Omerta - Mario Puzo [13]
Fissolini sighed. “You must understand, Excellency, I am a poor man. Certainly I can take what I want in my province, but Sicily is such a cursed country that the rich are too poor to support men like myself. You must understand that you are the chance to make my fortune.”
“Then you should have come to me to offer your services,” the Don said. “I always have use for a talented man.”
“You say that now because you are weak and helpless,” Fissolini said. “The weak are always so generous. But I will follow your advice and ask double. Though I feel a little guilty about that. No human is worth so much. And I will let the boy go free. I have a weakness for children—I have four of my own whose mouths I must feed.”
Don Aprile looked at Astorre. “Will you go?”
“No,” Astorre said, lowering his head. “I want to be with you.” He raised his eyes and looked at his uncle.
“Then let him stay,” the Don said to the bandit.
Fissolini shook his head. “He goes back. I have a reputation to keep. I will not be known as a kidnapper of children. Because after all, Your Excellency, though I have the utmost respect, I will have to send you back piece by piece if they do not pay. But if they do, I give you the word of honor of Pietro Fissolini, not a hair of your mustache will be touched.”
“The money will be paid,” the Don said calmly. “And now let us make the best of things. Nephew, sing one of your songs for these gentlemen.”
Astorre sang to the bandits, who were enchanted and complimented him, ruffling his hair affectionately. Indeed it was a magical moment for all of them, the child’s sweet voice filling the mountains with songs of love.
Blankets and sleeping bags were brought out of a nearby cave.
Fissolini said, “Your Excellency, what would you like for breakfast tomorrow? Some fish, fresh from the water perhaps? Then some spaghetti and veal for lunch? We are at your service.”
“I thank you,” the Don said. “A bit of cheese and fruit will be enough.”
“Sleep well,” Fissolini said. He was softened by the boy’s look of unhappiness, and he patted Astorre on the head. “Tomorrow you will rest in your own bed.”
Astorre closed his eyes to fall asleep immediately on the ground next to the Don. “Stay beside me,” the Don said, as he reached his arms around the boy.
Astorre slept so soundly that the rising cinder-red sun was over his head when a clatter awoke him. He rose and saw that the hollow was filled with fifty armed men. Don Aprile, gentle, calm, and dignified, was sitting on a great ledge of stone, sipping from a mug of coffee.
Don Aprile saw Astorre and beckoned to him. “Astorre, do you want some coffee?” He pointed a finger at the man before him. “This is my good friend, Bianco. He has rescued us.”
Astorre saw a huge man who, though he was well encased in fat, wore a suit and tie, and seemed to be unarmed, was far more frightening than Fissolini. He had a curly head of white hair and large pink eyes, and he radiated power. But he seemed to blanket that power when he spoke with a soft, gravelly voice.
Octavius Bianco said, “Don Aprile, I must apologize for being so late and that you had to sleep like a peasant on the ground. But I came as soon as I got the news. I always knew Fissolini was a dunce, but I never expected him to do this.”
There began the sound of hammering, and some men moved out of Astorre’s vision. He saw two young boys, nailing together a cross. Then, lying on the far side of the hollow, he saw Fissolini and his ten bandits trussed on the ground and tethered to trees. They were encased by a web of wire and rope, their limbs entwined. They looked like a mound of flies on a lump of meat.
Bianco asked, “Don Aprile, which of these scum do you wish to judge first?”
“Fissolini,” the Don said. “He is the leader.”
Bianco dragged Fissolini before the Don; he was still tightly bound, like a mummy. Bianco and one of his soldiers lifted him and forced him to stand. Then Bianco said, “Fissolini, how could you be so stupid? Didn