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Chapter 1
"A legal THRILLER with an EDGE"
"An ambitious prosecutor and newbie mob attorney face off in this debut LEGAL THRILLER!"
PRESENT DAY . . .
The inside of Jason Noble’s head felt like a marching band was performing at the Rose Bowl. He shook it, which only made it worse. The sea breeze blowing through his open balcony door increased his urge to vomit.
His iPhone was on the edge of the sink, blinking, lighting the bathroom in a bluish glow. His trusted assistant was reminding him of a vet appointment: Caesar, Thursday, January 22, 8 am. “fifteen minutes,” he said out loud, sighing, shaking his head again, trying to get the marching band to take a break. Jason flipped on the light switch, reached for the Listerine and took a swig. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he instinctively recoiled. He spit out the burning liquid and took a closer look. The person who looked back was almost unrecognizable. Jason’s thick, dark brown hair now had streaks of gray showing through and lines had formed around the creases of his now sunken eyes. Damn, I look like hell for twenty-nine. I’ve aged twenty years in the past few months!
Jason grabbed the soap in hope of washing away his weariness when his attention was suddenly diverted to a screeching sound coming from outside. He turned from the mirror, steadied himself on the sink, and made his way to the bedroom balcony, wearing only his boxer briefs. Squinting from the blinding Florida sun, he leaned over the railing and saw a black Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of the guard booth. The driver’s side door started to open. Jason quickly ducked down, his heart racing. He didn't need to see the driver to know who owned the Lincoln. What’s Vinnie “The Bag” Respi doing here? Jason crouched behind the balcony wall, hiding like a rat.
Vinnie began honking the horn as he stepped out of the car, his thousand-dollar Italian loafers hitting the ground—HONK! HOOOOONK! Vinnie looked up at the façade of small balconies and replaced the honking with his baritone voice. “Yo! Jason! Let’s go! Hurry up, we gots plans!”
The guard booth door opened, and an old man in a perfectly starched uniform shuffled out toward Vinnie. “You can’t park there . . . and keep quiet!” Captain Tom scolded, pointing a rolled-up magazine at Vinnie. He wasn’t a real captain, but he took his job so seriously that the residents added the “captain” a few years earlier. “Move your car. Now!”
Vinnie leaned into the car and laid on the horn again as the front passenger door opened and a gorilla sized man stepped out. “Eh, old man, get back in ya fuckin’ shoebox before I shove ya back in,” Chrissie “Meatloaf” Stephini said in a tone that would frighten a professional boxer. “I’ll shove dat magazine up ya ass.” Captain Tom backed away, trembling.
Jason took a deep breath, pushed aside the fear welling up inside his chest, and stood back up. He rubbed his eyes hoping the hangover was causing his mind to play tricks on him. No such luck, he thought. Jason stared at the scene below, using all his energy to focus on whatwas unfolding and, more importantly, trying to figure out why in the hell are two mob enforcers at my condo? Didn’t I give La Cosa Nostra enough? . . . What else could they want from me?
“Quiet! I have neighbors!” Jason finally shouted.
“Yo! Jason, my friend! . . . Come on down.” Vinnie said, looking up with a smile.
Jason thought his expression looked more like an evil smirk. “I’ll uh . . . uh . . . be right down.” Jason turned and went inside. Grabbing a pair of jeans and t-shirt from the bedroom floor, he quickly got dressed and walked into the living/dining room. His nerves began to explode, a sense of heat overwhelmed his body and sweat started streaming down his forehead. His mind raced out of control, mostly with thoughts that resulted in an untimely and painful death. Why can’t I just be left alone to run my small law practice in Palm Beach? Maybe that’s frickin’ impossible now.
“Everything okay?” came a soft, female voice from the couch, startling Jason.
He stopped as he was about to open the front door and spun around. Now it was starting to come back—Inaya! I forgot she came home with me, but I’m glad she did. He smiled at her. Wow! She’s gorgeous even when she first wakes-up“Uh, everything’s fine. Are we okay? Um, I’m sorry you had to sleep on the couch . . . why are you on the couch?”
Inaya sat up. She rubbed her large, brown, doe eyes and ran her fingers through her straight, black hair. “We’re good. Your bed was full . . . besides, I’m a respectable girl. I’m not going to hop in the sack on the first night,” she smiled.
“Great. I’ll be right back and we’ll get breakfast.” Jason turned and headed out the front door. He quickly tried to clear his head as he thought about going back and getting his gun . . . but decided it wasn’t necessary—he hoped.
