Chapter 14 Giovanni #3
He sits motionless in the passenger seat for the rest of the journey, but I sense the sickly yellow aura of panic emanating from his pores.
I halt the vehicle directly outside the razor-wire topped boundary walls of the property, with the convoy congregated behind us, and saw through the ropes binding his wrists. Before he can react, I shoot the lock mechanism operating the tall gates and hit the gas pedal.
As predicted, the bratva security team is expecting us.
I apply more pressure to the gas pedal as we approach the imposing pink-stone building via the long driveway. I watch the men raise their weapons and take aim, and still my passenger doesn’t move.
“Now’s your chance to stop them!” I lower his window, the warm breeze hitting the side of my face as the bratva guards hesitate.
On cue, he leans out of the window, waving his arms frantically.
More men spill out of the building when they realize the number of vehicles approaching the entrance. They’re all armed. Their reactions are all the same when they spot one of their own in the lead car, his face wrapped like a mummy, his arms gesticulating like a puppet master on crack.
They’re weighing up their options.
And, as expected, they’re prepared to sacrifice one man for the greater good.
“Not good enough,” I yell as I watch them raise their weapons again.
My companion hangs further out of the window; his bound legs trapped beneath the seat. A sideways glance reveals him slashing his throat with his finger in the timeless gesture of cutting a situation short.
It’s all the distraction I need.
Reaching under the driver’s seat for the metal bar I asked to be placed there, I jam the gas pedal in place, pop the locks, and leap from the moving vehicle, landing on my side and rolling away from the path of the cars following in our wake.
A bullet whistles past my shoulder. I’m on my feet, revolver in my hand, as I run, assessing the guards that are more interested in me than the vehicle careening towards the pakhan’s mansion.
I fire a bullet into the thigh of the first one, buying me a couple of seconds to immobilize the second guard who is sprinting around an ornamental waterfall in the pear-drop shaped drive outside the entrance.
Back to the first guy, and he drops his gun as my next bullet passes through his hand.
The car picks up speed, churning gravel beneath the wheels, as the guards ignore their friend and shoot the tires.
The vehicle screeches across the driveway as the first tire blows.
The guards scatter, closely followed by a barrage of gunfire, but I’m already running around the side of the building under cover of the dense bank of trees protecting the pakhan’s property from the prying eyes of outsiders.
With the concentration of security on the compromised front entrance, the rear doors have been left with minimal cover.
I lock eyes across the landscaped garden with the guard closest to me.
We both raise our weapons, a smile on his face as he pulls the trigger; it quickly fades as a bullet rips through his chest and he collapses onto his knees, sprawling forward, his bullet ricocheting off the corner of the building.
More gunfire, and the second guard hits the ground behind the first.
I don’t converge upon the building alone.
I cover the distance between the trees and the pool area immediately behind the building, flanked by Don Emiliano Calderone and his friends.
The heads of the remaining three most important mafia families in Sicily.
It’s like a scene from an old western movie, one where the bad guys ride into town chewing on grass stalks, rifles slung across their laps, while everyone rolls down their shutters and hides.
I almost wish that I could watch us from afar to appreciate the moment.
We enter the property through a spacious conservatory overlooking the garden, filled with squashy sofas, Aztec-style woven rugs on the tiled floor, and a cinema-sized screen taking up one wall. Heavy footsteps approach us from inside the house, and the dons gesture me aside.
Here, they are in their element, like wild animals released back into their natural habitat.
Perhaps they’ve missed the thrill of the mafia battleground since their retirement.
Perhaps this is what makes them feel alive in a way that growing olives and entertaining friends over bottles of home-produced red wine never can.
I can appreciate the privilege of seeing them in action.
Scattering bodies in their wake, I follow them through the house towards the aroma of coffee and the sound of Joni Mitchell’s voice on the sound system. It’s life’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know life at all.
The lyrics are indelibly ingrained in my memory.
As a child, I never paid much attention to them; there were rock bands to listen to, the gravelly voices of Steven Tyler and Jon Bon Jovi belting out rock anthems that I could sing myself hoarse to.
But now I realize that these are lyrics to drift away on, a gentle massage for the mind like sipping chamomile tea by the ocean.
The music is coming from the kitchen. I might’ve guessed this is where she would be.
This room, like the others we’ve already passed through, is a vast arena dedicated to the preparation of food.
There are two bottle-green Agas standing side by side against one wall, a refrigerator the size of a pantry, and an array of equipment worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Our friend Mr. Kuzmin is either a trained chef or his palette is too delicate for tacos and a few beers on a Saturday night.
Something to ponder later perhaps.
Because leaning against the ivory-topped counter, a giant earthenware mug of coffee in her hands, and watching us with a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips, is my sister.
She’s wearing white linen pants and a floaty chiffon shirt, a gold pendant visible between the open buttons at her neck.
Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, long strands framing her face which is bruise and blemish free.
She appears younger, more carefree than she has looked in a long while, and it’s difficult to match the woman standing in front of me to the woman I watched being carried from a dank basement during the video call with her husband.
The dons surround me.
“Hello, Giovanni,” she says.