Blood Feud

By Rosemary T Dronchi

It is 1906 when the illegitimate, five-year-old Agostino Rossini witnesses his grandfather, Carlo Batista murder his mother, Alessandra Rossini. With no memories of the violent crime the child is sent to an orphanage. After eleven years Rossini flees the orphanage. His need to prove that he’s worthy drives him to leave his few true friends and emigrate to America where he uses the opportunities provided by Prohibition and a booming stock market to build what on the outside seems like a perfect life. Inside, however, he remains emotionally frozen, tormented by horrific nightmares he’s unable to explain. When a chance experience resurrects his long-suppressed memories, the twenty-eight year old Rossini, finally understands both the devastating dreams and his inability to commit to the loving family life he craves. The only way to heal himself, honor his mother and move beyond his painful past is to return to Italy to confront his grandfather.

In the intervening years, the elderly patriarch, Carlo Batista, becomes more powerful. As a wealthy banker with ties to Mussolini, the Vatican and the Mafia, Batista considers himself largely invincible, except for a secret that only Rossini can expose: the fact that he was Alessandra’s murderer—a truth which would ostracize him from his peers or even worse—cause his death. When Batista learns from a reliable informant that Rossini is returning to Italy, he knows for certain that his grandson remembers. Blood Feud pits Rossini against his grandfather and hurls him on a collision course with his half-brother, The Leopard, Italy’s most accomplished assassin, who will stop at nothing to kill Rossini. The novel propels Rossini to challenge the assassin and fight for survival. The confrontation leads him to the realization and painful truth of his family’s crimes.

Even though Rossini accepts he may never find his mother’s body, the satisfaction of knowing that Batista and The Leopard are in jail awaiting trial and that justice prevails, enables him to move on. He forgives his father for his vulnerability and cowardice and uncovers the solace that enables him to rebuild a life with Francesca, his childhood sweetheart and attain the love and trust he’s always sought.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosemary T Dronchi
• Release date: Jan 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465945341

Rosemary T Dronchi

Blood Feud is Ms. Dronchi's first novel. She has previously written an award-winning short story and several magazine articles. She is currently working on Retribution, the second book in the trilogy that began with Blood Feud. She lives in Florida with her husband.

Book preview

Agostino Rossini is sixteen-years-old when he runs away from an orphanage in Italy. He first sees America standing on the icy deck of the Annio as it passes the Lady in the bronze dress. It is 1917 and he is penniless, an immigrant in an aggressive country, resolving to make a home for himself. After twelve years of struggling, he returns to Italy, a multi-millionaire to confront the ruthless murderer of his mother and avenge her death.

Blood Feud is the story of the high-powered determination of a boy battling his way to the top; of the bittersweet love of a beautiful woman; and which uses the hand of fate as it collides with the very face of success itself.

It is set in 1929 where America has Prohibition and rowdy partying, but also is facing an economic climate and the worst financial fall in her history; and Italy is ruled by a corrupt fascist government headed by a tyrant, Prime Minister, Benito Mussolini.

Ms. Dronchi, a new voice on the scene of historical thrillers, has penned a fabulous first novel about one of the most fundamental of Italian obsessions … vendetta. In Blood Feud, Ms. Dronchi pits an illegitimate son against his wealthy father and grandfather and the corrupt Prime Minister of the Italian government.

—David Hagberg, bestselling author of

JOSHUA’S HAMMER, SOLDIER of GOD, and ALLAH’S SCORPIION

BLOOD FEUD

Copyright © 2011 by Rosemary Dronchi

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Smashwords Edition: January 2012

About BLOOD FEUD | Advance praise for BLOOD FEUD | Dedication | Acknowledgments

Start Reading

Preview: RETRIBUTION

About the Author

This book is for my husband Tony, my children Gina and Anthony and my grandchildren, Maria, Angela and Jack

They make my life a joy

Special Thanks to: Bonnie Earle, David Hagberg, Leigh Mason, Eleonora McCabe, Phil and Susan Russo, Nancy Stump and Nathalie Thompson.

Grazie to: Jeanne Manfredi, Lecturer, Naples, Italy, Gemena Campos Cervera, Researcher, Information Resource Center US Embassy in Rome.

Thanks for your support: Billie Atamer, Jim Bergeron, Mary Lou Christy, Martha Keller, Mary Maguire, Stu O’Brien, Barbara Underwood and Shirley Weissenborn.

