Luzo: Reign of a Mafia Don (8 page)

“I do not share what is not earned. I have returned because Sicily is my home.” Luzo
did not blink. “The economy requires an influx of capital to re-establish Italy’s neglected and broken infrastructure. My company builds and repairs broken things and I am a master at this. But, to assist the people of Sicily even an expert questions whether this is possible when a hand is out to take claiming entitlement before a contract has been sealed. I understand you can ensure there is not an interference or disruption in my business dealings by the undeserving.”

Signore Cigliari listened. His eyes were searching Luzo’s face. The blue eyes were those of a deceased acquaintance. But, the possibility that Luzo Palazzo could be related to Sergio Giacanti died when the investigative reports on the
native son verified he was indeed the offspring of a mill worker. 

“The question is not whether it is possible to assist the people of Sicily; it is whether your motives are
solely concerning business or to serve self-interest.”

“Even a priest has an interest in the reform of a sinner.
His church is his company; the sinner the customer.”

“I have found in business, priests do not exist.”
Cigliari rebuked.

“I concur, I am a businessman and my self-interest is profit.
People are the human resources required to operate. There will be jobs for the sons and daughters of mill workers and anyone willing to earn their pay. I do not give simply out of generosity.”

“And what of charity, if you are to receive these contracts?”

“Charitable organizations are a company as well. Those which receive my aid are required to account for every banknote. What I receive in return is favorable mention and then I am seen as philanthropic which helps foster my company’s prestigious reputation.”

Cigliari appreciated Luzo’s frankness. He also found him calculative
and potentially dangerous. “You are forthright.”

“I do not run a company to fail. Giving without recompense is not how I have
gained success; it is why many are in the red.”

“Eh, this is true.” Signore Cigliari fell silent. He was intrigued by someone of lesser maturity from humble beginnings, but who acquired wealth before reaching thirty. The swell of a pause was broken with Signore Cigliari’s non-committal response. “There is a dinner party Saturday night at my home. You and a guest are invited.” Then he noticed Luzo’s ring less finger. “There is not a Signora Palazzo?”

“Business is the woman I bed.”

“Tsk,” Signore Cigliari commented, “But you
are not a priest.”

“An unmarried uomo has the benefit of choosing on what day he seeks company.”

A mature husband responded. “A commitment phobia is what a fraternal organization may deduce.” Don Cigliari then rose slowly and donned his fedora. “They may also wonder whether your pene will affect the boardroom. A depraved reputation can travel the sea if one is not careful. I am certain a resourceful person will rectify that situation to associate with a dedicated society that values famiglia.”

Luzo stood
upon conclusion of their talk when Signore Cigliari extended his hand. There was a firm handshake. A conversation can earn a person’s respect, if there is wisdom in the exchange.

Signore Cigliari headed toward the door where his henchman stood
as sentry. He then stopped and turned in Luzo’s direction. “Don Casentini will no longer expect your presence. However, Saturday evening I do capisce?”

***

The large nose and beady eyes of a distant relative of Ernesto from Maretea distracted Carlo. His name was Terry Polini. Only a half a year separated the men in age, but Carlo’s physique was that of a gladiator and not a scrawny boy.  Perhaps,
that is why Terry’s nose appeared extremely bigger jutting from the thin face. But, just as Terry’s snout drew attention, Carlo’s striking features could have been the model for the Grecian statutes of male gods.

Ernesto had assembled a few of the trusted to be part of Carlo’s daily entourage. Where Terry hailed from is a hidden gem of a medieval town known as the ‘Pearl of the Tyrrhenian Coast.’ The region of Basilicata is gorgeous, with
pristine beaches, lush Mediterranean vegetation, and crystal-clear waters.

Carlo had visited there once as a child. He recalled the many churches and the
68-foot marble statue of the Redeemer, similar to one in Brazil, which loomed from the peak of Monte San Biagio.

A breathtaking sight to a small child.

Carlo checked the hour. He was to meet with the Don Casentini’s Capo in a café west of the main piazza.

The other fellow Ernesto pulled out of the bowels of Sicily
to join Carlo was nicknamed ‘Crazy Nicky.’ He was a bit strange. Ernesto said, it is rumored the mother may have had the friendly disease when she was with child and this attributed to the man’s odd behavior. He had a last name but said he preferred it remained anonymous due to its association with infamy. Carlo nearly laughed because Ernesto had already informed him of Crazy Nicky’s sensitivity. His mother had operated a profitable brothel and was called ‘La figa di Sicilia.’

Hell, anybody might take offense to someone calling their mama The Pussy of Sicily, no?

Over the course of weeks, Carlo learned that aside from a quirk or anomalous feature, they were steadfast and loyal. They were also very witty, something Carlo appreciated because at times, humor was required to balance the hardships of living.

Carlo’s wool double breasted coat fit to perfection. Many of his garments were tailored. Luzo had indeed influenced his sibling in
this department. It is true, what is worn determines how a man is perceived. There were dissimilarities between the brothers. Carlo did not care if a strand of a modified pompadour was out of place; in fact he altered his hair style with a part on the side and a touch of pomade to keep it down.

The bend of his kerchief was a simple square. The fancy two or four, stair, crown, wing-puff or triangle fold was not of importance. All of that fancy stuff suited his brother. Luzo enjoyed French music;
Jacques Brel was his favorite, although he was Belgian. Carlo’s pastime was a gourmet meal.

