The pain in my chest after leaving behind those two beautiful children was more painful yesterday than it is today.
I close my eyes as the plane takes off. I refuse to let fear or concern for anything keep me from one last decent slumber. After all, I am certain there is no time to rest in hell than there was in New Jersey State Prison.
Walking off the flight bridge at Pisa International Airport and through the security doors, I hold my head high. I carry with me hope that, if I make it out of here and to my parents’ home, I will be given the chance to say goodbye to them properly. When I then spot a man in a black suit watching me, I worry for a moment that I will not be able to do so.
Pushing fear away, I walk toward him, prepared to face the very thing I prepared myself to face all those years ago.
“Franco Protettore, come with me.”
I follow him through the airport and outside, where he turns toward me and reaches into my pocket.
“If you’re here to end me, I would suggest doing so away from a crowd.”
Amusement strikes his eyes. “Franco, I apologize for not introducing myself. I am Detective Archangello. I am simply here to ask that, for the next six months, you keep in contact with me or someone in my office twice a month.”
I nod. “Probation.”
“No, you’ve done your time.”
“In the United States,” I remind him. “I killed an Italian.”
“I’m well-aware of who you killed. Benito DeLuca.”
I wait for something more. Half the Italian polizia was in DeLuca’s pockets for most of my life.
“I’m not Mafiosi. As a matter of fact, there are very few known these days.” He leans against a car, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, takes one out, and lights it. Then he inhales and holds out the pack to me. “Would you like one?”
“I don’t smoke,” I inform him.
“Right.” He nods. “It could kill you.”
I nod, still waiting for him to give me a sign that he is full of shit.
He shoves the pack back into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “There’s money inside. Your assets are frozen. When we release them, we’ll deduct what’s in here. My card is inside.”
“Thank you.” I take the envelope. “Will that be all?”
“Where are you heading?”
I don’t answer him. I still don’t trust the man.
“You’re under no obligation to answer. I was just curious if you’d be heading to Anghiari to visit your parents, or Livorno to see about getting your employment back with the Segretti family.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I shove the envelope in my pocket.
“You may have a hard time getting a car, but the train will take you to Livorno.” He throws down his cigarette, steps forward, and stomps it out. “Talk to you soon.” With that, he starts to turn, but then stops. “And Franco, for what it’s worth, I’m glad the fucker’s dead.” He gets in his car and peels away from the curb.
Walking toward the closest cafe, I allow myself to survive at least long enough to get a real cup of caffè. Americans haven’t a clue that the shit they drink is just the watered-down version of what coffee should taste like. Americans call it espresso.
I look at my watch, feeling a bit jet-legged, and realize un caffè doppio, or as Americans call it, a double espresso it is.
Cappuccino is only for morning consumption. It’s actually disgusting to think of all that hot milk product on a full stomach. The difference between a real cafe and the American version, Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts, and ours is like night and day. We give our order before paying for it, and we don’t sit and sip caffè. We stand and drink it.
“Un caffè doppio,” I tell the barista, then wait for my drink, then pay.
Outside, I head toward the train station when I hear someone from behind me yelling. I look back to see a frantic woman pointing toward a man, who is carrying what I assume is her purse. I try to ignore it, but when she takes off after him down an alley, it’s unavoidable.
As I run toward them, I slow to look around, right before I feel a sharp pain at the back of my head.
I wake up moaning, my head pounding, and a scent that is unmistakable.
My hands are tied behind my back, I am blindfolded and gagged, sitting on what feels like a wooden plank. The room is cold, and aside from pussy, I smell dampness.
“He’s awake,” I hear a female say in a husky voice, and then I hear heels clicking toward me. “He’s a beautiful specimen.” The voice is closer now. Then I feel strands of leather across my bare chest before it trails down my abdomen.
“We were told not to touch him,” another female whispers.
“We were told not to fuck him,” the first replies, and then I feel a burst of air and inhale the scent of cigarette smoke, cloves. “I’m not sure he would mind.” I feel the leather strands against my nipples now. “Would you like your cock sucked?”
Death by fucking, I think to myself.
I hear the crack of a whip before I feel its sting against my abdomen.
“I asked you a question,” she speaks harshly now.
“He’s gagged, Signora Gia,” the other one whispers.
“Then remove the damn thing.”
“We were told not to—”
I hear the crack of the whip again. This time, I don’t feel it, but I hear the meeker voice whimper.
“Remove his gag and blindfold,” she demands.
“Yes, Signora Gia.”
When the gag and blindfold are removed, my eyes adjust to the lighting as I look at my surroundings.
Un-fucking-real.
“Where the hell am I?” I yell at the two women in the concrete room.
“Shh … you’ll disturbed the others,” the smaller one in lace, covered in tattoos, and not the one in leather, the one she calls Signora Gia, tells me.
“Untie my fucking hands,” I demand.
“Shut your mouth.” Gia smacks my nipples with the leather flogger.
“You bitch,” I sneer at her.
Lace gasps and warns, “Don’t make Signora Gia unhappy.”
I laugh manically. “I’m not in the least bit afraid of her.”
“You should be, foolish man,” lace and tattoos tell me.
“Enough!” Leather cracks the whip over the other’s ass, and I yank hard at my restraints, trying to free myself to help her. It’s of no use.
I look quickly at the one I call Lace. She appears far from upset by being whipped. In fact, she looks turned on by the act, which is confirmed by what she says next.
“Thank you, Signora. May I have another?”
Signora Gia tells her, “You can wait.”
“But I want it now,” she tells her with a nod.
“Bend over his knee.”
Lace looks at me apologetically then shakes her head.
The whip is cracked in the air. “Now!”
When the small woman in lace lies across my body, I rest my head against the wood I am bound to and close my eyes.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
“You disobeyed me,” Gia says with eerie calm.
The first crack of the whip sounds, and then the snap to the ass.
The sounds coming from Lace pains me.
The next crack of the whip, the sound is more of a moan
The next is the same.