and agreed.

"Giuro che rispetterò e onorerò la vita!" The boys both chanted their motto and did the hand slaps of their gang. It was an old saying by elders who sat in front of cafes along the Amalfi sipping cappuccino and wearing caps. Giovanni smiled, and Lorenzo laughed but touched his jaw and winced.

Hurts? Huh? Giovanni asked.

I’ll live, Lorenzo said.

The door opened. Flavio walked out. He glanced to Giovanni and then to Lorenzo. "Vieni con me—come with me."

The boys did what the consigliere requested. Giovanni entered the room first. He saw his mother seated in a chair with her hands in her lap. Zia Isabella stood by the window looking out of it instead of facing the room. Patri Tomosino sat at his desk. He stared directly at Giovanni. And Giovanni knew better than to break the connection. Whatever it was that had displeased Giovanni’s father would be painfully hammered down upon them soon. Flavio spoke first. And if Flavio led a conversation between the children and their parents it never ended well.

"Mi ascolti bene, it’s been decided. Giovanni will be leaving for America at the end of the month. We have gotten you an acceptance into university."

University? Lorenzo blurted the word as if choking.

Lorenzo always spoke out of turn. Giovanni did not. He stared at his father. The news drove a spike of conflict into Giovanni’s heart and he could see clearly his father suffered the same pain. His gaze shifted to his mother. Her eyes glistened with repressed tears. She had made one promise to him. It was on the first night they returned from Ireland. The night she came to his room after spending the evening making peace with his father. She stroked his hair while he slept. She hummed a song to him. She told him she wasn’t mad he called his father to come collect them, that she understood. And then she told him her vow as a mother. To never let harm come to him. She’d give her life and soul over to Tomosino to make sure of it. He’d go to America and have a better existence. It was the first time he even dreamed of being different or living somewhere different. The first taste he had for what was foreign.

Did I do something wrong Patri? Giovanni asked.

No, sweetheart, Eve answered for his father. This isn’t a punishment. It’s a reward. You’ll go to school. Study law. Isn’t that exciting?

Lorenzo looked at him as if he had snakes crawling over his body and Flavio seem to beam with the pride he wished his father showed. It was only Tomosino and Zia Isabella who had somber moods.

Lorenzo, you will apprentice with me. Work in the business, Flavio said. No more sanitation work or street hustles.

You’re awful at it anyway, Zia Isabella mumbled. Maybe this will be something to give you purpose. You could lead this family. You’re from Battaglia blood and that makes it your right. It wasn’t true for Rocco, but it can be true for you. Isn’t that right big brother?

Tomosino glanced to Eve. His face now flushed with simmering rage. His mother smiled at Tomosino and nodded that he should approve of the plan between the women. His father did not verbally consent, but his silence spoke volumes.

Giovanni will do great things in America, Tomosino. He’ll be a scholar. In the future who knows how the boys will lead this family. What men they will become as your sons, Eve said. Because you are their father, the only father that counts to either of them.

Rocco wouldn’t agree. Isabella snickered.

After a long silent pause Tomosino leaned forward with a burdened sigh. His gaze switched to Lorenzo and then to Giovanni and then back to Lorenzo. They are right. You both are the future. This is our family. We’ll take care of the family together.

I won’t disappoint you Patri! Lorenzo said with a wide grin. Being called Tomosino’s son was not shocking to the boys. Tomosino was the force in all their lives. Lorenzo’s father had died when he was still a very young boy. Tomosino was the only father he’d ever known. I won’t fail, Madre. I swear it. I can do this. I will, announced Lorenzo.

Zia Isabella shrugged. "Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. You deserve this more than anyone else. The sins of my brothers shouldn’t be the curse of my only son."

Giovanni and Lorenzo exchanged a look of confusion but neither dared to challenge or question the statement. Isabella had a way with words that often didn’t make sense to them.

Uh, what she is saying is you boys are the best of us, and we’ll make sure we do the best for Tomosino. Agreed? Eve added.

The boys nodded.

Eve got up from her seat. She went to the boys. She took their hands into hers. You’re not teenagers any more. This is not a competition. It’s not about who is stronger or who is smarter. It’s about growing up and having choices. Some choices your mothers want, some choices your fathers want, and some just for you. Let’s see how it goes. Okay? Promise me you both will try.

I promise Madre, Giovanni said and kissed her cheek.

Lorenzo nodded. He kissed Eve’s cheek. "Ti prometto."

Okay. Go now. Go.

