Luzo: Reign of a Mafia Don (2 page)

Salvatore’s father operated in secret against Mussolini and his Nazi counterparts. Salvatore eavesdropped when
groups of conspirators gathered in the cellar for their meeting. This occurred long after the younger siblings were in bed. Who could sleep when war was afoot? He was old enough to understand the foreign soldiers with swastika arm bands spouting hateful rhetoric were not friends. 

Salvatore implored his father to allow him to join the Italian Resistance
. He was forbidden, not because he lacked heart but due to the age requirement. Nonetheless, Salvatore wanted to fight to defend against the scourge of Nazi infestation.

Thanks to
Italy’s fascist Prime Minister Mussolini, his homeland had entered an armistice with the despicable German dictator and this had many Italians in a furor. His father was among those outraged by Mussolini’s treatise with the Führer. October of last year, Italy surrendered to Allied forces and declared war on Nazi Germany, and Mussolini fled.

How fitting the Italian government turned on their former head of state who bound
them to a despotic regime. War is business, and Mussolini’s spoils ended with his death at the hands of his own people.

Viva l'Italia!

There was a week of celebration in the Giacanti household which was staunchly opposed to Mussolini’s RFP from the onset.

His father’s elation was immeasurable.
Don Sergio Giacanti understood the anger of people whose skin was not white or had beliefs in conflict with Nazi propaganda.

His father was a dark Sicilian with very blue eyes
; his skin color was not only the result of living in southern Sicily, but also the genes of an African grandmother, a heritage of pride he passed on to his children. Contempt is also what his father had in abundance for Mussolini’s gall to invade Egypt.

Salvatore smiled, he was glad to see the strain removed from his papa’s face. He missed his famiglia. Being the eldest he felt a sense of responsibility for their well-being, especially his younger brothers who traipsed on his heels like chicks around their estate with never-ending questions. Anthony was closest to his age, surly
and quick tempered. Giuseppe was more inquisitive than troublesome. A scholarly type, who Salvatore supposed was more suited for a career in law or sciences.  Salvatore considered himself the most balanced of the brothers, in temperament that is. Although he was young, he called himself a man. That is what papa called him often. And, his mama’s sparkly eyes always nodded in agreement. “Bello, anche!” she’d say.

Sí, he missed home.

Salvatore’s head swiveled in the morning light, viewing the damage to the Parisian architecture, the country of many famous artists and writers. He had read the great tale, The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas II. He loved the chivalry and flamboyant men of honor. What a great imagination to create worlds and put them on paper and delight the reader with such vivid fiction. Eh, but the Nazi’s destroyed the statute of Alexandre Dumas’ II father, a great general later tossed in prison by the jealous Napoléon Bonaparte. Racist people do not see beauty; they are blinded with hate and bring destruction. General Dumas was black and of course his famous son was as well. Pigment has no bearing on character, nor does religion, but debate is useless, for logic is not housed in ignorant men.

Salvatore appreciated literature, art and music, but what he loved most was business. His mother loved the opera and the crooning butterscotch voice of Josephine Baker.
Salvatore inherited something from each parent, apparently. He was grateful he had. His father never trusted any one to properly calculate the figures so he usually did the computations himself. When he noticed Salvatore’s gift with numbers, he recruited Salvatore to assist in tallying ledgers. This was their secret, nobody, not even his mother knew. He began at seven, until he was sent to France to learn more about business in a foreign school.

His father did not tolerate disobedience. Don Giacanti ensured that people obeyed. A son did as told.

Salvatore hopped over a sizable crater on the ground. War leaves marks on the earth and flesh. Visions of war brought these thoughts of family. They were not an ordinary famiglia. He realized this at the age of four. Large men with concealed weapons were always about. They were nice to giovani Salvatore but to others they were very violent. Mafiosi, he had heard whispered. When he got older he asked his papa about what it means and he dismissed the boy. “Bah, Mafiosi giovani. We are not thugs, figlio, siamo uomini raffinati!”

But, does a refined man beat to death another in the parlor because he has borrowed money without asking?

His papa could be quite intimidating; however with famiglia he remained affectionate. Once while sitting beside his father at his large desk, the imposing figure sat down his pen and leaned back in his chair. The American singer Josephine Baker’s voice drifted beneath the doors of the office. Salvatore continued to review the column of numbers, smiling at the sum which confirmed his father was undoubtedly very rich.

“Lovely music, sí?” his father asked with a wistful gaze.

“Sí, papa.”

“Tua madre and I were in Paris and we had the opportunity to watch her performance. Signora Baker graciously accepted our invitation to dinner afterward.”

Salvatore nodded. “Mama said she is beautiful and smart.”

“Sí, she is.
Tua madre has played Signora Baker’s music eversince.”

“Sí papa, I am aware.” Salvatore smiled. His mother had become enamored with the jazz singer’s music. Then again his mother loved free-spirited women like herself.

“You know women are complex like the pedals of a flower.”

Salvatore listened.

“They are beautiful to gaze upon and hold.”

The boy blushed. He had yet to kiss a girl. He was ten.

“But, figlio they can be very dangerous.”

Salvatore frowned. He could not picture anything dangerous about a girl except for their frightening words when they become angered. He cringed because there was such a girl in town whose words and fists were injurious to many of the boys. Her name was Sophie. She was the youngest daughter of one of his father’s friends. Sophie was pleasing to the eyes but at six years old, far too young for a boy of ten.

Salvatore continued walking the Boulevard Jourdain and through the Porte d’Orleans in the rue St.-Jacques. He crossed the bridge that led directly to the square between Notre Dame Cathedral and the Prefecture of Police as cumbersome trucks carrying militia and automobiles rolled by. In the sunshine Paris had never looked more beautiful.