"The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen,

man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor

his heart to report, what my dream was."

Shakespeare: A Midsummer-Night’s Dream

It’s always the same nightmare. Flashes of lightning. The sounds:

wailing, moaning, screaming, pleading. I know the terror. It’s real. It’s Italy.

Twenty-three years ago.

• • •

I’m five years old and Mama and I are reading. We’re sitting in the living room of our small cottage behind Villa Batista. The night is dark, with no moon to offer light. All the candles are lit. Mama looks toward the parlor door. Someone is out there, she whispers.

Alessandra Rossini, open the door, a man shouts.

I recognize the voice.

• • •

My mother closes the book and points to my bedroom. Go to your room and lock the door.

I see the old man’s fist shoot through the open doorway and smash into her face. Mama staggers backwards and covers her face with her slender hands. I see the uncontrolled fury on the man’s face as he follows her into the parlor. The second blow strikes her belly. I hear a snap, like a tree limb breaking during a severe storm. Crossing her arms over her stomach, she fights to remain on her feet. Gasping for air, she crumbles to her knees. The sounds. I cover my ears, but the sounds continue.

I run to her. She draws me to the floor and covers me with her slim body. Her long, dark hair cascades over my face. There is no place to hide.

The windows vibrate from the thunder. Flashes of lightning flood the candle-lit cottage; wind blows furiously across the Mar Ionio; tree branches beat against the roof tiles.

You little bastard. Get away from her.

The man pulls me away and throws me against the cement wall. I fall to the floor in a heap. I can’t breath.

My mother wipes the blood from her eyes with the hem of her dress. Agostino, Agostino Rossini she screams. The window. Climb out the window.

I can’t move. I can’t close my eyes or hold my hands over my ears to stop the sounds. Mama looks like a rag doll in her blue dress, the one dotted with pink flowers.

The man draws a stiletto from his breast pocket and stabs her repeatedly. Her arms drip with blood. Her beautiful face, sliced from lip to ear, squirts red from a gaping cut. Blood spreads over the stone floor and splatters the stucco walls. The old man’s narrow nose pinches closed and then opens like the bull’s nose going in for the kill.

Mama moans and begs him to stop. She struggles to stand, but he grabs her long black hair and yanks her back. Her screams are too much for me to bear.

I rush over to the old man and ram him with my head. Get away from her. Leave her alone. Don’t hurt my Mama anymore. I hate you. I hate you.

"Silenzio, Bastardo, The man brings his fist back and punches me in the face. No one will ruin my reputation or my son’s. He stares down on me. I gave the whore money, but she tore it up. I purchased a house for the two of you in Naples, but she refuses to leave Reggio. Winded, he struggles to breath. All of this is her fault. He picks me up and shakes me. You will never carry the Batista name or inherit my fortune. Never."

Blood runs from my nose. Through the haze I see two men standing in the hallway. Neither one tries to help me or Mama. They watch. They don’t blink. They don’t say a word.

My mother crawls over to me and grabs my hand. The red fluid pours from her deep wounds and swollen lips while she tries to speak, fighting for each breath. Her murmur sounds like a droning bee. She turns to the tall man in the doorway. Please don’t let him see me die.

Whore. Stop begging. Batista grabs the silver-handled walking stick from the cane rack and slowly walks over to her. His wrinkled face reminds me of fallen grapes that have dried up in the Calabrian sun. He squints through red-rimmed eyes. Color pushes into his face. His fingers work the cane with enthusiasm. Then he slams the silver handle on her head.

Mama flings out her arms to stop the bashing. She strains to grab the cane, but his swift and random blows clobber her like bolts of lightning that batter the trees outside the cottage. The wind continues to roar across the bluff and smashes against the house. A window crashes open. The candles flicker and die—the room pitches into darkness.

I can’t see her anymore, but I hear her screams, smell the coppery scent of her blood and the sour sweat of the man. I try to run toward the screams, but I feel like my feet are nailed to the floor.

Light the candles, the old man shouts to the men standing in the doorway.

A match flares, and the taller man comes forward to do as he’s told. The process reminds me of the lighting of the altar candles before Mass at Saint Lucia Church where Mama takes me every Sunday.