Giovanni turned to leave. He glanced back and saw something he’d never seen from his father. Not once, in all the years he’d known him to be cruel he had never seen regret. Patri shook his head and looked away as Isabella hovered like a vulture behind him, smiling at the discomfort of its prey. Eve was the one who closed the door on them both.

Can you believe this shit? I’m going to be next. I’m going to be next. Me? Lorenzo pounded his chest like a gorilla.

And I’m going to America to be a lawyer.

This is great news. Right? Lorenzo asked. "I can get Carlo out. I’ll be capu."

Giovanni kind of liked the idea of freedom but Lorenzo’s fate didn’t sound as promising to him as his own.

Let’s go tell the boys. Lorenzo dropped his arm around Giovanni’s shoulder and the two of them walked away. Before he knew it Giovanni, too, was excited. He had a future, a different choice. It was the first time in his life he’d been given so much liberty. They went to the game room in Melanzana. While Lorenzo dialed up Nico on the phone and bragged about his prospects Giovanni walked over to the window and stared outside of it. He saw Dominic again teaching Catalina how to ride her bike. He smiled to see his baby sister feet still couldn’t reach the pedal. His gaze then lifted to the horizon. He couldn’t see past the mountains and trees. But when he looked hard enough he saw into his future. A different world waited for him. A fresh start.

Omertá was never to be his destiny.

OMERTA BOOK I

ACT ONE

Fall

November 1994

The Year of the Babies

Chapter One

Bagheria, Sicilia—

CITTÁ DI BAGHERIA is where every Battaglia male before Don Giovanni, for over two hundred years, was born. The name Bagheria originates from the Sicilian term Baarìa. And to the Sicilians Bagheria means land that descends into the sea. In 1990 shortly after Don Giovanni Battaglia had believed his new African American lover was dead, the final movie in the Godfather series by Frances Ford Coppola—which was filmed in Bagheria—was released. The tourists flooded his territory and Giovanni Battaglia made a fortune thanks to the rich history of his family’s land, culture, and the many cafes and souvenir shops he owned. He’d even been invited to have a celebratory dinner with the director and actors. Of course, he refused. Don Giovanni was far too busy drinking away his sorrow and killing Calderone’s to give a shit about some fictional depiction of the life he was cursed too.

That was then.

This was different.

Bagheria no longer held the promise of heritage and pride. The Battaglia’s were, like Michael Corleone at the end of the movie saga, damned. And years later his reflection upon his life would make the consequences of the curse crystal clear. He’d remember the day that changed it all. The moment he decided that brother, cousin, blood, none of it matter in the face of omertà.

It was a season of death for the Battaglia’s. Today he buried the last matriarch of his family. To escape his grief and anger he insisted on taking a walk alone. Once again, he was drawn to the beach and cliffs where his childhood began. Along the way he was stopped by the sea. The memories like the tide washed over him. He felt his feet sink into the sand. The Don removed his shoes and socks. He waded in. He wore dark trousers, a button-down shirt from his wife’s high-end men’s fashion line. To his back were his men, armed, and watchful—also dressed in black silk suits with dark sunglasses to beat back the glare of the sun broadcasting heat across the shoreline. They paced along the private beach tense and angry. Every man had a gun. Every man was ready to take down any of the Battaglia’s enemies. Didn’t they know? The enemy was within him.

The ocean was as vast and deep as his problems. There were too many to count. Where did it all begin? If he understood the beginning, he could figure out the ending.

Lorenzo was his brother.

Maybe? Maybe not?

Rocco was dead. The rotten son-of-a-bitch deserved much worse.

Maybe he was lying? Maybe not?

Catalina was gone. She vowed never to return to him or her family.

Maybe she could be convinced or forced to do so? Maybe not?

His Bella was pregnant when all the doctors had warned against another pregnancy. The child could possibly not make it to term. And if the child lived the poisons in his wife’s body had most certainly polluted her womb. There would be consequences. And to add to all of his distress, his empire had fallen.

Maybe he could hold it all together. Maybe not?

The water pressure squeezed his thighs and his feet crushed sea shells and pebbles as he kept walking into the sea. The salt spray of the waves hitting his chest splashed his face and cooled his temper. It was a good cover over his tears for all that he mourned that day. Don Giovanni was nearly shoulder deep before he began to swim into the waves. He was weak. The recovery was slow and strenuous. But in the ocean, he felt like a man again. His own tears blinding him. He succumbed to the pressure and went under.