The time was
a quarter to nine and the morning is ripe for exploration.

Weeks ago the
air had crackled and hissed with bullets all over the square. The French light tanks had stomped out the German garrison right there across the Seine. Germans had been shooting from Notre Dame and nearby homes he was told by his teacher. Today he wanted to visit the area and see where on the 25
th
of August the occupying German garrison surrendered to the French Forces. The Liberation of Paris started with an uprising by the French Resistance against the Germans. On the 24
th
the Forces Françaises de L'intérieur or the FFI, as they were known had received reinforcements from the Free French Army of Liberation and the U.S. Third Army led by General Patton.

Maybe,
his love of intrigue stemmed from what his father said about Signora Baker being a brave woman that also sparked a boy’s curiosity about his mama.

“Tua madre has many interests giovani. I am amazed she remains abreast of the happenings in wartime and the French.
Apparently sheet music holds more than notes for a singer. Vive la France and Liberation,” his father said and then stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “That is enough for the evening Salvatore, clean up for dinner, capisce?”

Salvatore c
losed the leather journal, stood and nodded respectfully. Sergio Giacanti had requirements that etiquette is practiced at home and in business. “Civility is for gentlemen; animals have yet to understand the necessity of such practices, capisce?” his father would mutter on occasion after dealing with a boorish person.

Salvatore stood viewing the Seine and looked up at the formidable towers of Notre Dame. He pictured himself as a soldati fighting for the freedom of his people. But then he smiled because he was proud to know women like his mama and the starlet helped in a small way to end the invasion on French soil. The expatriate singer used sheet music to s
muggle secret military reports into Portugal from France by writing these messages in invisible ink. His mama helped to fund the resistance with her husband’s money and guns. He read her diary. The curiosity won over and he could not resist when he saw it lying on her bureau when she’d gone out with his papa. After reading her confession he tore out the page to burn, but then he decided to toss the entire book in the fireplace. For some reason he had a bad feeling that one day the book might fall into the wrong hands. No, he would not want his mama imprisoned or worse. Let her believe it was lost. That was best. Papa had always said famiglia must protect their own. In fact, papa had spoken a great deal about family, Salvatore thought. He often overheard his papa conclude the meeting of the secret group in the cellar by saying, “Death to the enemies of my famiglia.”

***

“Where have you been?” The teacher asked Salvatore when he entered the spacious châtelet in the Latin Quarter. 

“To visit Notre Dame Monsieur,” Salvatore answered. He held fast to his books. He was eye-level with his teacher and wondered if the man had shrunk in the passing days. “
You have taught lessons which inspire my curiosity. Does not visiting these places constitute schooling?”

“Oui,” the educator acknowledged and then gestured for the tall youth to
find residence on the sofa. “Please giovani Giacanti, sit.”

The teacher’s wife appeared. She brought refreshments.

Salvatore noticed the sadness in her eyes. He placed the books on the sofa. His posture was erect, similar to a disciplined infantry man. The teacher’s wife glanced almost pleadingly at her husband which did not go unnoticed by the observant youth. “Is everything all right, Monsieur?” Salvatore asked as nervousness began to climb from his fingers to his face.

The Frenchman’s mout
h tugged downward as he claimed the high back seat near the window next to an ornate chest. “This was with your belongings. Your father asked me to ensure it remained safe and present it to you in the event…”

Salvatore stood abruptly. “In the event of what?”

“In the event of his death.”

The boy stumbled backward and then dropped to the
cushion in shock. “Papa is dead?”

“Oui,” was the compassionate response. The teacher continued with more grave news. “Your mother and sisters
too…I am sorry.”

A boulder sat on Salvatore’s chest that he could not remove. He slumped in despair as his eyes filled with tears. “No, there is a mistake. My papa has men, soldati…they would not let such a thing occur…I do not believe.”

“I would not repeat this if I had not received confirmation.”

Salvatore bolted forward. “You have not spoken of Giuseppe and Anthony, are they dead as well?”

“They survived. Anthony will join you here. My wife and I will care for you both. Giuseppe is safe with a trusted ally of your father.” The teacher paused and sighed. “The Giacanti’s are but three giovani. The murderers killed every one even the relatives of your mother.”

The boulder suffocated a distraught boy
, not yet a teen. Salvatore could not speak…nor did he want to. His famiglia was dead. His beloved sister’s cherubic faces soared like flames in a hearth. The anger was too great to contain; a saddened boy sobbed loudly for his famiglia, swearing an oath of revenge.

***

The young boy in his clean uniform with a prestigious patch on the breast pocket walked through the Parisian street. In his company were three other students deemed ruffians by the teachers at the academy. Twice the ringleader of the miscreants found himself suspended from the elite school paid for by his caretaker. He was not the studious type like his older brother Salvatore, who the girls found irresistible. Anthony Giacanti despised school and fidgeted. He also detested his fake name, Carlo Dichenzo.

Angry is what he considered himself, furious that the years had passed and he was stuck on foreign soil with the ostentatious French. He considered running away many times. Perhaps he might stow-away in a steamer or cargo plane heading for Italy and find Giuseppe and together they would
catch the men responsible for murdering his famiglia. But, his fratello had said papa wanted them to stay away from Italy until they were men. Papa had suspected he might be killed, how unfair he had not warned his sons. Every day Carlo lived like a bomb, waiting to explode. Sometimes he could not control his temper. Little things set him off; a cocky look, a tease and even his brother’s patience.