The Flower Shop E-Book

Giuseppe Guarino

• Herausgeber: Infinity Books Ltd, Malta
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Alfredo lives in Sicily, in a town called Corimpa. He leads a normal, even boring life until a series of events shake the very foundations on which he has built his life for years.
First, he loses his job. Then, inexplicably, Don Gaetano, a retired Mafia boss, offers him an opportunity to rent one of his stores and start a business.
Vincenzo, Gaetano's son, needs a special favor from his father, which will somehow involve Alfredo.
Calogero, Don Gaetano's faithful assistant, is Alfredo's brother-in-law and will reluctantly be used to grant Don Gaetano access to Alfredo's life.
In the end, Don Gaetano's desire to play God will lead him to act in a way that surprises everyone, including the law.

Leseprobe

The Flower Shop

A SICILIAN MAFIA STORY

GIUSEPPE GUARINO

INFINITY

Published by Infinity Books Ltd, Birkirkara, Malta

www.infinitybooksmalta.com

Copyright © 2006-2023 Giuseppe Guarino

All rights reserved.

DEDICATEd

To the memory of my father

Francesco Guarino

who taught me to read and love books

YEARS AGO

Palermo, Sicily.

The man got out of his car and looked around to make sure no one followed him. Maybe he had made it. Things were getting too complicated. It was definitely time to leave Sicily as quickly as possible; too many things he could not explain. There were too many smiles on the face of the family boss as he kept looking at him. The questions were asked too precisely, and he knew. The Latin quotations, the references to the philosophical meaning of loyalty, and the implications of breaking a solemn oath made him less cultural and more terrifying. The double Sicilian kiss on both cheeks, the strong handshakes, and that smile, that petrifying smile of his. He was no common boss, the strangest he had seen in his career, but behind the smiles, good manners, and big cigars, he saw the devil, eyes burning with terrible evil.

The man who gave him this hideout told him it was a safe place. He needed to rest, think, and then pack up and fly somewhere, anywhere, away from here.

There were no sounds around. The countryside was unusually quiet. The trees all around played soft music in the hot Sicilian early summer evening. After looking around a couple of times more, he turned the key and entered the house, locking the door behind him. A small courtyard led to the stairs, and he ran up as quickly as he could.

The house was rural and old. The air inside smelled heavy because of the many years the building had seen. It was exactly as it had been described to him. The large kitchen had a fridge full of food and drinks. He needed a beer. For the first time in days, he relaxed. He felt safe and secure. He sat down at the large kitchen table and enjoyed a cold beer.

At a certain point, his back stretched out, and he distinctly felt the cold of a gun barrel behind his neck. “I am sorry, Carmelo,” the man behind the gun said. “It’s nothing personal, you know. It’s business.” On at least two occasions, he had been on the other end of the gun, saying something similar. He knew the man would wait. He put the bottle on the table slowly, touched his forehead with his right hand, and put the other on his chest as he did the sign of the cross. When his right hand fingers touched his right shoulder, the gun pressed against the back of his head and fired. The body fell heavily on the table, causing the beer bottle to roll and fall.

“Mannaggia, I could have let him finish his beer. It’s ok, maybe next time.”

New York, USA.

“I can’t believe it.”

“You better.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“And how did it happen? Where?”

The two men were having a conversation in English, but with a strong Italian accent. It was strange how spending most of their lives in the United States had not helped them get rid of that accent. Maybe they just did not care to lose it, or maybe it was all part of the choreography.

Actually, the words were in English, but their meaning was all Sicilian. In fact, they meant far more than the words' actual meaning. Whatever could not be said openly was conveyed by not saying it. And the last sentences sounded like a verdict.

"You were very good friends, weren't you?"

"You know, Rocco."

"No, I don't."

The verdict was death. Rocco stood up, took his gun out, and pointed it at him. "Nothing personal, you know, it's business," he felt the need to add.

"I understand. One day, you will be on the other side of that gun. You know that, don't you?"

"Probably. But not today."

He aimed as best as he could. He did not want his friend to suffer. The body fell dead less than a second later.

"God rest his soul," he said. "Salvatore, why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't we be kids forever? Why couldn't we live a normal life?"

Rocco spoke to himself as he cleaned his fingerprints from all that he remembered he had touched. He got out of the room with his gun in his right hand. A man was at his door, half-open, obviously having heard some noises. Rocco put the gun against his nose as if it were a finger and wore a fierce look on his face to silently convince the man to close the door and keep his mouth shut.

Rocco went out of the building. He gave the gun to a boy who ran towards him. Then he walked whistling a romantic Frank Sinatra tune, trying not to give much thought to his life and what he had made of it. It was useless to do it now; it was too late to come back.

Corimpa, Sicily.

“Don Gaetano,” Calogero said. “Everything is okay. I just received the news.”

“Calogero, we are living in hard times. It's a time of difficult, painful decisions. Do you understand that?”

But Calogero was never interested in understanding anything.

“Don Gaetano, your son Vincenzo wants to see you.”

“That's it for today. You can go home.”

Don Gaetano invited Calogero to come closer with a wave of his hand, and then handed him two million liras.

“Take this, my loyal friend. Happy birthday. Go out and enjoy.”

Calogero was not inclined to show emotions, if he had ever felt any at all. All he could do was thank his boss and leave the room, leaving the door open as a sign that Don Gaetano's working day was over.

Seeing that, Vincenzo entered the room.

Vincenzo saw his father like a god, sitting on his throne. He saw him as a giant. He saw how everyone respected him - the people coming into his office, even his teachers in school showed a deep respect when they heard his name. He loved all this, and as far back as his mind could go, he wanted to be like his father.