***
“Mornin’, Capitan Tom. Sorry about this,” Jason said.
“Are they g-gone, Jason?” Tom mumbled, peeking his head out from under his small desk.
“Just stay here. You’ll be fine.” Jason didn’t really know if that were entirely true. He walked toward Vinnie and Chrissie with an air of false confidence, his chest puffed out, and said, “What do you guys want?” He was suddenly mad at himself for not bringing his gun.
“Boss wants ta see ya,” Vinnie said.
“Bout what?”
“How da hell should I know? I’m jus’ da messenger. Get dressed and let’s go.”
“I am dressed.” Jason took a step back, putting more distance between himself and Chrissie.
“You’re not wearing dat garbage ta see da boss . . . and shave for Christ’s sake. Show some respect. Capisce?” Vinnie said, waving his right hand with fingertips together. “Go put on ya bes’ suit.”
“Put on sumptin’ ya’d wanna be buried in,” Chrissie added.
“What if I say no?”
“Dat’s why Chrissie’s here.” Chrissie stepped toward Jason clenching his big fists. Jason’s chest deflated. “You can put a nice suit on and get in the damn car or Chrissie can dress ya and shove ya in da trunk. Your choice . . . eider way, you’re comin’ wit us.”
Chapter 2
"A courtroom reveal, and an UNEXPECTED ending are more than SATISFYING...”
A FEW MONTHS AGO . . .
The constant thunk sound that came every few seconds was maddening—THUNK . . . THUNK . . . THUNK . . .
Alfonso clenched his thinning, greasy black hair that was wet from the spray off the ten-foot waves. “Enough!” he yelled to no one in particular, as he bent down and unhooked the harpoon gun on the deck next to a shipping container. This’ll stop that goddamn noise once and for all, he thought, as he lifted the big gun—the razor-sharp harpoon tip sticking out of the barrel.
The shipping freighter began its voyage in Shenzhen, China on June 1, but Alphonso boarded in Panama on July 2 for the seven-day journey to The Port of Palm Beach. His “special cargo” was already on board when the ship docked in Panama—six days late. Although, he didn’t really mind the delay; the prostitutes and heroin had been good company.
Alfonso quickly got used to the loud, whining engines and diesel smell that permeated his nostrils on each trip—this was his fifth. He gently swayed back against the shipping container, his feet stationary, as the freighter rolled over another ten-foot wave. His sea legs were good because of his low center of gravity. At five feet, four inches, and three hundred twenty pounds, Alfonso stuck to the deck like an anchor. But the constant noise coming from the shipping container made him crazy. He had nightmares for days after each trip, and they were lasting longer and longer.
Alfonso bitched to the crew every chance he got, even though most of them couldn’t understand a word he said: If it wasn’t fo’ da economy goin’ in da shitta, I wouldn’t have ta do dis nasty work. Earnin’s gettin’ harder and harder dese days. Years afta dat Great Recession ding and it’s still a struggle ta earn good enough for da Boss—greedy bastard.
Only Alfonso could hear it over the deafening engines and crashing waves that constantly rocked the freighter and swallowed any other sounds—THUNK . . . THUNK . . . THUNK . . . He wiped the saltwater spray from his face and placed his hand on the rusty handle of the forty-foot by eight-foot container. It wouldn’t budge.
The deck was full of red, blue, and yellow containers stacked five high. From the shadows of the containers appeared a hard-looking Latin guy—probably from some savage hellhole in Central America. The Central Americans built a lucrative, niche industry, thanks in large part to pirates on the high seas, of escorting illegal cargo across the world’s oceans. Their paramilitary training made them perfect for the task and they came cheap, which is what Alfonso liked. “What de hell you doin’, gringo? It ten-foot seas, they gonna slide out if you open de damn door . . . Whale.”
“Don’t call me that . . . only friends-of-minecan call me ‘The Whale’ you two-bit wetback.”
“Eh, holmes, tranquilo. Don’t want to lose any de merchandise. Last trip we lose good one—mucho dinero. Mi jefe not happy,” Raul said, clinging his skinny frame to the side of another shipping container close to the one Alfonso was trying to open.
“Screw your boss. He’ll get his dinero. I always pay transport, based on what we left Panama with. I gotta stop this banging. I can’t take it!” Alfonso lifted the harpoon gun and shook it in Raul’s direction.