Abruptly, the screams stop. I run to Mama and kneel beside her. Trembling, I watch as gray and white matter run from her head gashes forming puddles, like water on a greasy floor. I feel the warm wetness between my legs. My urine runs freely and mixes with the foreign substance of my mother. The older man stands nearby holding his knife, ready to plunge it into my chest. I open my arms to the tall man. Help me.

The tall man rushes over and lifts me into his arms. Color washes from his face. He turns to the old man. Not my son. Vittorio Batista yanks the knife from his father’s hand and throws it across the room. Haven’t you done enough?

I’m watching my mother die on the floor of our cottage.

It’s always the same dream. Flashes of lightning. The sounds: wailing, moaning, screaming, pleading. I know it’s a dream. Yet the terror is real. I know the faces. God, I know the faces. Mama, Papa. It’s Italy, twenty-three years ago.

• • •

Agostino Rossini bolted upright in bed and opened his clenched fists. His jaws ached from grinding his teeth. The dream began to fade, but the screams echoed and re-echoed in his ears: the pleading; the cane pounding against his mother’s skull. For several long moments the nightmare would not let go of him. His hatred felt like a painful tumor growing in his stomach. Bastard, bastard, he spat.

The room was hazy, just like the nightmare. His eyes narrowed. Jabs of lightning wavered as the stateroom lit up. The ship rocked and pitched as waves slammed against the hull. He untangled himself from the white satin sheets of the large bed. His fiancé, Zelda Stuart, lay beside him. He reached out and touched her.

I’m here, Agostino. She turned, rested on her right elbow and faced him. It’s all right, sweetheart, she said, and stroked his face. "We’re on the Augustus."

Agostino nodded. I know.

She rolled away from him, turned on the sidelight and looked at the alarm clock. It’s five o’clock. We’ll dock in Naples in about an hour. Zelda sat up, pulled a handkerchief from the nightstand drawer, and wiped the beads of sweat from Rossini’s forehead. She refolded the linen and dabbed the tears from his eyes. Darling, did you dream of your mother again?

Rossini nodded. Si. As a child he never had dreams. In his early teens, visions emerged, and he believed they were only bad dreams like other children had.

After he’d met Zelda the dreams surfaced. Now, two years later, the nightmare resurfaced with a jolt, and the truth showed its ugly face. Why sudden recognition, he thought? He didn’t know. Yet the facts were there. His grandfather killed his mother while his father watched and did nothing to help her.

Darling?

Rossini raised his hand to stop her from saying anything more. He turned away and studied the stateroom suite. Scrolled woodworking framed the doorways. Nude sculptures rested on marble pedestals in the far corner of the stateroom. He had booked the voyage on the Italian shipping line to return to the House of Batista, in Reggio di Calabria, and confront his grandfather, Carlo Batista, and his father, Vittorio Batista.

Zelda touched his shoulder. Agostino, why don’t you try some of this? She handed him a diamond and ruby compact. It will help you forget.

Rossini opened the case. The mirror was dusted with white powder. A rolled up one thousand-dollar bill and a cutting blade fit snugly in the expensive holder.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed. You know I never use this shit. He closed the lid and hurled the case onto the black marble top table. Standing, he pulled on the bottoms of his black silk pajamas and tied them around his slim waist.

Zelda sat up and hugged her knees. I’m sorry. Just trying to help.

Help? Dope is no way to solve problems

Tears welled in her eyes. She pulled the sheet up under her chin.

Rossini massaged his temples. They were like two damaged souls, he thought. I want you to stop using. He leaned over, and his long dark hair brushed against her young, delicate face. He pulled the sheet away, kissed her shoulder, and pulled up the thin strap of her white silk nightgown. Can you forgive me?

Zelda nodded and smiled.

Rossini padded across the carpeted room, then stumbled against a swinging closet door when the ship pitched. Damn.

Are you okay?

He rubbed his arm and turned toward her. I’m fine.

Zelda, twenty-one, exquisite and the most sought after movie actress in the world, propped pillows up against the headboard and locked her hands behind her head. Taut breasts, with nipples like plump raisins, pressed against the delicate silk of her nightgown. They rose and fell with each breath. Her platinum hair draped across one emerald eye. Agostino, she patted the warm place next to her. Come back to bed.

Not now. Rossini walked out to the spacious enclosed private promenade deck and pressed his forehead against the cool window.

Agostino. Darling, her sultry voice called from the bedroom.

