Page 67 of Forbidden Pregnancy
“Hm,” he says. “It doesn’t matter, but I remember the incident. Pino had a family problem, some undesirable or something… he sent Dario, the kid from Pittsburgh, out on a job with Sal to see how he could handle dirty work. Didn’t go well.”
I know Sal, but I’m not as familiar with Dario. All I know about him is the Italian version of a dossier – gossip. His father ruled Pittsburgh and he’s the eldest, but far too young for any serious consideration as a threat by my estimates. Back in Pittsburgh, I heard rumors that the Corsini boys retrieved some long lost sister of theirs from Boston and Dario would have been involved in that. Dario Corsini. He’s a second cousin, lives in Pittsburgh, and won’t be easy to hunt down. However, anyone in the mob is relatively easy to lure if you dangle what they want in front of them – a good business deal, a nice car, a catamaran, and a vacation to Italy.
Those all work like catnip for Italians. I send both of the men text messages – separately of course – calmly pretending like I have work for them and getting them to agree to a meeting about fifteen miles outside of Buffalo at a rundown family-owned diner. An Amato owns the diner, which will serve to make this story more powerful down the road.
I don’t need my actions tonight to be a secret.
When I leave my father’s office after sending out messages and meeting times, I have a normal dinner with Delphine. The twins are under Nicki’s supervision while they nap during dinner. My youngest sister drops by for occasional babysitting and ever since the nightclub bombing, dad prefers her working from home than managing any of our outward facing businesses.
We still have concerns over the outcome of the Pittsburgh mob situation. We solved our problems out here in Buffalo and sent a message to Pennsylvania that our people are not to be fucked with. That doesn’t mean the problem disappeared…
I receive confirmation messages from Sal and Dario over dinner. Dario excitedly plans his departure from Pittsburgh, sending multiple messages about his “destiny” for “great things”. I feel no attachment to their messages, just satisfaction that in a few hours, I will have solved my “little problem”.
Delphine watches me get ready to leave the house after dinner. She’s still just as beautiful as the night I first saw her in the club. The desire to get this woman pregnant again occupies most of my thoughts outside of work. I know she wants to wait before we give the twins more siblings, but I want to knock her up…
My father has really come around to the idea of grandchildren. Leo being his namesake helped break down some of his more bigoted nonsense. It’s a shame about Pino. I feel no hesitation regarding Michael’s choice. My father might not feel the same way which is exactly why I have to put my life and well-being on the line for this cause.
Mostly everybody involved with the mob expects the end to come this way. It’s a mercy that you never see it coming. First, you receive a suspicious invitation, normally from a higher up. You can feel the energy in the room. Most men know they’re about to die before it happens. It’s strange. I’ve always been on the killing end of things and I’ve done it enough times that certain observations stick out.
Men sense their own death’s with keen perception, as if we were never truly disconnected from the other side.
This is a lure, nothing too difficult to pull off. Sal’s “appointment” with me at Belladonna’s is about an hour before Dario Corsini’s. Sal doesn’t have as far to travel and he doesn’t have the status within our family that Dario has in Pittsburgh.
Close connections with the boss breed arrogance. Dad knew that and made sure to beat a healthy sense of humility into his children. I can’t say he was successful with Renzo, but there’s still time to work out the kinks.
Sal waits for me at the bar. Smart to be early. I can tell he already had one or two pints of Guinness judging by the slightly hoppy smell emanating from him when he greets me.
“How you doing, Lou,” he says, bringing me in close for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He smells like beer and tobacco dip while dressed like Tony Soprano. If it weren’t for the way I carry myself, everything about our interaction would be obvious. Guys like Sal enjoy power over this community too much. They enjoy being part of a group that inspires fear. It’s not about the money for them, which scares the crap out of me.
If it’s just about the money, at least there’s gonna be some shit you’re just not willing to do for cash. Not the same for the true sadists who just crave power over brothers.
“I’m doing great, Sal. Can I buy you a drink?”
In the heat of the moment, you always feel transparent.
“Why not?” Sal says. “Good day as any other to die.”
I laugh. “What makes you say that?”
Casual. Despite the joke, he doesn’t truly suspect anything. This is just standard mobster paranoia. You kill enough people and do enough dirt, the feeling that you’re going to get yours just intensifies.
“James Cook twisted his ankle,” Sal says. “We’re fucked and I just put $1,000 on him throwing over 100 yards in the next two games. My wife is gonna kill me if that parlay don’t hit.”
“You can never lose more than 100% of your investments,” I remind him. “But you can gain more than 100%.”
Some dumb shit Michael said to me once that I think would boost a gamblers spirits.
“You’re right kid,” he says. “You’re right. I’ll have a Guinness.”
“Sure man… Sure…”
After four drinks in a remarkably short space of time, Sal looks up at me with concern.
“Whole night we haven’t talked business once,” he says.
“Correct,” I respond. Dario is thirty minutes away, but luckily he’s much younger and will take a lot less than four drinks to subdue.
I watch the wheels turning in Sal’s head as he tries to pull together threads from our conversation that might hint at why I’m really here. But it’s that death instinct finally kicking in. The alcohol numbs him to almost everything but the internal sensations. Unfortunately, it renders him clumsy and weak — pretty easy to control, especially since he’s five-foot-eight and not strong enough to overpower me even if he hadn’t been drinking heavily.