Raul adjusted his weight from leg to leg to account for the rocking freighter. “Stand over there so you no hear dem bang around.” Raul pointed to a black void about thirty feet away.
“I’ll stand by my product until we dock. I don’t trust any of you greaseballs.”
“Whatever . . . Whale. You explain to mi jefe if lose more. Bad ratin’ if don’t arrive with full cargo. Had thirty units when left Panama. Better arrive with thirty.”
“Ratin’? What ratin’? I pay per unit. I ain’t payin’ for no damn ratin’.” Alfonso awkwardly shifted his weight as the ship dove over a sharp wave much bigger than the previous few.
“People that need me boss ‘special’ transport want know if what they shipping arrive in one piece. Right now we best, but mucho competition today. Just make sure none damaged . . . Bastardo,” Raul turned and walked toward the bow. Within seconds he was lost in the shadows of the stacked containers.
“The hell with his el jefe. He’ll get his money. Almost every trip we lose one or two anyway . . . one more won’t matter,” Alfonso muttered. THUNK . . . THUNK . . . THUNK . . .
He turned back to the container handle, put the harpoon gun down, and tried to open it again. “Damn it!” His hands slipped and his fat body smashed into the container with a thud. “What the fu—!” Alfonso yelled, as his legs went out from under him. The freighter quickly pitched to what felt like a ninety-degree angle. Alfonso fell hard on the wet deck. He rolled backwards, crashing into another stack of containers a few feet away. Water splashed all over.
The boat finally settled, and Alfonso rolled his body around and got to his knees. He was gasping for air. Raul reappeared, laughing, pointing with another Latin guy who had a machine gun clenched in one hand, holding on tight to a container railing with the other.
The harpoon gun came sliding down the deck, smashing into Alfonso’s knees causing him to fall forward on his belly.
“He really look like whale,” Raul said, pointing and howling.
Alfonso finally got to his feet, coughing, shaking his head, trying to get his bearings. “What the hell! Sonofabitch!”
A stout, chiseled man, in a Panamanian military uniform, silently came up behind Raul and commanded, “Vamońos!” Raul and his compańero quickly disappeared back into the shadows.
The man looked at Alfonso in disgust and said, without a hint of an accent, “Get off your fat ass and prepare to move your cargo. All of it. We’re docking in five.” The man turned around and left.
Alfonso slowly made his way over to the container, grabbing onto anything he could for balance along the way. At least the noise stopped. Finally, something good happened today.
The engines made a thunderous roar as the Captain put the throttle in reverse. The ship slowed surprisingly fast given its size. A blaring horn sounded three times as it approached the Port of Palm Beach located at the boarder of West Palm Beach and Riviera Beach. Alfonso had a guy that worked security at the Port, so it was easy to unload the “special cargo.” No one would miss one empty container among fifteen hundred full of knitted blankets from China. Alfonso’s ship easily got lost among the thousands of Zombie Ships, as they were called, roaming the earth with no cargo. Less than one percent of all shipping freighters coming into the U.S. were searched. Great odds for smuggling illegal cargo.
Alfonso grabbed the metal handle on the shipping container and put all of his weight behind it, but it still wouldn’t budge. “Jesus Christ. Eh, amigo. Get over here. Rapido!” Alfonso demanded, as he motioned with his hand to a guy standing by the edge of the ship. The deck was now busy with people preparing the ship to dock.
“Estás loco, gringo,” the skinny deckhand said, as he pushed Alfonso out of the way. He took a metal hook about eight inches long from the pocket of his dirty vest and placed it under the handle, and, with little effort, the latch popped open.
Alfonso was responsible for unloading his one container, the most valuable by far on the ship. Thirty units on this load. Twenty-five to one hundred thousand dollars each. The small ones were the most expensive, if they arrived in one piece. Alfonso pulled open the heavy container door—it creaked loudly from the rusty hinges. . . . He recoiled from the rush of putrid air. That smell got him every time. He covered his nose and mouth and looked in—only darkness, but he could hear muted sounds coming from the back of the container.
He turned on his flashlight. The beam cut through the thick, moldy air, sweeping side to side. . . . Then it stopped on a young, Asian girl’s face, perhaps twelve years old. The innocence of youth gone from her eyes. She was covered in filth, wearing rags for clothing, holding her hand over an elderly Asian woman’s mouth, who had tears streaming down her face. The old lady was clutching a small boy, who was lifeless in her arms. The little girl removed her hand and sank back as far as she could, which wasn’t very far because of the twenty-seven other Asian people pressed against each other behind her. The old lady began sobbing, the noise echoing around the container.