He turned and watched as she slid out of bed and tied the transparent peignoir around her tiny waist. She crossed the stateroom: every movement precise—as if she was in front of a camera.

Smiling, she pressed up against him and wrapped her arms around his naked chest. She fixed kisses on his hard-muscled shoulders and bit his full lower lip.

He closed his eyes. "Si," he murmured.

Her lips and tender touch forced his body to respond.

Once relaxed, he planted kisses along her cheek and neck then flicked his tongue in her ear. Within seconds he swept her up in his arms and returned to the bedroom. For a moment he held her and then placed her softly on the bed. He untied his pajamas, let them fall to the floor and stood over her. Cool blue eyes studied her. Take off your gown.

Naked, she reached for him. I love you, Agostino. I always will, no matter what happens. Her finger traced the shadow of his lower lip. You make me feel safe.

He pulled her into his arms. You’re shivering. He ran his hand across her breasts and down her arm. What’s wrong?

She looked into his eyes. Your hatred for the Batistas is out of control, and it worries me.

Everything will be fine. Skimming his large hand over her flat stomach, he inched his way to her blond mound.

Agostino mounted her and entered. He grabbed the headboard with two hands and thrust, driving hard to her core, propelling himself to the limit. Every nerve responded to her scent of musk and gardenias—the taste of her lingered on his lips. His flesh burned with passion. This time he didn’t wait for her. He didn’t care. Satisfied, he rolled off.

What’s going on? Is that it?

He nodded and drew the sheet to his waist. Now I want to talk.

You selfish son-of-a-bitch. I don’t want to hear any more about your grandfather.

If you love me, you’ll listen.

She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. I’m tired of listening to you.

Agostino grabbed her arm and pulled her down. What would you do if you saw your mother murdered by your grandfather while your father watched and did nothing to help her?

Damn you. Zelda rubbed the imprint of his hand on her arm. Let it go, Agostino. You said your grandfather is a powerful man, and Mussolini is his close friend. Do you want to end up like Alessandra?

Agostino’s eyes widened.

• • •

It was dawn when the assassin, known to the authorities as The Leopard, drove his supercharged red Mercedes SSK around to the side of a broken down carriage house. The apartment he’d rented two weeks ago sat a block away. The young man leapt out of the car and looked around to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied he was alone, he unlocked the boot, grabbed a green tarp and set it on the hood. Yanking a suitcase from the compartment, he placed it on the ground. He opened it, pulled out a tattered charcoal gray topcoat and a black fedora and put them on.

He retrieved the leather shoulder holster holding his 6.35mm Beretta automatic pistol then placed the Beretta Carcano M 91 sniper’s rifle into a specially tailored inside pocket of the coat. The butt of the stock was tucked under his left arm—barrel pointed to the ground. The scope slipped easily into an inside pouch on the right side of the coat along with a sheathed stiletto. Leather gloves covered his hands before he threw the tarp over the car.

The Leopard picked up the valise, placed it on the hood of the car and opened it. He positioned the holster securely within, closed the valise and then hastened like a homing pigeon along the Piazza della Vittoria and down Via Caracciolo to the apartment, which afforded an unobstructed view of the Bay of Naples. Narrow stone stairs led to different streets. Laundry hung between the close houses and snapped in the wind. He avoided bags filled with rubbish which lay ready for early morning scavengers. This mess would be unacceptable in Reggio, he thought. He verified the time. On schedule. In less than an hour the Augustus, which had sailed from New York more than a week ago, would dock at Molo San Vincenzo.

The man had a job to do and continued toward the apartment.

It began to drizzle. The Leopard drew the coat collar up around his neck and pulled the hat down to conceal his hazel eyes.

The streets were quiet except for the few merchants who had opened their stores to get a head start on the day. To an observer, The Leopard looked like any other local. The rain had been a godsend, a cloak for his secrecy. Perspiration beaded on his upper lip as he climbed the stone steps in the alley that led to the appartamento. He looked up at the two hundred year old villa that stood five stories high—the reason it was chosen. Widow Calabrese, the owner, said it was the first house built on the tree lined via. Perched in a pristine location on top of a cliff, it overlooked the bay. His fifth floor room had a balcony with potted trees and geraniums.

The Leopard reached the appartamento, opened the door with the key the landlady had given him, and climbed the stairs. He stepped over the third step to avoid the groan it always made. If Widow Calabrese heard the sound, she’d charge out of her apartment to find the person trying to sneak in at such an early hour. The woman was too nosy for her own good, he thought.

