Snowfall in Venice

The Vendetta

THE VENDETTA

I found myself developing a morbid fascination with our captor. Since Gino's emergency operation, The Don had become increasingly friendly. He frequently asked me to join him for a drink before going to bed. Sometimes we played a game of backgammon as we discussed events taking place around the world.

Contrary to popular misconceptions, The Don was not some thuggish mafia brute. He was well educated, well informed, and a genial host. As far as I could tell, Benedetti spoke several languages and had business interests all over the world. He was also known to the household staff as an incurable practical joker.

As time passed by, I became convinced that I was dealing with two very different Don Benedetti's. In one persona, the Don was a thoughtful, kind, and benevolent family man. In this role, he arbitrated disputes and handed out advice and sometimes money to any of the numbers of Murano residents who requested a personal audience.

But many times, particularly regarding his business dealings, the other Don Benedetti emerged. In this role, he could be cold, calculating, and sometimes even quite violent. This trait was particularly true in the case of Pietro Esposito.

It happened this way:

Gayle and I were lounging in the villa's library drinking espresso, reading the latest copies of the New York Times. The Don had kindly arranged for the procurement of the papers to help us keep in touch with news from home. Suddenly we heard loud voices coming from The Don's office, followed by the sharp report of a gunshot.

Being native New Yorkers, we both were quite familiar with gunshots. When we burst through the office door, the pungent smell of gunpowder overpowered the confined close quarters. Don Benedetti was standing behind his desk with blood streaming from a shallow cut on his hand. Carlos stood over a prone man pointing a revolver at the man's head. The man on the floor was still alive, but bleeding profusely from a bullet wound to his upper right arm.

"Gayle, grab some towels from the bathroom!"

I evaluated both wounds. When the towels arrived, I bound The Don's hand tightly and then made a makeshift tourniquet around the wounded man's arm.

I started to ask what had happened when I was interrupted by The Don barking orders at Carlos. "Get that piece of filth out of my office. He's ruining my carpet. Dispose of him outside."

While Gayle took The Don onto the adjacent washroom to cleanse his superficial wound, I helped Carlos get the wounded man to his feet. The young man half walked and half staggered. Carlos was heading for the outside doors, but I convinced him we should take the man to the surgery first.

I had just finished cutting off the young man's shirt sleeve when The Don burst into the operating room. Gayle had applied fresh bandages to Benedetti's hand—the bleeding appeared to have stopped.

I turned to The Don. "It appears this man is quite lucky. I'm pretty sure we can save his arm—"

"Stop!" Benedetti shouted.

"But I need to ..."

The Don interrupted again. "This piece of garbage has a vendetta against my family. Tonight, he tried to kill me with a knife. Only Carlo's quick action saved my life. You will not save the assassin's arm. You will amputate it so that he may never hold a knife against me again."

I stared at Benedetti. I knew I had to take a stand, or I would forever have to follow The Don's orders, no matter how despicable they might be.

"Don Benedetti, I know from our conversations that you are a great believer in loyalty and the value of binding oaths. As a doctor, I, too, took an oath. I swore above all to do no harm to my patients. I will not break this oath for you or anyone else. This man's vendetta is against you, not me. If you want to cut off his arm, be my guest."