“Shut up! Shut up! Not a sound ya dumb bastards! You want your freedom?” Alfonso stepped into the container, shinning his flashlight in their terrified faces. The group was covered in excrement, malnourished, and in severe shock from the long, hard trip. Alfonso pushed open the other door. The freighter was almost at a complete stop. The sound of the powerful engines thrust into reverse filled the air.
These poor people were promised a better life in America for a fee of ten thousand American dollars each. In reality, they just became an unknown statistic in the world of human trafficking. They were paid pennies a week to work off the fee, which only increased because of the ridiculously high rent they were charged for squalid conditions even a sewer rat wouldn’t live in. The ones they could prostitute were also charged for the heroin they needed to feed their addiction that was forced upon them by their captors. However, Alfonso felt he was a decent guy because he had rules: no infants and none of the young girls could be sold as breeders, although he couldn’t promise his “no breeding” rule was always followed. The temptation to get a girl pregnant then rip the baby from her and sell it for around fifty thousand dollars on the black market was too good to pass up for the heartless men and woman in the human trafficking business.
Alphonso walked over to the old woman and grabbed the boy’s arm, yanking him away. She sobbed uncontrollably. Alfonso shined the flashlight in the boy’s face. “Shit. I lost a good one. I could’ve gotten seventy-five large for this one. The middle easterners love the young Asian boys,” he said, devoid of any emotion. His blood was beginning to boil at the prospect of all the money he lost. The old lady’s sobbing grew louder as she covered her face.
“Enough! Goddammit!” Then a deafening BANG reverberated around the container, a plume of white smoke hanging in the air. Alfonso put his gun back in its holster on his fat waist. His ears were ringing from the gun blast. That’s why I wanted to use the harpoon gun. “Let’s go! Everyone out. Now! And someone carry the old lady and the boy.”
Chapter 3
“An ENGAGING Mafia story spiked with some SURPRISES… "
“Caio, Happy Day of Columbus,” Mario “Lug Nut” Rizzo said to the two armed guards dressed in white suits, standing at the dock gate. They stood at attention, saying nothing, expressionless, guarding the entrance to a two-hundred-foot super yacht docked at slip number thirteen in Port Everglades, Florida. The mouth of one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and a great place to hide a body. Mario’s boss, Antonio “Magic Man” Barrera always held his annual meeting for a select few “employees” at the beginning of the Florida tourist season—even crime was seasonal in South Florida. He changed the location every year to keep the FBI guessing. And this year it was a super yacht.
“I’a love you boss. You smart man,” Mario said, out loud, to himself. He wouldn’t dare use the term “boss” in Antonio’s presence. If you called him “Godfather,” you wouldn’t make it home alive. Antonio preferred “sir” or a simple nod of acknowledgment to a question or greeting. It was good way to be, Mario thought. Less to pick up on wire.
Standing with an expression of wonderment and looking at the massive yacht, he made the sign of the cross, kissing his fingertips at the end. “Bellissimo,” he said, looking at the guards, as he walked through the open dock gate.
Mario didn’t know where the yacht was heading, only the captain and Antonio did. The trip could take an hour or it could take three days. Mario didn’t care; from the legendary rumors he’d heard, this was going to be great time.
Mario was a cugine (rising star) in the Berrara crime family. He arrived on loan from Italy two years ago. Antonio liked him so much that he told his Italian mafia family, “Mario is staying in America.” Antonio followed up his conversation with a one-million-dollar cash payment. Everything and everyone had a price according to Antonio.
Carmine Gatto’s heavy steps vibrated the dock. “Yo! Mario! You made it!” He yelled, even though he was only a few feet behind. Carmine was already out of breath from the short walk from the parking lot.
Mario snapped out of his daze. “Eh, amico mio (my friend)! I’a make it. I’a no miss for nutin’, meat-a-ball.” Mario turned his head around, his smile growing wider at the sight of Carmine.
“It’s Bowling Ball . . . Capice!” Carmine raised his fist in the air. “How many times I gotta tell ya . . . if yous ain’t careful, I’m gonna show ya why I’m called ‘Bowling Ball’ and stuff you in a ball bag.”
“I sorry, ‘Bowling Ball’. I’a get it one day.”
“You been here two years for Christ’s sake. Everyone in Italy this stupid?”