Once in the room, he placed the luggage on the bed. Like a priest who prepares his altar with the chalice and paten before the ritual of Mass, he removed the rifle, rubbed the walnut stock with a clean towel and placed it on the bed. The scope was pulled out, wiped and carefully placed beside the rifle.

The Leopard removed his damp coat and hat and laid them on a chair. He opened the leather suitcase and drew the handgun from the holster, double-checked the cylinder and plucked the stiletto from its sheath. The weapons had been laid out on the bed in precise order. He then lifted a Lieutenant’s uniform that Mussolini had given him as a backup. He spread it on the bed and pressed out the wrinkles with the palms of his hands before hanging it in the armoire. Next he pulled out two packs of cigarettes and three bottles of mineral water and meticulously lined them up on top of the bureau.

Quietly, he moved a table in front of the window, situated a chair by the table, stepped back and surveyed the room. He pulled out a cigarette from an open pack, lit up, inhaled deeply, and held the smoke in his lungs before slowly exhaling. He checked the time on his platinum Patek Philipe. Sono le nove e dieci. Fifty minutes to go. Comfortable with the time, The Leopard went out on the balcony and sat hidden behind a potted cypress tree. There was no traffic on the street below.

Occasionally, someone left a house for a short time then returned with a loaf of bread or a jug of wine. This kind of day was perfect for him. It reminded him of his early childhood and a boy, about his age. They had played together in the gardens by the cottage behind the big house.

A horn sounded in the distance. Looking toward the sea, he relieved himself in the potted tree. He couldn’t use the toilet for fear of being heard.

In the last two hours he’d already smoked a full pack of cigarettes and half of another. It was jobs like this that had made him a chain smoker. He reached for the half pack, pulled one out, tapped the end on the table, lit up and went to the window. Finally, the time had come. The ship had entered the harbor and he had a clear view as it made its way into port. Thirty minutes to go.

The Leopard drank the last of the mineral water and wiped the bottles for fingerprints. Meticulously, he went through the room and erased any prints that he might have left. Satisfied, he sat in the chair, attached the scope to its mount, placed six rounds in the magazine and propped it up on the table. He looked through the scope to make the necessary site adjustments and placed his finger on the trigger. It felt good. The weather was with him. The rain had turned into a fine mist—the wind had eased. He turned away from the window and scanned the room. Had he left anything that could link him to the killing? There was nothing out of place. Nothing forgotten. The moment was at hand and he was thoroughly prepared for it. He was ready.

Again he checked the site. What the hell? Only five minutes earlier the docks bustled with people, cars, limos and stevedores. Now police were everywhere, directing people and cars behind wooden barricades. A wall of police cars blocked the pier. Deep furrows creased his forehead.

Below, a car door slammed. Two men jumped out of an unmarked car, guns drawn. They scanned the row of apartment houses. One man pointed to the tallest house. His!

The short man nodded to his partner.

The Leopard rushed from the balcony and slowly opened the door to his room. He stepped out on the landing and leaned over the railing. He cupped his hand to his ear and leaned over even more in an attempt to hear the muffled sounds below. It was a certainty that the three other boarders, nurses at Ospedale Incurabili, had already left for work and the landlady was the only one in the house.

The front door opened—the sound vibrated and echoed up the stairs. He pulled back in the shadows and waited … a moment … two. The wooden stair creaked as expected. Police? How did anyone know where to find him? He stepped back into his room and closed the door. He pulled on leather gloves with the trigger finger of the right hand cut off, grabbed the rifle from the table and hid it under the bed. There was only enough time to get the stiletto.

The Leopard pressed his ear against the door. Moments ago there had been hushed sounds, but now he sensed one of the men on the other side of the door. The knob turned and the door flung open.

The taller officer stepped in, gun drawn.

The Leopard didn’t hesitate. He drove the stiletto into the man’s heart, pulled him into the room and swung the door partially closed.

"Paolo, the partner called. I’m on my way up. Is everything okay?"

Bene, The Leopard called out and positioned himself behind the door ready to pounce on the enemy. The crack in the door was wide enough for him to see through. Signora Calabrese and the other officer obviously had checked each room on their way up the narrow staircase. Finally, the second officer and the landlady were outside his door. He heard keys rattle and visualized the landlady nervously playing with her key ring.