“Daddy, I want to be like you one day.”

Don Gaetano was very sad at this thought.

“Vincenzo, I sincerely hope you will be better than me and that you will have a chance to leave this land and its curse.”

Vincenzo sat on his father’s lap as he began to tell him the story he loved the most - of Ulysses and his endless journeys in far, mysterious lands.

A

SICILIAN

MAFIA

STORY

NOW

1

The somber Sicilian afternoon light cast a perfect atmosphere in the room. Don Gaetano sat at his desk, reminiscing about the good old days. The days when people spoke of him with reverence and fear rippled through those who heard his name. In those days, he held the power of life and death in his hands. A time when a man of honor was respected and his family flourished with wealth and influence.

But those days were gone.

Could a retired mafia boss truly exist? If such a thing were possible, he would be a fitting candidate. Don Gaetano was no philosopher in retirement; he still played his games with reality and manipulation. To most people, he was simply known as Don Gaetano, but to those who knew him well, he was referred to as "the philosopher" - a moniker the press had given him. He earned his respect by proving himself wise, as evidenced by the fact that no man of justice had ever been able to keep him in prison.

The large bookcase behind his comfortable armchair was no mere decoration. He had read every single book in it. Don Gaetano spoke fluent Italian and Sicilian, and was proficient in English, French, Spanish, and even Latin. His breadth of knowledge was enough to surprise any college professor, having spent years of personal investigation and study in philosophy, history, archeology, and even mathematics.

On the right side of his desk sat a precious marble bust of Benito Mussolini, the fascist leader. During his long reflections, he often spoke to it, running his fingers over Mussolini's bald head as he thought and spoke his thoughts out loud. He finished his thinking time and lit up one of his prized, oversized Cuban cigars, satisfied with his successful conclusion.

That evening, the quiet and relaxing atmosphere of his study was filled with smoke as it intertwined with the gentle Sicilian sunset light beams. At the end of his reflections, Don Gaetano broke the silence of his home by shouting, "Calogero!" He shouted even louder a second time, "Calogeroooooo."

Calogero respectfully knocked on the door and stepped into the room, humbly inquiring, "Did you call me, Don Gaetano?"

"What do you think about it, Calogero?" asked Don Gaetano. "Did I actually call you?"

Calogero never expressed an opinion on anything, at least not that Don Gaetano remembered. "I think whatever you think, Don Gaetano. If you say you did not call me, it may have just been my impression."

Calogero waited in silence, and Don Gaetano knew it could last all day. If he had left the room, Calogero would have probably stayed there until he came back with an answer. Don Gaetano thought to himself that he should try something like that, sooner or later. But not now. Don Gaetano still respected and loved Calogero like a man does with a faithful, old dog.

"I called you, Calogero."

"This is why I ran in, sir."

"Sit down."

If ever a man could sit with respect, that man was Calogero. Calogero's last name was little known, too. To most people, he was known as "rags." A quick look at him, and it was evident why. Some called him "mortodifame," an expression which has no equivalent in English. It describes the poorest possible condition of a man. Calogero was thin and about fifty years old, but no one knew for sure, and some doubted he even knew that. Calogero's face always had the expression, "I am waiting for new orders."

"I had an idea," Don Gaetano said.

"Eh," Calogero replied.

Don Gaetano actually thought that speaking to his employee was only slightly more than speaking to himself. It was just thinking out loud. Don Gaetano totally trusted Calogero. He had the useful habit of never speaking about anything with anyone. Perhaps not even with himself. This is why Don Gaetano could forgive his absolute silence during conversations. Calogero would never utter more than "eh." He would never dare to ask a question or comment in any way. That would have been too compromising. If Don Gaetano had told him that the conversation was over like that, now, and that he had to go, he would not hesitate and go.

"Your brother-in-law, I want to see him and talk to him."

"Eh."

"I have something in mind for him. Bring him here."

"Okay, boss."

"Don't you want to know what it is that I want to tell him?"

"I mind my business. You say you want him here… I'll bring him here."

"Calogero, you are the wisest man I ever met. Now, go. Tell him to be here tomorrow at four pm. Make sure he'll be on time. Don't speak to him on the phone about this. Go tell him in person."

"Okay."

Calogero nodded his head, got up, and went out quickly to do what his boss had told him.

Don Gaetano got up from his comfortable armchair. He looked at himself and was pleased with the atmosphere. He began to caress Mussolini's bald head and think.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

2

There are pros and cons to doing the same job, in the same place, behind the same desk for almost twenty years. Every morning for most of those years, Alfredo Marino focused only on the pros in order to find enough strength to get out of bed. Most of all, he remembered that he had to work to make enough money for his family – and he could not find any better reason: the house, the bills, clothes, etc. A long list of reasons paraded in his mind and began to fade only when he had put his first foot on the ground, only to be substituted by the morning family voices – his wife screaming his son out of bed, while his daughter complained about the morning noises.

It was a Monday morning. For a man working five days a week, this day is not like the other four. It shows up early in the morning like a huge stone awaiting you in the corner of your room. Someone invisibly and silently puts it on your shoulders the moment you get up on your own two feet, and you literally stagger when they drop it on you. It’s not going to kill you, but you feel it until you get back home in the evening.

The rituals were all the same. Shaving and then jumping in the shower as his son tried desperately to update him on his daily requests for all the things his other mates have, and now he needs to have too. The espresso was on the kitchen table, ready. Alfredo loved his wife, and his life with her was perfect. But her morning espresso was terrible. She served it with a smile, and he never had the courage to tell her that he didn’t like it. It was the only thing that wasn’t working in their marriage and the only thing he hid from his wife.