“I just so happy, I forget.” Mario embraced Carmine and kissed him on each cheek. “Guys in Italian mob, no nicknames, just first name. I’a not used to it, but I like’a mine.”
They turned and started walking toward the gangway. Mario in front—Carmine was too wide to walk side by side on the narrow dock even with someone as skinny as Mario. “Oh yeah? How’d you get your name ‘Lug Nut’? . . . because you got lug nuts for brains?” Carmine asked, laughing.
“To weigh down body in ocean, I remove lug nuts from many cars I find around dock, because I forget concrete on first job.” He turned back toward the parking lot pointing at the cars. “Parking lot no full so I run around all over town getting lug nuts. I wish I see people in morning drive away with tires fly off.”
“Yeah, great story. You yammer on like a broad. Now let’s go.”
“No one around but security. We must be last ones, hurry,” Mario said with a concerned look.
“Relax, I’m not hurryin’ for nuttin’.” Carmine took another slow step with his heavy foot. “Look, security is still at the end of the dock. We’re fine.”
“I no want to miss anything. This my first time.”
“Oh! You’re gonna break your cherry.” Carmine slapped him on the back like he was congratulating a high school kid on his way to the prom. “I’ve been to this party many times. It’s the best day on the job. It’s the only day of the year ya know ya ain’t gonna get whacked.” Carmine had a wide smile growing across his meaty face. “Every other day of the year we live with the stress of knowing ya best friend might be takin’ ya to dinner to put an ice pick in ya neck.” His smile disappeared at the thought.
“I hear Antonio rent out entire Vegas for everyone at party last year.”
“He rented a hotel and casino in Vegas . . . moron, not the entire city. Just get on the boat before I chrow ya in.”
They approached a security station that was at the entrance to the gangway. Four men, two with AR-15 machine guns, dressed in white, linen suits suspiciously eyed Mario and Carmine as they approached. One of the men stared at them for what seemed like an eternity then said, “Everything in the bin, including all weapons and step through the machine with your hands up.” Security was normally tight whenever the boss was around, but this was a whole new level of security, Mario thought.
“Watch out!” Carmine said, as he elbowed past Mario like a fat kid trying to get cake. Carmine took a silk handkerchief out of his lapel pocket, opened his suit jacket, and lifted his gut to reveal a small revolver—38 special. He took it out with the handkerchief over his hand and placed it in the gray plastic bin along with a wallet, keys, lighter, cigarettes, and cell phone. “Looks like you guys finally got a bigger x-ray machine. No more small ones like at the airport. Those weren’t made for a big fella like me.” Carmine stepped into the x-ray machine with his hands up—still a little tight.
He walked to the left to grab everything but his gun and cell phone, which were no longer in the bin that was rolling out of an x-ray machine. The first year he was invited to Antonio’s party, he had so much anxiety about leaving his gun with security; he kept thinking that it was a trick to frame him by using his gun in a murder. So now, he just cleaned all his prints off the gun and didn’t touch it again until he came back from the trip.
“Dio Mio (my God)!” Mario said, kissing the tips of his fingers as he stared at the super yacht, made by Italian builder Benetti, that glistened brilliantly against the clear blue sky. It’s blue hull with white exterior glistened like a brilliant diamond. Mario estimated it was at least five stories high from the waterline. “Carmine? . . . look, . . .” he pointed to the stacked decks, “four decks for sun. How many girls we can fit?” Mario’s grin went from ear to ear, his mouth began to water at the thought.
“Come on. Let’s go. We’re gonna miss the best part,” Carmine ordered, now frustrated by the delay.
Mario looked at Carmine, confused. “The best part is beginning of party?”
“Oh man, fuhgeddaboudit. You better hurry up.” Carmine turned and started walking up the gangplank to the yacht.
“I comin’, Carmine, wait!” Mario placed two black semi-automatic pistols that he pulled from side holsters under his suit jacket; two small, silver semi-automatic guns from each ankle; a switchblade from a seamless pocket on his right pant leg; a money clip with a wad of cash; and an iPhone. Mario patted his sides, “I think that it.”
Young kids with all their guns and shit. All you need is one reliable gun and a strong set of fists to handle any situation. Period. End of story, Carmine thought. “A gunfighter don’t charge by the bullet,” He shouted to Mario.
Mario could barely hear Carmine because his head was still filled with thoughts of bikini clad girls on four different sundecks.
