Chapter 36
Camillo Vicari
Reggio Calabria, Calabria, Italy
The private room at Carlo Mancuso's restaurant could seat about a hundred people, but I felt suffocated, as if I had been confined to a tiny box or, worse, a coffin.
There were supposed to be only five of us at that table, but there was a sixth guest. I gritted my teeth, fixing my gaze on the blonde man in front of me. He smiled, his chin too high for someone with such a grotesque appearance and even worse manners.
"Congratulations, Don Vicari. The wine from your cellars is exceptional!" praised Cissio Accorinti, taking a greedy sip of the crimson liquid, drinking it as if it were water.
I gave a slight shake of my head. “Grazie.”
“How has your agricultural business been going, Camillo? I heard that the Sicilians have also been expanding into those fields.” A weak, hoarse voice silenced the room, and no wonder.
I stared at Ettore Zaccaria with the reverence the man deserved.
At ninety-eight, he was the oldest Capobastone in Calabria, elected by the Crimine itself.
Despite his years, his mind remained sharper than any man’s at that table.
He had already buried children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren, but he still clung to a power that no one dared to challenge.
“We have recently started exporting our olive oil and wine to China, Don Zaccaria. I think it couldn't be going better.”
Before Don Zaccaria could formulate a response, Cissio Accorinti’s shrill laugh cut through the air like a blade.
“Agromafia, isn't that what the police are calling it?”
Don Zaccaria cleared his throat. “Ecco.” The answer came without a glance.
“Who would have thought that oranges were worth as much as diamonds, right?” Donato Rinaldi laughed, and I smiled reluctantly, sipping my wine.
It was that rat who invited Accorinti to our meeting, and that was enough to know that he was already neck-deep in the flesh business.
I said little as the conversation went on.
Donato Rinaldi was from my father's generation, they had even been schoolmates, and I remembered well the stories he had been involved in.
One of them spoke more loudly about his character than any other.
In his youth, Rinaldi sold his own girlfriend to a Bratva soldier who worked for a Russian Pakhan with whom his ‘ndrina had done business. It was said the girl was barely fifteen. No one ever saw her again.
I wasn't surprised that now, even so many years later, with seventy years behind him, Donato Rinaldi had entered the human trafficking business.
Between conversations about the more legitimate businesses of our società, the bowls of 'Nduja and warm bread were emptied in no time, and so did the wine. I signaled Federico, Carlo Mancuso’s eldest son.
At nineteen, the boy was already efficient.
I gestured for the first course and another round of wine.
The rule was that a Capobastone who couldn't put food on the table couldn't run a ‘ndrina, and I made sure there was always plenty, just like all the Vicari before me and as all the others after me were expected to do.
Once lunch was served, we devoured stoccafisso alla mammolese accompanied by the best white wine from our cellars, followed by maccheroni al ferretto and then capretto al forno accompanied by one of our reds.
It was a display of abundance—and a tactical showcase of our finest exports.
Don Antonio Palumbo had just praised the meat of our goats, saying it was like silk on his tongue, when Cissio Accorinti once again shattered the serenity of the moment with hysterical laughter.
“That's right! The Vicari come from shepherds.” I immediately sensed the contempt in that comment and put the cutlery down on my plate, giving the idiot my full attention. The others did the same. “How did that turn into a jewelry empire? Did some goat shit out a diamond?”
The smile didn’t reach my eyes. I was about to respond when Filippo Barone, a Capobastone my age and a childhood friend of mine, picked up the salt shaker nearby and held it out toward Cissio Accorinti.
“Put some salt on the goat meat, Don Accorinti, and you'll see that the Vicaris never needed jewelry for anything.”
Cissio Accorinti laughed and accepted the salt shaker, rambling on about the food he’d tasted during one of his extravagant vacations in Ibiza. He may have been in his late twenties, but he behaved like a foolish teenager oblivious to what had just happened.
My gaze met Filippo Barone's, who pretended to sip his wine.
The salt shaker was a signal. It was never the same thing, it never happened in the same way, and not everyone always understood it.
When someone at the table was disliked, they were either served wine differently or something similar to what Filippo Barone did was done to them.
Don Zaccaria's extremely wrinkled face twisted into a mocking expression. I saw him run a crooked index finger across his nose and realized that not only he noticed, but he shared Barone's sentiment. However, I knew the same could not be said about the other two.
