Luzo: Reign of a Mafia Don Read Free Page A

face.
    The Frenchman’s mout h tugged downward as he claimed the high back seat near the window next to an ornate chest. “This was with your belongings. Your father asked me to ensure it remained safe and present it to you in the event…”
    Salvatore stood abruptly. “In the event of what?”
    “In the event of his death.”
    The boy stumbled backward and then dropped to the cushion in shock. “Papa is dead?”
    “Oui,” was the compassionate response. The teacher continued with more grave news. “Your mother and sisters too…I am sorry.”
    A boulder sat on Salvatore’s chest that he could not remove. He slumped in despair as his eyes filled with tears. “No, there is a mistake. My papa has men, soldati…they would not let such a thing occur…I do not believe.”
    “I would not repeat this if I had not received confirmation.”
    Salvatore bolted forward. “You have not spoken of Giuseppe and Anthony, are they dead as well?”
    “They survived. Anthony will join you here. My wife and I will care for you both. Giuseppe is safe with a trusted ally of your father.” The teacher paused and sighed. “The Giacanti’s are but three giovani. The murderers killed every one even the relatives of your mother.”
    The boulder suffocated a distraught boy , not yet a teen. Salvatore could not speak…nor did he want to. His famiglia was dead. His beloved sister’s cherubic faces soared like flames in a hearth. The anger was too great to contain; a saddened boy sobbed loudly for his famiglia, swearing an oath of revenge.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    ***
     
     
     
     
    The young boy in his clean uniform with a prestigious patch on the breast pocket walked through the Parisian street. In his company were three other students deemed ruffians by the teachers at the academy. Twice the ringleader of the miscreants found himself suspended from the elite school paid for by his caretaker. He was not the studious type like his older brother Salvatore, who the girls found irresistible. Anthony Giacanti despised school and fidgeted. He also detested his fake name, Carlo Dichenzo.
    Angry is what he considered himself, furious that the years had passed and he was stuck on foreign soil with the ostentatious French. He considered running away many times. Perhaps he might stow-away in a steamer or cargo plane heading for Italy and find Giuseppe and together they would catch the men responsible for murdering his famiglia. But, his fratello had said papa wanted them to stay away from Italy until they were men. Papa had suspected he might be killed, how unfair he had not warned his sons. Every day Carlo lived like a bomb, waiting to explode. Sometimes he could not control his temper. Little things set him off; a cocky look, a tease and even his brother’s patience.
    He hurt inside.
    Episodes of violence were the way he released the pain. It had been worse last year when he threatened a teacher with scissors. An apology was the punishment for his actions. Money can smooth tensions and indignations, but can do nothing if a boy refuses to adhere to rules. He was expelled a month later when he struck a student for taking the liberty of touching his prized pocket watch after he had placed it on the side of the washbowl to rinse his hands.
    Nobody was allowed to touch his papa’s watch. Inside were memories; a picture of his entire famiglia taken the Christmas shortly before their deaths; an image he cherished.
    He removed his uniform jacket and shoved it to a boy already holding his books. The crisp white shirt and tie were removed next. He did not want his guardians to know he had been in another fight. They were good people, kind and loving, but they were not his parents and he knew the difference. He did not mean to be unruly, but after fighting, he always felt better.
    He walked ahead of the others who were visibly timid at being so near the shantytowns, but Carlo wasn’t. He marched through an unclean alley where other scruffier