"Go down and call the polizia," the cop whispered.

Signora Calabrese froze. Her eyes fixed on the partially opened door.

"Paolo?" The policeman slowly opened the door.

The Leopard grabbed the second officer, pulled him into the room and slit his throat with one clean motion.

The heavy breasted landlady blessed herself and then covered her face when she saw the blood. She staggered against the stair railing and jerked her head from side to side as she recited the Lord’s Prayer. "Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum," she cried.

The Leopard took her hand and slowly led her into the room. He chanted the Lord’s Prayer with her. "Adveniat regnum tuum: fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra, he paused. I’m sorry God cannot deliver you from evil, Signora," he said and plunged the knife into her chest. Then he completed the prayer, wiped the blade on her dress and checked himself for blood. He was clean.

The house was no longer safe. He didn’t know how the police knew he was there, and at this moment didn’t care. Should he abandon the job and drive back to Reggio di Calabria or board the ship and complete the mission? He smiled. The decision was easy. The Leopard craved the challenge.

He opened the armoire and pulled out the Lieutenant’s uniform, the false identification card and badge. The disguise slipped easily over his cashmere sweater and silk trousers. He studied his reflection in the mirror. There was no indication of the shoulder holster. He adjusted the musette bag so it sat perfectly across his chest and put on his cap. Done.

Saturday 19 October, 1929

Campania, Naples, Italy Harbor—Southern Port

"This is only to be denied by God; the power to undo the past."

Aristotle, Nicomachean

Agostino Rossini hesitated a moment in the vestibule of the MV Avgvstvs’ first class chapel.

Earlier a uniformed officer had come to the stateroom he’d shared with his fiancé Zelda Stuart and asked Rossini to accompany him to the sanctuary. It was a matter of importance to Rossini that the CID, which was the Italian equivalent of the Bureau of Investigation, wanted to see him. He touched the chest pocket of his cashmere jacket where he’d placed his passport on orders of the officer.

Police are the same everywhere, but this time I have very little patience, he thought.

Rossini glanced back at the officer who waited outside on the Promenade Deck protected from the steady drizzle that had fallen since they’d arrived in port at 6:00 A.M. He didn’t know why they wanted him or why they’d prohibited all the passengers from going ashore.

He managed a pleasant smile, forced himself to relax and entered the dimly lit chapel. The overcast daylight faintly backlit the stained glass windows flanking the doors. Pews with rich tapestry cushions were arranged down either side of a broad, Travertine marble aisle. A small table and three chairs, which had been set up in front of the altar, seemed incongruous in such a serene setting. A bulky, dark-looking man sat behind the table, his hands folded beside a pile of file folders.

"All that is comes from the mind; it is based on the mind;

it is fashioned by the mind."

The Pali Canon

The Leopard had executed his first victim when he was twelve years old. Sixteen years later, he was the most wanted assassin in Italy.

• • •

Dressed as a lieutenant of the Police of State, The Leopard maneuvered through the roadblocks and slipped past the guards stationed on the crowded Molo San Vincenzo pier. He enjoyed the looks from women he passed, pleased that the uniform complemented his good looks and perfect build. Flushed from the unusual heat that had plagued Naples since Wednesday, The Leopard mixed easily with the hundreds of people who waited on the dock for their families and friends. In the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning darted across the grey sky over the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Shore cranes lay silent while stevedores waited to unload the cargo. The Leopard was on a mission and remained undeterred even though he knew the authorities were on to him. But how? Did Signor Batista, the man who hired him, tell someone?

The heavy stench of crude oil and the rancid smell of dead fish brought him back to where he was and what he must do. Peasant men in brown baggy work clothes and women dressed in traditional black cotton dresses with bold-colored bandanas wrapped around their heads waited on the dock and sang along with the music from the ship. Annoyed by the delay, aristocrats in tailored silk suits and ladies in brocade and silk dresses remained with their chauffeurs and nannies.

The Leopard adjusted the shoulder strap of the musette bag which rested across his chest, straightened the tunic of his uniform and brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve. When he accepted the disguise from Benito Mussolini, there was no doubt there would be payback. No questions were asked, but favors were to be returned.

Much of The Leopard’s twenty-eight years had been spent learning the art of deception, at which he had become a master. When he was twelve, his mentor, Carlo Batista had sent him to Sicily to learn that cunning craft. Now no one lived who crossed him.