Rinaldi was clearly working with Accorinti. One more smile and I could have sworn they were fucking each other’s asses in their spare time, not that I had anything against it. Antonio Palumbo, on the other hand, was a closed book, as he always had been. An old, cunning fox.
After dessert, they brought us coffee, and I let Accorinti continue with his nonsense a little longer, looking down at my espresso. For a second, the room faded. My focus drifted to a small restaurant lost in southern Mississippi.
I remembered the childish mug of hot chocolate being placed in front of me and a sweet accent licking my skin. Daisy looked beautiful in her pale-yellow uniform, of course, but not as beautiful as she did on my table that morning, moaning my name.
I drank the velvety, pungent coffee. From her body to the way she spoke, I couldn't get that woman out of my mind for an hour. She had taken root in me, awakening each of my worst fantasies.
My hostage. The only witness to my crime.
I placed the cup back on the white saucer with a discreet clink. I wondered if she was reliving the way I’d tasted her that morning, just as her scent still clung to my skin.
Dio. I couldn't wait for that damn lunch to end.
“Don Vicari?”
Clearing my throat, I sat up straight, realizing I hadn't heard the last few minutes.
“Cosa?”
Cazzo. Daisy Parker was my hostage, she had to be eliminated when the time came, I couldn't allow myself to dream about her while awake.
It was decided. That night, I would have her for myself. I would begin to get her out of my system, satisfying my most sordid desires.
Cissio Accorinti cleared his throat, and I gave him my full attention. “I was asking if you've changed your mind about my offer.”
I stared at him without moving, fervently wishing I could wipe the stupid smile off his face. I noticed the pathetic tattoo under his left eye, a broken heart, and could barely contain a scornful laugh.
A complete imbecile who wiped his ass with the Omertà.
“I think I already have made that very clear.”
“Are you going to say no to hundreds of millions of euros, Don Vicari?” Rinaldi asked me, showing off a set of teeth mostly replaced by gold implants. “Not to mention the pleasures.”
Don Zaccaria coughed and lowered his face. It was more than clear that the old man wanted nothing to do with it.
“What pleasures?” Filippo Barone drawled, lighting a cigar without even looking at the other two.
“Young pussy.” I filled my lungs with a gulp of air and lowered my head, drumming my fingers on the tablecloth. I wanted to throw up. “You should have seen the thirteen-year-old beauty Don Accorinti got me!” Rinaldi's laughter filled the room and my blood pulsed with hatred.
“A child, you mean.” The courtesies that the moment demanded were gone. The only dialogue to be had with that kind of vermin was made of gunpowder, and if Rinaldi's blood hadn't yet splattered those beige walls, it was because there would be a mutual obliteration that would not resolve the matter.
I would rather destroy him patiently, tearing down his empire stone by stone. When nothing remained of the Rinaldi, I would then be happy to give him a very slow death.
“The younger they start, the better.” The smile with which he said that, licking his lips covered with grease from lunch, forced me to put my hands under the table so that no one would see me clench them into tight fists. The tingling was there, tempting me to pull out my gun. But I couldn't.
Not yet, not there.
But, Dio! There was nothing I abhorred more in the world than creatures like Rinaldi. I didn't consider them human. If there was a hell, guys like him came from there.
“Ma Dai, since we've brought up the subject...” Filippo Barone's voice sounded slurred as he blew smoke rings. “I want you to know that the famiglia Barone will not be entering the flesh business, and I would appreciate it if you would keep your distance from our area of operations.”
Rinaldi's smile faded, and I saw him puff out his chest as if he just got stabbed in the ribs, and Accorinti exchanged a glance with Antonio Palumbo that did not go unnoticed by me.
There it was...
Perhaps it hadn't been such a bad thing that Accorinti was at that meeting. It spared me the word games and implied intentions. After all, a look was worth more than words.
“Gentlemen, you are wasting the opportunity of a lifetime,” Accorinti declared with excessive pride. “Every day we receive orders from all over the world. Just yesterday, a six-month shipment left for the island of an American millionaire.”
I took a deep breath, torn between hatred and nausea. “’Six-month shipment’...?” I couldn't help asking the question, feeling cold sweat running down my back.