Chapter 4
"The Author really knows South Florida..."
Mario and Carmine reached the entrance to the main deck. “Finally,” Carmine said between gasps for air. Walking the gangplank was the most exercise his soft body had experienced in a long time. Two men, dressed like admirals with red sashes around their waists, stood on the main deck—no weapons visible.
“We only ones here?” Mario asked, looking around the empty deck made of highly polished teak wood.
“In there and down the stairs,” the taller guard said, pointing to blacked out glass doors with ornate gold handles to the right. “You’re the last two. We were about to leave you behind.”
Carmine’s face lit up like a boy on Christmas. “Let’s move, Lug Nut. Two years ago we met in Hawaii. Antonio had ‘Hawaiian Tropics’ contestants, including the winner, dressed in gold latex with Rolex watches up and down their arms for each of us. The best gift ever . . . and the watches were nice too,” Carmine said, winking.
Carmine grabbed the shiny door handle and pulled open the door. Mario squeezed in front of him and abruptly stopped, causing Carmine to bump into his back. Mario lurched forward into the pitch black landing. Two men blocked the entrance. A bright light shined from behind them, blinding Mario and Carmine. “Pass.” The man on the right said.
“Uh . . . Uh . . .” Mario stammered, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.
“Now.”
“Relax,” Carmine said, putting his left hand on Mario’s shoulder and reaching his right hand around, holding his thumb out for the man. “They run your fingerprint; Antonio don’t trust no one.”
“Oh. that why Vinnie ‘Clear Eyes’ tell me, ‘bring your thumb,’ when I invited.”
The man placed Carmine’s thumb on a handheld scanner. “We were closing up to set sail. You just made it.” A little green light went off. He then took Mario’s trembling hand, placed it on the scanner . . . green light. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.” He squeezed Mario’s thumb extra hard. “You can enter paradise now.”
Both men stepped aside, revealing a lacquered rosewood staircase with gold railings descending to a lower level. The bright lights went out, replaced by wall sconces and running lights down the stairs. Carmine and Mario rubbed their eyes as they adjusted to the new light. “Now the fun’s gonna start . . . let’s go, man,” Carmine said, as he bounded down the stairs, Mario right behind.
They stepped onto a black and white marble floor laid out across a larger foyer in a classic pattern. Mario stared in awe at the carved, likely by hand, mahogany wood trim all around the room. “Gentleman, you are the last two to arrive,” said the tanned woman sitting behind a small glass desk. She stood up, showing off all of her curves. Mario snapped out of his trance.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Carmine said.
“My name is Lola. If you need anything while you are on the ship or at our final destination, just ask me and I will take care of it. Well . . . almost anything,” she said with a wink. She walked over to Carmine, who stood like an expectant dog, and pinned a small red rose on his lapel, then one onto Mario’s.
“This is your ticket inside. Enjoy. . . .”
***
The large mahogany double doors opened in unison revealing an elegant ballroom filled with fifteen mobsters dressed in silk suits. The sounds of a live band filled the cavernous ballroom with Connie Francis’ Who’s Sorry Now. Carmine looked around and proclaimed, “You can dress a pig in silk and put it in a castle, but it’s still a pig.”
They were greeted by a slender black woman dressed only in high heels and a thong. She didn’t look a day over twenty. “Drinks gentleman?” Mario was fixated on the silver tray that was breast height.
“Johnnie Walker Gold, no ice,” Carmine said.
“Peroni, mi amore.” Mario finally broke his stare and turned to Carmine. “This great party. I glad I wear dancin’ shoes.” Mario pointed to his alligator skin loafers and did a little two-step.
“You ain’t seen notin’ yet.”
“Oh! Look who it is! Git ova’ear you greasy bastad!” said Mikie.
“Eh, Mikie ‘Two-lips’, how the hell you been?” Carmine asked, extending his arms.
Mikie embraced Carmine and kissed him on each cheek. “It’s going to be another great time.”
“Hey, Mario, you know why day call’em ‘Two-lips’?” Carmine didn’t wait for Mario to respond. “He was gettin’ it on wit dis little ding when he went to choke er and felt an adam’s apple da size of a grapefruit. He reached down to confirm it was a dude . . . din’t ya? Two-lips, you sick bastard, you.” The waitress returned. Carmine grabbed his drink from the silver tray. “He sliced her two lips off.” Carmine slapped his thigh as he let out a booming laugh.