—ℬ—

Doma, Tanzania – Africa—

THE HEAT THAWED the coldness in his heart. It boiled the air that he breathed and made him exhale fire from his lungs. Carlo wiped his hand down his sweaty face. It was hotter than Hades in Africa. And even hotter than that in the room. There was smoke clouding his vision. It curled like a milky wave up around his face. At first confused, he couldn’t discern the source. And then he realized he’d exhaled it from his nostrils. The Kuhani burned candles and frankincense in copper pots. She hung scarves off the bedposts and used them to cover the windows and lamp shades. In doing so the room was cast in deep red shadows. And she’d fucked him until he wheezed fire and mirth from his throat and teetered between despair and giddiness. If he had the mental strength he’d beg for death, but instead he only groaned in his native tongue for pussy. Then darkness descended over his consciousness and he was lost.

He woke again. This time not beneath her but seated in a chair with his face resting in his hand. He’d lost time. It happened when he visited the danguro.

Carlo, she said and gestured for him to join her. Did the opium make him dream he fucked her? Was he always in the chair? Who had put chains on him and shut the door to purgatory? He didn’t know. He couldn’t ask. The only common language they shared were their names. He could pour out his soul to her and she wouldn’t understand a word. In fact, he had confessed his crimes and sins between drags of the opium pipe she gifted him with.

Carrrrrloooow, she purred. His name rolled off her tongue singed by the bristle of her Swahilian accent. She cast aside the thin sheet wrapped around her body and revealed her beauty. Her curves were a deep flawless umber brown. She was slick with sweat. Pearls of moisture glistened over her skin in the red heat. The tips of her breast were black as was the trimmed triangle of hair coiled and flattened over her sex. A smile curved the corner of her mouth and revealed stark white teeth beneath the sexiest pair of lips he’d seen on a woman. Her hair was cut short, coiled into tight coils like wool. Her name was Abedi (a-BEH-dee) and in her language the name meant worshiper. It was her deep, hypnotic, brown eyes and his drug induced state that reminded him compare her beauty to Shae. Carlo chuckled. She picked up the bottle of pombe and took a sip. Every woman, African or Italian reminded him of Shae. He’d even let himself care for Adara because of the unexplainable resemblance. However, Abedi's eyes were so similar he felt weak whenever he stared into them too long. In the past he could never escape his first love. But he had learned how to mentally replace her. Abedi and the opium helped.

The temptress sat forward and spoke to him while keeping her thighs parted and feet flat to the bed. Her arm was extended. It rested on top of her left knee. He tried to focus on her speech. Her language tickled like musical chimes in his ears. He liked her voice even if he didn’t understand her. He closed his eyes and drifted on the sound of the words she formed. He wanted to feel nothing—but when fucking her he did. He felt free. When Carlo opened his eyes, she approached from the side of the bed. Abedi’s movements were graceful. Her long legs were slender but her thighs and ass thick and round like his Shae’s. Her breasts perfect with erect nipples and hips womanly—all were like Shae.

She touched his face.

"Kijana mzuri," she said good boy in Swahili. With her finger she lifted his chin and his head tilted back under her hypnotic control. She straddled his lap and sat on his dick. She put the pipe to his lips as the silky walls of her wet pussy glided over his erection causing it to stiffen. She went down on him inch by inch. The whores before her in the brothel had done nothing more than emptied his pockets. Abedi was different. She understood his demon and nurtured it through opium. All she wanted in return was his soul. Carlo took a long drag of the pipe and his regrets lessened. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. She kissed his face and he felt alive.

Close your eyes, she said in Italian.

He frowned.

Did she speak Italian or was it the opium talking?

He closed his eyes.

He saw nothing.

He heard nothing.

He felt everything. Her pussy, the heat of her body and even the warmth of her breath. He felt the way the fatty part of her ass cheeks bumped his thighs when she moved. He felt the urge to release swell like lava in his ball sack, on the verge of a nuclear climax. The sex was good. She was good. But he was dying.

Death was bliss.

You’re going to kill yourself. Is that what you want?

Carlo’s lashes fluttered, and his lids parted. His vision blurred by the frankincense and deep magenta-red shadows.

Please stop. I’m begging you, please, a woman wept. Let go... so you can have some peace.

At first, he thought it was Marietta, pleading for her life. He’d heard it enough to conjure her voice in his dreams. But this was different. He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t awake. He was trapped somewhere between opium and hell. And he was trapped alone. The shadows cleared like dissipating smoke. Like a shadow stepping into moonlight she emerged. Adara. Despite her betrayal the sight of someone that he cared for helped. But the more his vision cleared the more clarity there was. It wasn’t Adara. Shae had returned and the knife in his chest twisted deeper.

You’re going to kill yourself. Is that what you want? Shae asked.

