Page 110 of Mafia Kings: Valentino

Inearly had a heart attack when the brass alarm clock went off at 4:15.

Fucking Don fuckin’ Vicari –

After I slammed the fucking clock so it shut up, I thought about staying there in bed for a few minutes longer…

But I remembered the mafia don’s warning:

We don’t take kindly to lateness or laziness around here.

Besides, my heart was racing so hard after having a goddamn cymbal factory wake me up that I decided to just get going.

Since I only had a bathtub, I did a quick once-over with a washcloth. Then I dressed in slacks and a white linen shirt, took the copy ofMilk and Honeywith me, and made my way groggily down the hall.

An old servant lady was in the kitchen. It was pitch black outside, but she was already hard at work getting breakfast ready for the family.

She’d prepared me a plate of cold cuts, cheeses, grapes, and rough brown bread. Not exactly a fancy breakfast, but it tasted good.

More important was the strong coffee she’d brewed in a metal pot. The kitchen didn’t have a fancy espresso machine, but the oily black liquid she’d fixed was twice as strong. I was wired by the time I finished my second cup.

Just as I was finishing up, a clean-shaven guy walked into the kitchen. He couldn’t have been any older than me. He had jet-black hair and was about my height with a wiry build – maybe not super-strong, but definitely not weak.

He wore a cheap black suit like Don Vicari’s guys at the hotel yesterday, but he styled his hair very carefully with gel.

“Hey, boss, you good to go?” he asked.

“You my driver?” I asked.

“Yes I am. The name’s Paulo.”

With just that little exchange, Paulo was more talkative than 95% of the other Sicilians who worked for Don Vicari – and a hell of a lot friendlier.

“Cool, I’m Valentino. Let’s do it,” I said as I stood and picked up the book of poetry. Then I told the kitchen lady, “Thanks for breakfast.”

She just nodded silently and went back to work.

Like I said: talkative.

Paolo led the way outside, where a black Alfa Romeo SUV was parked on the gravel drive. Over the scrunch of the rocks beneath our feet, I heard a familiar sound clanking far away in the darkness.

“Are thosecows?”I asked, astounded they would be up that early.

“Yeah. The fuckers never shut up,” Paolo said. “‘Scuse my French.”

“Speak French all you want,” I said as I got in the front passenger seat.

Paolo looked at me in surprise as he got behind the wheel.

“I’m not a little old lady you need to fuckin’ chauffeur around,” I told him.

“Alright, then,” he grinned, and started the engine.

We talked as Paolo made his way through the winding roads in the hills.

We were both a little wary of saying too much – especially about his employer and my future father-in-law – but I found out a lot about the family operation.

“Rocco’s basically thecapoof the south side of Sicily,” Paolo explained, using the word for ‘boss’ that described aCosa Nostraleader just below the don andconsigliere. For instance, Adriano wascapoof Florence. “His brothers-in-law Tony and Santiago work for him. You met his sisters Abriana and Marcella yesterday, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, recalling the don’s other two daughters. “Work for him doingwhat,exactly?”

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