S
í, he loved food.

Then his mind wandered to Sophie. Ah, Sophie was a beauty and a great cook, she also stirred his loins. But, she had gone to America, the wild girl. In a way, he was glad. He would not
watch her fawning over Luzo like when they were young. Luzo would never cherish the sweet-spicy donna. He would use her body and then continue on. However, Carlo envisioned an eternity with such a donna. He was not a doting sap who would tolerate unrequited affections.

No, desperate is
not what he was.

The trio
arrived at the door of the café. Terry knocked, and then they waited for entry. Latches were released, the door opened and they were escorted into a tight hall and frisked.

Carlo was patient with the rough hands of a Sicilian patting and sliding along his limbs. Their weapons were confiscated, piled in a lock-box before they were surrounded by guards and led to the Capo.

Carlo saw nothing impressive in this choice of a meeting spot. He could pick out the weaknesses in security. He found these preliminary introductions informative. The size of a force reflected the rank of a Mafioso’s station, his confidence or lack thereof.

Casentini’s
Underboss was Maurice Zenucci; this was the Capo, Fazio Sippeta; a carelessly attired, five feet eleven, stocky pug-nosed thug with no manners. Carlo had not reached the Capo before he blurt out in guttural tone, “You’re late!”

Carlo continued forward flanked by Snowzer and Crazy Nicky who then halted when Carlo boldly
sat at the table where the Capo recently ate. Food droppings were on the cloth and the sloppy Capo’s tie.

Pig
.

Carlo crossed his leg, avoiding the table leg. “Buongiorno Don Sippeta.”

“Did I ask you to sit cazzo?”

Carlo’s demeanor was devoid of tension. In France he encountered loud surly opponents without sportsmanship. He beat them to a pulp. There are some who have never recovered.

“Perhaps I am in the wrong location. I was told I am to meet a Capo of Don Casentini and not an animal trainer.”

Rustling of suits occurred as the Capo’s soldati moved closer.

“Get him out of here, ora!” The Capo exclaimed in a fit of rage. He rose, knocking over the remnants of his liquor and the liquid mingled with the sloppy mess.

Carlo stood as well, as a child he was shorter than his brothers but he was taller than the Capo. Six feet is short for a Giacanti, but what inches he lacked in height was gained in mass. He was also swift and strong. Perhaps that is why there was surprise when Carlo grabbed the Capo over the table and trapped in a chokehold.

Everyone stopped.

The room was silent.

A gurgling sound was music to Carlo’s ears.

“Put down
the weapons, ora!” Carlo ordered.

Guns were placed on the floor. In a rapid fire demand he instructed his guards to collect the weapons and the lock box
. Carlo pulled the pig over the table and used the Capo’s lower extremities to clear the dishes until his feet were on the floor.

The Capo
’s hands held tight to Carlo’s forearms. Drool slid from the side of his mouth. He was trying to speak, but Carlo did not allow a sound. He had come in good-faith to discuss business with the stronzo. Instead insults flooded the room.

Respeta!

Always respect a person unless he has disrespected you, is what he was taught as a child. Capo or King, Carlo bowed to no one.

“Tell Don Casentini that I refuse to negotiate with a pig of an underling. When an invitation is offered to a gentleman, you do not offend the guest!” Carlo scowled.

Snowzer and Crazy Nicky snatched the covering from a nearby table to use as a sack for the guns. They kept their Boss shielded as he dragged the oxygen deprived slob through the hall.

The gurgling sound ceased.

The door clanked open.

Crazy Nicky and Snowzer checked the street. Crazy Nicky had his gun cocked in readiness to shoot if anyone moved. Snowzer went for the car with the makeshift sack
cradling the guns. Seconds later, there were two honks.

Carlo dropped the lump of shit to the floor and then backed calmly out the door, daring the unarmed men to follow.

Like he thought, they were six useless pieces of dung.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Don Casentini’s corsca consisted of the town of Palermo. Waste
management and anything illegal he controlled. The lesser clans underneath his reign were assigned territories or borgatas. The other family’s territories were respected. They had resided in relative harmony. A firefight skirmish here and there from a young upstart with a swelled head was often put out swiftly.

Then along comes Carlo Dichenzo, an associate of the rich businessman Luzo Palazzo to upset the order of business. Don Casentini did not find this upheaval a coincidence. A man like Carlo Dichenzo did not act alone, nor was he the top of the
hierarchal chain. The person up high was often the wolf in fine clothing.

Don Cigliari was a similar species. He is who Don Casentini answered to; in fact he was a member of the secret group referred to as the International Board of Directors. The organization wielded power over
the country. The members were high-ranking officials in government, business and the military. Their identities were unknown by low-ranking members of organized crime. Meetings were for members only and never revealed to the head of families unless a clan leader was summoned to attend. Usually, when this happened, the person was escorted directly to the location.

The only member of the Board known to the families was Umberto Cigliari. He served as the spokesperson and intermediary, so to speak. The Board usually did not intervene in minor skirmishes or petty squabbles. They expected families to resolve their issues, but in the event these matters escalated and interfered with commerce or put a spotlight on criminal activities, well then the hammer of power struck. Death was a disappearance of entire
clans. Thus, this simmering flame set by Carlo Dichenzo if not handled properly could lead to many fatalities.

He glared at his Consigliere. “Dig until you pull up worms on this Luzo Palazzo and Carlo Dichenzo, capisce?”