When The Leopard arrived at the Universita de Roma, Batista had parceled out money to the Presidente of the college and the professors. The bribes had insured the young man special privileges—one of which was to meet Mussolini. The Leopard looked up to Il Duce as a visionary and had joined the Fascist movement. During the elections of 1925 he helped in his special way to get Benito Mussolini elected Prime Minister. After Mussolini took control of Italy, The Leopard was one of the chosen few allowed near the Prime Minister. He became a close confidant and companion of the uncrowned King of Italy. As a Fascist party Black Shirt member, The Leopard was selected for the Prime Minister’s most secretive missions.

Handsome, charming, witty and an accomplished swordsman, The Leopard carried himself like the name he was given. Often, he dined with government officials and members of society, none of whom knew his true identity.

The Leopard thought highly of Batista because the man lived in the corridors of power. He knew Batista drew gratification when a hit was perfectly executed.

Desensitized to the dark turbulence in Italy, Batista profited by it. He never endured pain, but inflicted more than his share on others. Terror became synonymous with Batista’s name, and no one dared cross him. Now, he ordered a hit on Agostino Rossini. The man who was out to destroy him.

The Leopard’s job was to find Rossini, a self made millionaire, and kill him.

He had poured over Rossini’s dossier and memorized the man’s features down to the last crease on his face: strong chiseled jawbone, long Roman nose, full sensuous lips and deep eyes set far apart. They both were twenty-eight, six-foot-two, and about the same weight. From the pictures that The Leopard had seen of Rossini’s mother, Alessandra, the American’s hair was dark and wavy, like her hair. His own was more like his mother’s, tawny and straight.

The Leopard recalled a meeting that took place three weeks ago with old man Batista—the night he’d pulled up in his Mercedes an hour late. The twenty rooms of the elegant Villa Batista blazed with light. When he knocked, Carlo Batista opened the door immediately.

You will never be late again, the old man spat venomously. Understand?

Couldn’t be helped, The Leopard said with equal force. He handed Batista a bottle of Courvoisier and followed the old man into the library.

Once seated, Batista passed a leather bound folder to him. Study this. Everything you need to know about Rossini is in here—his connections to the New York mob, real estate holdings, nightclubs, friends and fiancé, Zelda Stuart. He’ll be in Italy within the month. He plans to take over my banks and destroy my family, he said calmly.

Why?

Signor Batista smiled. I killed his mother twenty-three years ago. The little bastard was there and witnessed it. Batista looked away for a moment. She was a nobody—just someone who worked for us. She wanted her illegitimate son to have the Batista name. Can you believe the bitch wanted her bastard to carry my name and therefore inherit my fortune? He raised his hand to his forehead as if the gesture would wipe the memory clean. I should have killed the kid that night.

The Leopard sat back, crossed his legs and took a long quaff. Why didn’t you?

My son stopped me.

And you let him?

Batista waved his hand to dismiss the question. When the police questioned the kid, he couldn’t remember what had happened. He was in shock. But now, after all these years, my source in Manhattan notified me that he’s had total recall and knows the truth.

• • •

The Leopard remembered that night as if it was yesterday. Now, he looked out through the haze to the city from a secure place on the wharf. Stone houses with variegated colored tiled roofs were etched into the contour of the hills like patchwork quilts. Vesuvius peeked through the clouds and loomed over the bay.

The Leopard often reflected on his other victims. He was a quick study of people, and his photographic memory gave him an edge. It was one of the many talents that made him who he was.

From his hiding place on the wharf, he watched polizia with Bergmann MP 18/1 submachine guns slung over their shoulders stream through the gates that led to the docks. That sort of firepower was highly unusual. They expected big trouble. This had all the markings of his adversary, Capitano Fioro Michelangelo. When he found out who leaked this information to the CID, they would not live long.

The Leopard wove his way through the crowds until he came to the forward cargo hold on the right side of the ship. A young officer, not much older than eighteen, with angelic features, stood guard in front of the open hold, a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

The uniformed boy stiffened to attention when he saw the approaching lieutenant.

"A proprio agio. At ease," The Leopard ordered.

The officer went into the position.

He examined the boy’s nametag. Could it be? "Michelangelo, are you related to Capitano Fioro Michelangelo?"

Yes, he’s my uncle, he announced proudly.

