THE HIT BACK SERIES (Order From Chaos)

chapter three

Chapter Two
{Skinning ya demons}

Respect is a trait treasured and revered among gangsters. And it’s as much a code of ethics to be followed at all costs and mastered, as it is the foundation of their world. And must be shown at all times to friends, associates, partners, families, mistresses, and even enemies. And is taught and practiced right from the cradle; the very cornerstone of every society—household. This is perhaps because, to the respected men of the underworld, conquest of any sort must first begin at home. Or, as any starry-eyed of the world will have it, change must first begin with the self.
Rafael Visconti was not a defaulter of this precious code among gangsters. And in keeping by the book and its laws, he held his wife—Mara Visconti in such high regard he would any man ‘in the thing of theirs’. Which was the more reason he had her summoned up to the living room two hours after Jerry’s departure.
Unlike before, Rafael Visconti was seated in a red armchair, his back turned against the sash windows in the living room, the beautiful skyline of Westside Manhattan, and the sun crawling into sight in the distant eastern sky. His overbearing gaze fixed on his pleasingly plump wife, who sat across from him in a red, hand-knitted jacket worn over a long gown that fitted snugly to her shape.  
Don Visconti dared a look at the fully awake but cheerful boy in the cart one more time, glad at the chance that he was not crying or making a fuss, and as well, fearing for what would have happened had it been things were the other way round.
I should have him shut away in the basement by now, he reasoned and attended to in there till he was old enough to give up all those annoying cries and infuriating demands.
Not that the Don was a misopedic or anything, but he had always hated the sight and sound of kids crying right from time. For the great old Don Visconti, all of that was nothing short of attention-craving and total disturbance. And he was not about to allow that anywhere near him, not even with this poor boy.  
As if reading her husband’s thoughts, the astute Mara Visconti's eyes shot to the boy at once, her long, thick lashes fluttering as she asked. “The boy, are you worried he may cry?”
“You could say that, but that’s not the point here, wife.” Don Visconti said in a raspy tone of voice.
This time, it was Mara Visconti’s brows that shot up, and arched in question, ‘as if to say; what exactly then is the point?’
The Don, adroit enough to know the inherent meaning of this gesture, quickly explained. “The point dear wife is this little boy has no one left in this world to care for him, and it has fallen upon both our shoulders to raise him as our one.”
Same as before, the Don was only egged on with a look from his wife, which interprets as; who are his parents and what has happened to them?
“Sadly, the boy is my old-time friend; Jenny’s grandson. His mother; Angelina, who is Jenny’s only daughter has been murdered, along with her husband and their older son.” The Don explained in a cold, passionless tone.
“Oh my God! Who would do such a horrible thing to this poor, innocent soul?” the unusually quiet and reserved Mara Visconti said with a gasp, covering her mouth with both her hands. “And how’s sweet, old Jenny holding up?” she asked an instant later.
“Wife, I’m sorry, but old Jenny is no longer a part of this world with us, so is his wife; Clara, and every member of his family.” Even the great old Don’s voice carried the slightest undertones of emotions at that.
If Mara Visconti was in any way affected earlier at the mention of the boy’s sad fate, then, she was twice affected this time by the even grimmer news of Jenny’s death. Her mood soured at the same time her face became clouded with unhappiness.
And when she finally spoke some instant later, her voice came out in a rather hushed whisper. “Who would do such to old Jenny and his family?”
“Just anyone, dear wife. The underworld is a wide-open universe.” Don Visconti said with a shrug. “The boy is the sole survivor along with Jerry.”
Mara Visconti, who has been seated even through the conflicting emotions only eased to her feet then, and strode toward the boy in the go-cart. “Oh, he’s so cute,” she said, pinching the boy’s cheeks, watching as they flushed beet-red at her touch. “What’s he called?” she asked over her shoulder after some time.
“Paul. Jerry wants me to raise the boy for him.” The Don said huskily. “Are we not too old now to have or raise a son?” he later asked offhandedly.
Rafael Visconti waited a few dragging moments for a response, one which he knew damn well he wouldn’t get from his wife, and at very least wasn’t expecting from her, either.
Knowing deep in his heart of heart that he wasn’t even asking a question earlier or making any request of her, and taking her silence for what it was worth, he rose gently to his feet, pacing unhurriedly out of the living room. The creaks of his crutches against the wooden floorboard receded as he made farther away from the living room.
Yes, Respect is something accorded to anyone in the underworld, its due, however, was a steep price expected to be paid back in return.
However, for women like Mara Visconti, who happened to be a gangster’s wife, its price is always paid by knowing her place.
***
That was the genesis of my story. My very first step in the journey leading to a thousand miles. Like a perfect piece in Tetris, I fit quickly into the Visconti’s family and became one. Mara Visconti, true to her motherly nature took over the job of a mother that very day, and since I was old enough not to be suckled, I relied heavily on the milk supply from the Visconti’s dairy farm.
Growing up for me was somehow at Godspeed. In fact, I was a wonder kid in every manner of the word. I could walk surefooted at barely one year and six months, talk distinctly and intelligibly at just one year and two hundred days, among other things.
And given all these prospects, I began nursery at a preschool a few blocks from our home at just age two. At age three, Rafael Visconti assigned me a personal guardian in the person of ‘Billy the club’—a man in whom, I would later find my first true bond of friendship. Billy has earned the nick ‘Billy the club’ on the streets for no other reason than his stoutly statuesque and roguish nature. And even though, he was two decades and some few years older than me, we both were good friends and made a great team together from early on.
‘Billy the club’ as everyone likes to call him devoted his time and everything to me. He was always willing to hear me sing my nursery rhymes. And even though, barely got through elementary school, he was always attending to my schoolwork for me. And I love it the most when he sings me a lullaby in that throaty, scratchy voice of his. And as time wore on and everything with it, so did we, but never did we grow tired of each other.
There was so much sweetness in the fruit of friendship, but I can arguably say ours was the best and sweetest.
***
I downed another round of martini, squeezing my face as I swallowed the cocktail liquor, which left a burning sensation in my throat and chest. I have since ordered five rounds of martinis since walking into the club an hour ago. And I hope you don’t fault me for this. There’s not so much a man can do alone by himself in a setting like this one. 
Dropping the tumbler back on the counter, I took note of my surrounding after a long time. When I took in the scene around me, it was no strange thing to me to find out that the zap of excitement and the crackle of electricity in the air around the club’s main floor hadn’t dropped a bit. But, what I did find strange and shocking was, the sight of the lady from earlier, who was indeed the centerpiece of it all.
In all honesty, the lady—Jane as she had introduced herself to me—was causing quite a spectacle on the main stage with her unreal exotic pole dance, which had almost every patron at the ‘ringside’ enthralled and spellbound. Watching her at her thing with a corner of a smile on her lips and her tongue lolling out, I couldn’t help but come to the clear-cut distinction in my mind that, she was so damn good at what she does, and would be going home tonight with a whole lot of cash.
I eventually looked away from the main stage after some minutes of feasting my eyes on the remarkable spectacle of hers and turned my attention on the red-haired bartender standing across from the counter.
“Another round!” I called out.
I can still recall a very hot and humid August’s Saturday when the fearsome Don—Rafael Visconti came into my room at age seven. He had walked in on me then while I was asleep.
***
“Wakey wakey, sleepyhead.” A voice distant and airy had called.