Page 4 of The Associate

Chapter Two

Aldo Bertinelli lived with his wife, Gloria, and their four children in a three-story brownstone. The neighborhood, once housing a mixture of Irish and Italian families during the Second World War, now boasted more diverse demographics. Crossing the street from Lonnegan’s, Vic and Gio walked past several homes, many of which displayed flags of different nationalities and identities—American, Puerto Rican, Ukrainian. Across the way, Gio spotted one of the enhanced pride flags with the multi-colored chevron.

Vic followed his gaze and chuckled. “Not something you’d see back in the old days, huh, G?” he asked. “I can imagine what the capo thinks, having to look at that every morning.”

“It’s just a flag. Fabric on a pole.” Gio shrugged, pressing the bag with the night’s take under his elbow into his side. “If somebody else’s decorations get your nose out of joint, it says more about you than them.”

“Hey, I got nothing against the gays, but some people aren’t as forgiving as me,” Vic said. “Just sayin’, if I were queer, I wouldn’t advertise like that. I don’t care how safe you think the neighborhood is.”

Gio didn’t argue that point. It was why he kept his own sexuality hidden from the family. Homosexuality might not get one expelled from the San Gaetanos, but individuals within the organization had their prejudices. Gio knew he had a better shot at becoming a made man, fully initiated into the family, if he presented himself in an acceptable manner.

Their destination also bore a flag, one hailing the capo’s favorite football team. One of the middle Bertinelli children—Gio got them confused at times, but like the others she was named for a saint—perched on the wide steps and was talking on her cellphone. Long brown hair, sculpted eyebrows, halter top and denim cut-offs showing off shapely legs. Old world beauty mixed with modern sensibility, and like the other daughters connected to the family she was completely off limits. Poor Vic.

Gio paused on the first step in front of the girl, hand in his pocket, but she kept her conversation flowing. “Isn’t it your birthday next weekend?” he asked over her talking.

The girl pressed the phone’s screen to her breast and rolled her eyes. “That’s my sister, Julia. My birthday is in February.”

That jarred Gio’s memory. February, the Feast of St. Agatha. “You be careful going out tonight, Aggie,” he said, and handed her a ten-dollar bill. That got him a genuine smile, which stayed as she crooked her neck for them to enter without knocking.

“So you’re fucking Santa Claus now, giving away money?” Vic smelled like cigarettes, leaning close to Gio as he whispered harshly, “Girl like that doesn’t need handouts.”

“It’s my money. I’ll spend it as I see fit.” Same with gifting. Vic had a lot to learn about moving up in the business. Aggie Bertinelli might not mention the ten bucks to her family, but she now had incentive to put in a good word for Gio Spatafora to her old man if he ever asked for it.

From a somewhat quiet neighborhood street they walked into Friday evening familial chaos. Footsteps thundered on the flight of stairs by the front door as two younger Bertinellis, both boys, chased each other with plastic light swords fashioned from the latest space opera movie that had the world in a chokehold. Big sister Julia, dressed in a sleeveless dark jumpsuit, yelled at them as she weaved around their duel, and ordered them upstairs.

On seeing Gio and Vic, she let out a heavy sigh. False alarm, apparently. “You guys see a red convertible outside?” Julia asked them while affixing a large hoop to one of her earlobes.

Vic panned his gaze up and down the young woman’s form, pausing at the low point of her deep V-neck. “You ain’t staying for dinner?”

“I’m going out tonight.”

“We haven’t seen a car like that, sorry,” Gio told her. “Traffic’s good, though. He’ll be here soon.”

“What makes you think my ride’s ahe?” Julia asked.

Chagrined, Gio bowed his apology. “My mistake to assume you were dressed to impress a handsome young man.”

Julia thanked him quietly. “I’m going dancing with my friend Stephanie.”

“Girls’ night out, then?” Vic asked, leaning on the dark wood banister. “You be careful out there, especially when you order drinks. These guys’ll slip something in there when you’re not looking.” He shaped his hand like a claw, fingers pointing downward. “Hold your glass like this—”

Julia huffed. “Pop’s in the den with Uncle Gus,” she said to Gio. To Vic she added, “We’ll be fine,” before turning away. Not even the sight of the young woman’s heart-shaped bottom retreating up the stairs eased the sudden roiling in Gio’s gut. Vic clearly fared no better.

“Uncle Gus? She means Don Salvatore.” Vic sucked in a breath. “You ain’t said nothing about him being here tonight.”

“I didn’t know,” Gio said. He communicated regularly with his capo, and Friday night dinner after the pickup was a long-standing open invitation. It struck Gio as odd that Aldo had said nothing to him this morning about this very important dinner guest.

Either Don Salvatore had paid a surprise visit to Aldo, or somebody had scheduled a punishment in lieu of dessert. Gio side-eyed Vic and noticed his hands trembled. Best that he was holding the bag tonight, or else the foyer might be littered with cash.

“Why the hell did I come here?” Vic asked, and made the Sign of the Cross. “We’re short tonight.”

“Calm down. We’ve done nothing wrong. Let me do the talking,” he said. With Aldo living this close, it was possible he knew about the pub being closed. Gio focused on the possibility of the don’s visit being a social call, and started down the familiar path toward the Bertinellis’ den. Voices raised in volume, as did the music from the Bertinellis’ kitchen radio. He breathed deeply as aromas of sage and cooked prosciutto wafted from the open doorway at the end of the hall. He caught a glimpse of Gloria Bertinelli’s ample backside, bent close to her open oven door, before turning left to greet his bosses.

Gio had only a few friends outside of the family, and none of them knew of his bagman work. Whenever they discussed movies or television shows depicting the mob, they assumed the fictional scenes aligned perfectly with their real life counterparts. They weren’t wrong, for the most part, and while Gio, his capo, and the don were all of Italian descent, they weren’t necessarily true stereotypes. Don Salvatore, the closest person to old world in Gio’s mind, was dressed casually tonight, in shirtsleeves. He wore no ring to kiss or any other jewelry outside of a small watch with a plain leather band. In his few encounters with the man, Gio noticed how the don personified such humility and modesty.

He found inspiration in that, but also understood that humility did not equate to weakness. If Uncle Gus saw reason to have you wiped off the planet, he wouldn’t hesitate to arrange it.

Aldo Bertinelli was busy at his wet bar, filling two highball glasses, when Gio and Vic entered the room. Don Salvatore, seated in the capo’s favorite chair—directly facing the television—halted in his speech to acknowledge them. “Buonasera,” he greeted, his voice pleasant and his smile wide. He stood just as Aldo turned, and took one of the pre-dinner cocktails. “If you’ll forgive us for starting without you, Al said he wasn’t expecting you for another twenty minutes or so.”

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