The Leopard stepped back and pondered the answer. It made little difference that he now knew for sure that his adversary was on board. He had come close to killing Michelangelo, but someone always got in the way. Then you know you must not disappoint him, The Leopard said over the noise of the crowd.

The young man nodded.

Remain here no matter what happens. Don’t leave this position. Don’t let anyone inside. I mean no one. Do you understand? The Leopard barked.

Thinking a moment, the young man said. Si. Capitano ordered me to do the same.

Where is the captain now?

Young Michelangelo shrugged.

Remember what I told you. The Leopard moved onto the gangplank, glanced over his shoulder and preceded up the ramp. The tremor under the soles of his feet faded as the ship’s engines shut down. Short, choppy waves rebounded against the wharf. The Leopard’s stomach revolted from the smell of dead fish floating in the water below.

He stepped over the metal lip of the hatch. Motionless, he stood in the dark shadows of the cavernous hold until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The hold was the size of the huge caverns buried beneath Vatican City where he had killed a frightened priest less than a year ago. The Leopard smiled and remembered that the padre had fallen to his knees and begged for God’s mercy. "But, father, don’t you know there is no God. Only the diavolo! Me," he told the frightened holy man.

The sound of people waiting on the dock and the continuous clap of far away thunder was meaningless. He was here, and it was now.

He worked his way past looming mounds of netted cargo, huge crates and pallets of what looked to be machinery, maybe motors. Roll-Royces, Mercedes, Bentleys, and his favorite, a Duesenberg, were lined up like solders against the farthest wall. The heavy smell of diesel and mildew formed pockets of stale air between the deep corridors of nets and machinery.

He was almost to the stairwell leading up to the Promenade Deck when he heard footsteps penetrating the dark quiet. The Leopard ducked behind the Duesenberg and waited. The young cop, barely distinguishable in the diminished light, walked past him, his submachine gun slung carelessly over his left shoulder.

The Leopard stepped out from behind the car, reached inside his tunic and withdrew a stiletto. Weren’t you ordered to stay at your post?

Michelangelo pulled up short and turned around. I came to warn you that there’s an assassin on board. My uncle told me that the person we’re trying to catch is here to kill an American gangster.

When did you last see your uncle?

After you had gone into the hold.

What’s so important about this mobster? As they continued to speak, The Leopard moved closer to the innocent young man.

"Zio Fioro didn’t tell me. Michelangelo checked the safety on the submachine gun and slung it back over his shoulder. Capitano wanted to know if I let anyone in the hold, but I knew he didn’t mean you tenente."

Then he doesn’t know I’m here? He advanced on the unsuspecting policeman.

No.

What else?

He’s holding the passengers and crew on board for now.

Do they know the name of this assassin?

The boy spoke as if he knew him personally. "Si, The Leopard. He stalks his victims and then goes in for the quick kill. He’s smart and knows all about disguises. My uncle and The Leopard have been enemies for many years. He warned me to stay alert. The Leopard could be anyone: a steward, a passenger, even a police officer …"

Raw terror filled the boy’s eyes. The Leopard had seen this look many times before; a moment of horror, but not yet doom— an emptiness that fell in the dismal split between the two feelings. Michelangelo was quick lifting the submachine gun from his shoulder, but The Leopard was quicker. He stabbed the boy in the arm, pulled the gun from his hands and shoved him against the wall.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you. Just tell me what else your uncle said.

His voice quivered. He said nothing.

The Leopard sliced the boy’s face from the corner of his mouth to his ear. Now tell me what he said.

Blood dripped into the young officer’s mouth. He spat it on the metal deck. You’re never going to get off this ship. Every exit is guarded. The local police and the CID have joined forces, and even if you do, all the roads are blocked and the trains out of the city have been stopped, he choked out the words.

He’ll never find me, vowed The Leopard.

Michelangelo’s eyes widened in fear when the stiletto, perfectly placed, was driven into his heart—the boy spasmed and collapsed. His death was swift, neat and a silent exit from life.

The Leopard pulled out the stiletto and wiped the blade on the officer’s uniform. Quietly, he laid young Michelangelo on the cold steel deck. He smiled knowing that he’d terrorized a whole ship—stopped twenty-two hundred passengers and five hundred crewmembers from going ashore. He surmised that Capitano Michelangelo thought himself the smarter of the two. But The Leopard knew differently.

"It is safer to meet