Post by J on Sept 22, 2021 7:49:17 GMT -5
//Off Camera//
“Two words”
Reno, Nevada
September 22nd
2021
He sat there, reading through his letter again. That neat, meticulous handwriting one would not expect from someone of his size and look. When people saw Vincenzo Giovanni Riina the last thing on their mind usually was if he could read or write, let alone what it was like. Yet sitting there in that dump of a hotel room in Reno his mind wandered to back home in Sicily. His home was spotless, clinically clean may seem like excess but it wasn’t far off. Everything was spotless and shining. He had paintings, books, albums..but no television. No home theater system, no monthly subscription to a streaming service.
Books and music, especially the classics, provided him all he needed. It was all still pretty far off from what he had grown up in Corleone, the one room house...more of a hut than a house if he ever saw one. His father, the consummate socialist, was more of a communist than anything, constantly blaming the rich for every struggle he had in his life. Beating his son for not doing more work so he’d have to do less. His mother was the constantly whimpering nervous wreck who was a complete ghost. Working from dawn to dusk no matter what the weather, for pittance that was the life of Vincenzo G. Riina and if it hadn’t been for one woman from Palermo, that could have been the only life he would have had.
When Isabella Pazzini happened to spot that ox of a man, working without complaining, not hiding the calluses in his hands, the bruises up and down his body, yet not complaining, not stopping for breaks. She approached the foreman, that uppity bastard in charge, to ask about the big man. “il muto” the mute as the men called him. They assumed that Riina was retarded or somehow handicapped, he didn’t speak a word, he didn’t smile, laugh or cry. Then again he was a perfect worker because he did not cause trouble either, did his share as good as he could and left, never seeing, hearing or telling anyone anything. So when Isabella found out his name she had asked him to be fetched, just for a moment. Riina’s father saw his son getting gestured to the pretty lady and spat, he looked a bit longer than a married man should but then again amongst wine and cigarettes what other joys were there left in life than look at women before they got old and ugly.
That day Isabella gave Vincenzo an offer to come work for her in Palermo. He didn’t respond right away, she asked him to at least think about it, “il muto” just nodded and went back to work.
It all seemed like a lifetime ago yet Vincenzo remembered it like yesterday. The way the air smelled that night walking home, of course he walked if they could afford a car they would not have worked the fields. At home the dead silence, tension thick as ever and of course dear ol’ Papa at the table, with his vino and cigarettes ..diet of the working man. He remembered the lecture about how Vincenzo was throwing away his whole heritage over some two bit tart from Palermo. How him (papa) and his poor wife would end up being even poorer because of their son growing up to be so selfish, that if he chose to go to Palermo and turn back on not just his heritage but his family, la famiglia he would also betray his own kind, his class. Without as much as a word Vincenzo went to pack his few things, hearing his mother weeping as usual he heard the chair creak as Papa got up and a sixth sense of sorts helped him to grab a wooden mallet just in time. He wrenched it out of the older man’s hand, tossing it to the oven watching the fire eat up at it, those dancing flames calming him for a moment. From the floor his father spat at him, cursing him for growing up to be such a disappointment, when he walked out into the night the last thing he heard from his father was that he was no son of his anyway.
That was the one lie from Papa that Vincenzo actually wanted to believe.
Isabella kept her word; she brought him along to Palermo with her, since then he had been one of the trusted confidants of the elder sister. No task or request got denied, she knew what he was capable of and knew how to reward him for it all. Loyalty was a good start but it never hurt to bolster it a bit. A nice place to live, fine clothes, everything he could have hoped for and dared to ask was his.
All that he had at home, had brought him to...this.
Looking around the hotel room, the broken air conditioning, beaten up television set, lumpy mattress in a bed that barely fit him..shower that worked as long as you just wanted cold water. Yet when she asked him.
“Do this favor for me Vincent? Go with my nephew. ..and his friend.”
He wanted to tell her that he was no babysitter, he wanted to say “no” but nobody ever told that to Isabella Pazzini, well if they did they would have to meet with Vincenzo Riina...so, usually they didn’t.
She knew him, knew by just looking at him without him saying a word what he was thinking.
“I know, you are not a babysitter, but it’s America, it’s not safe out there for a boy like my nephew. I want him to be safe, if it was Antonio..I’d want you to be there. You can keep him safe, out of trouble. Please.”
She very rarely said please, of course little Anotonio would have been different. Vincenzo cared deeply for that fragile and sensitive boy, world could be a cruel place for even the strong but for someone like Antonio Pazzini it would be even worse even if your mother was as powerful as Isabella Pazzini.
He agreed, of course he did. She knew he would and he knew that if he ever did say “no” to her there was always a chance that someone else would come to him, replace him and he’d rather die than go back home to Corleone, go back to..that. This was his home now, Palermo, this family Little “Anthony” and his Mama, a real mother...not like the one he had.
They agreed that Vincenzo would keep an eye on the two men, reporting back to Isabella, of course being old school Vincenzo didn’t trust the internet, mobile phones or anything like that. He chose to write little letters, they were good enough and easier to dispose of in multiple ways and while it was clear that they did not meet around people in public or in private if avoided. The letters between them was a way for him to keep in touch with her and the world outside Reno.
He had gotten a letter from her, those were usually left at a familiar newsstand for a very specific pre-paid paper “Giornale Di Sicilia” of course. He read through every one of hers long enough to remember them before disposing of them, by the peaceful dancing flames.
“Vincent I know I have asked you a lot, coming to this country was a big ask, looking after my nephew and his friend. You have done a wonderful job as always and to an extent only you would. However this match of yours, coming up: against SUICIDA. I am not asking you to hold back, I am not asking you to watch or protect. No more, unleash to them all the frustration built over these months, all those times you wish you could have bounced my poor idiot nephew’s head off the wall or put his friend through a window and yet you didn’t? Now it’s time to unleash all that. Against her because if you go easy on her if you play around and act like a gentleman, we will all end up regretting it. Remember the life you once had all that came with it. Use it to add to your strength."
The way she signed them with a simple letter “I” was unnecessary, he would know her handwriting anywhere, he could smell her scent from the paper, feel her touch from the ink. It was all part of sharpening one's instincts. Isabella insisted on calling him Vincent but only when no one else was around just like Vincenzo called Antonio “Anthony” it made their bond stronger, Riina assumed Isabella did it just to stand out from others, maybe it was a ploy or a play to make him feel special well no matter what it was, it worked. She didn’t need to write such words of encouragement for him though, just being in this room, being in a place like Reno when he had all those beautiful things at home, how this whole place was so against him, the way things were added to the tension in his mind, drove him mad. This may have been an upgrade in comparison to his childhood home in Corleone but as far as Vincenzo was concerned, this place was just as much of a dump. He would happily unleash his anger, his frustrations and disappointments onto this competitor, a contendership was not something he thought about, this was far bigger than anything like that a first for him to show just what Vincenzo Giovanni Riina was all about.
He looked down at his own letter, a response to hers, reading through the lines, deciding he was happy with it; he would end it with the same two words his letters always ended.
“Loving,Vincent”