It’s inevitable, he answered without parting his lips.

No. It’s not. You could stop this. All of it. Why won’t you stop?

"No, è il destino a decidere—what will be will be. Now go away, bitch. Don’t pretend you care." He closed his eyes and summoned the emptiness and found pleasure again in the void. But that changed. He went from sitting with his sorceress riding his cock to lying on his side in bed. He opened his eyes. A woman lay next to him. Her hand smoothly went over his chest, her lips grazed his chin. Please don’t die Carlo. I love you. Adara’s curly hair fell like the ringlets of an angel over her face. I’m sorry. I betrayed you. But I never wanted this, I never meant for this to happen.

Get the fuck off of me, he said, too weak to push her away. Adara kissed his lips and chuckled. Carlo winced. The kiss burned through him. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly to endure the insurmountable pain. He opened his eyes to see Adara and Shae together. In bed with him. He lay between the women. Shae was the first to rise. She straddled him and ran her hands down his chest. Her vaginal walls constricted on his penis like a silk cuffed vice upon her descent. Adara traced his lips with her tongue and it cooled the burn she had left before. Then her mouth covered his and her tongue eased in deeper. Adara was a good kisser. Passion tilted his head back and lifted his chin. Ruled by desire he kissed her hard while gripping Shae’s thigh and working his hips to feed her more of his cock.

Carlo groaned with pleasure. Shae rode him slow and steady. When Adara finished giving him the kiss of life she eased over him and sat her sweet plump pink vagina on his face. Carlo swirled his tongue upward and penetrated her hole between licks and laps that swiped all the way up to her clit. Her round ass bounced and jiggled on his forehead. He didn’t have to see them to witness what came next. He knew it. Shae had Adara by the face and was kissing her deeply, enjoying the way Adara’s tongue danced in your mouth when kissed. He knew it because he had lived this deep passion with Shae before. The women loved each other and loved him.

Shae kept grooving. Back and forth, up and down they went until he grabbed Shae’s hips and forced her to slow the pace while he balanced the need to breathe against the intoxicating taste of her. But the relief only came in spurts as both women worked him to cataclysmic bliss. And he nearly smothered under Adara’s pussy with her hard gyrations as she reached climax.

Then like a puff of smoke they were gone. He couldn’t taste Adara’s pussy or feel Shae’s heavenly walls any longer. He turned his head in search of them. The ladies stood at the side of the bed in zombie like trance with red and black serpent eyes.

You’re so fucking weak! Shae spat. I needed a real man. A real man would have come inside that house with his gun and dragged me out. A real man wouldn’t run away and leave me behind.

I didn’t run from you—

You did! When I was weak you were supposed to be strong! You’re a cripple! Pathetic! Shae spat. A pit-bull junkie that no one wants. What did I ever see in you? What? Why don’t you do us both a favor and put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger!

Adara laughed. She laughed and tossed her long curls to the side of her shoulder. "How easy was it for me Carlo, to take everything from you, to turn on you? The butcher? You are no butcher. You’re a puppy! My puppy. All I had to do is pretend to care. You’re so desperate for attention you’d take it from anyone. My bosses laughed. We had a good laugh at you. Why do you think Giovanni sent you away with Marietta? Because you’re a useless piece of shit! Un patetico perdente!"

Fuck you both! he snarled like a mad dog and tried to rise. He could not. He was tied to the bed. He frowned at the restraints fastened to his wrists and snatched hard to break free.

The women stepped aside. Marietta appeared. She had her hand over her belly, and shook her head smiling. He’s a monster. A woman killer. A baby killer, she said. Il macellaio. The Butcher. He will die like monsters do. And he will burn in hell forever.

More women came.

Whores.

Victims of his cruelty.

Some were dead.

Some were half-dead.

Some were barely alive.

Carlo felt himself seizure with guilt as they all shouted his crimes against them.

Get out! Get out of my fucking head! He yelled and when the shouting and fighting defeated him he broke down in sobs. He hadn’t cried so hard and so genuinely since his baby sister died. He hadn’t felt so broken and scared, since he was convicted to a man’s prison as a teenager. He hadn’t hated himself so much since he lost Shae. He cried.

Shhhh... Shae whispered. She was lying next to him again. I’m here, daddy. It’s okay my tough guy. I’m here.

Stop torturing me! Carlo choked on his plea. Just leave me the fuck alone!

She did not. She rolled on top of him and straddled him once more with her soft thighs. She moved on him with slow back and forth pelvic thrusts. "Remember Carlo? Remember this? Remember how good it was?