“Screw you ‘Bowling Ball’.” Mikie turned and walked away to mingle with someone who didn’t always break his balls, which was hard to find in this room.
Mario was laughing as the waitress handed him a Peroni.
The music suddenly stopped. Anyone who wasn’t a mobster started to leave the room. “Uh, can I have all you guys attention.,” said a male voice through the yacht’s sound system. “Listen up, fellas.” The voice instructed a little louder. The crowd of mobsters completely ignored it.
“Shut the fuck up and listen!” screamed Joseph, Antonio’s trusted driver/bodyguard. “You mooks act like little school-girls when you get together.” Everyone immediately went silent and turned toward the front of the room.
While standing in the main ballroom, one could easily forget he was on a yacht. The exterior walls were blue tinted glass while the interior had ceilings three stories high. The front wall was decorated in lacquered mahogany and rosewood, so shiny you could see yourself in it. The floor was white marble with gold leaf designs bespectacled throughout. A marble balcony with bronze railings protruded from the wall. The chandeliers and wall sconces were ornate Murano glass.
“Da man who can make any problem . . . disappear . . .” Joseph said, like a ring master at a circus. The double doors to the balcony opened. Everyone looked up in unison.
Our great leader, Mario silently mouthed, making the sign of the cross.
Antonio ‘Magic Man’ Barrera stepped on to the balcony. He stood for a moment, surveying his men . . . like the Pope about to give mass in St. Peter’s Square. Antonio had dark brown, almost black, thick hair, and blue eyes that immediately drew in his audience. His olive-colored skin always made him look like he had a perfect tan—the benefit of Sicilian roots. He was dressed in a custom-made, silk suit that hung perfectly to his six-three athletic frame and no tie. If he wasn’t a mob boss, he’d be a movie star or a professional athlete.
“Welcome, friends of mine,” Antonio said, extending his arms like Christ. “It’s time to celebrate another great year of business. The great recession is a distant memory and we are all earning again. From the ashes of the economic collapse . . . La Famigliahas RISEN more profitable and powerful than ever!” The men let out booming cheers in unison. They were all loosely huddled in front of the balcony now.
Antonio had a relaxed smile as he continued. “Thanks to all of you. . . .” More wild cheers. Antonio glanced over each man in the room as he spoke, making each one feel like he was the only one Antonio was talking to. “Although, by the looks of those five-thousand-dollar suits some of you are wearing, I think you held back a little.” The group laughed, some a concerned laugh, too paranoid to believe he was joking. “For the three newcomers to my yearly celebration, what happens here, stays here. Do not even talk about it with your crew. You are all here because you are the best at what you do. I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work. I will continue to move us into nontraditional businesses that have a lower risk and higher reward . . . God bless the internet!” He pumped his fist in the air. Everyone cheered. “As a thank you for all your hard work, I got each of you some gifts from Brazil that I think you’ll enjoy.” The men’s eyes went wide with anticipation. He pointed toward a golden spiral staircase to his right; a spotlight beamed onto the landing. “I present . . . the Girls-of-Rio!”
Twenty tanned, Brazilian beauties slowly paraded onto the landing and down the staircase. They were dressed in tiny, sheer, bikinis. Their perfectly lean bodies supported by six-inch heels. The men gawked at them, speechless.
Petey ‘two-time’ shouted, “I love you, Antonio!”
“Marry me!” Lorenzo ‘Baby Hands’ Petrini yelled at the girls, even though he had a wife and five kids at home. The mobsters started hooting and hollering.
“Calm down. Calm down. . . . There will be plenty of time for you to enjoy the ladies,” Antonio said, moving his arms like a quarterback silencing the crowd. “Each of these lovely ladies is wearing a beautiful emerald and five carat diamond bracelet, which is yours to take home to your loved one. Hopefully it brings a little less bitching when you walk in the door after being gone a few days.” Antonio tried to lessen their on the job stress level so they’d perform better, although most of the guys in the room were true sociopaths and should never be in any kind of relationship, especially a marriage with kids. “For the guys who don’t have a loved one, this will buy you one.” The men howled. Antonio knew, sadly, that most of his guys would pawn the expensive bracelet for pennies on the dollar and pay gambling debts or blow the money in a weekend partying. The Girls-of-Rio were now mingling with the guys.
The staff started to reenter. Waitresses served each man a shot of grappa . . . Antonio raised his shot. “No matter what happens to any one of us . . . La Famiglia will always survive. Cent anni (100 years)! Salute!”