The Blood Feud; Chapter One

Chapter One
The Churchyard

That summer, the Lupino family, and many of their friends in Imperia, spent in mourning for the loss of Gerard Lupino. Even when the tears and pains that accompanied Death had subsided, Mother Nature ceased to caress the mountain side and ceased to breath her love onto the world, and so the snow came. As soon as the death of Gerard Lupino had been accepted by the minds of those closest, so followed the death of the world, as snow fell and the winds shook free the amber leaves of the mountainside.
But as Death raped the land of its beauty, and the icy fingers of winter took its toll on the north of Italy, so came, in irony, the celebration of Christ that was Christmas. As the family decorated the house, and Matteo junior spent more and more time in the town with Anna, collecting presents for the many Lupino in-law children, all thoughts of sorrow and mourning were forgotten. In fact, Selina Lupino now smiled as she'd dust the picture of her beautiful oldest boy, and her husband had long since learned now not to mourn, but to celebrate his son's life. So it followed, as is after all losses, a period of reflection ensued, which were to be had in the joyous and festive warmth of Christmas.
After Christmas, Mother Nature saw fit to breath fresh life into the world, and revitalise the mountainside. And so it came, in the months of Spring, Julia Olireo, the youngest sister to Matteo Lupino senior, gave birth to her first child, a baby girl of name Sara Olireo. And as the time passed, so Summer had returned, and in the eyes and loving bosom of Mother Nature, the goddess of the flowers, trees, earth and sky, a year had passed over the Lupino residence since the death of Gerard.

*

Michael Fratino enjoyed summers mornings. He always got up as early as his wife would allow (depending on how long their morning love making sessions would last) just to sit at the edge of a fountain in the blistering summer's heat in Imperia and take in the sights and sounds of summer in the town. In the afternoon, he and Isabella, his beloved wife, would head up into the mountains to the Lupino residence, where they would stay until late hours with the children and in-laws, relaxing in the coolness of the mountain.
Today though, Michael knew he was on orders, so things would have to be a little different. It's just as well, Michael thought to himself. A full year has passed since Gerard's death and it's only now that something looks to be done by Matteo Lupino senior.
Even still, it would be some time yet before his partner, and lifelong best friend, Ricard Bonnano, arrived, so his morning routine could still take place. Michael removed the sunglasses from his handsome, tanned face and scratched the stubble on his chin as he yawned placidly. He leant over and dipped his cupped hand into the cool fountain water and splashed it over his face. The sun rose quickly in Tuscany, and blasted everything its rays touched into drought. It was not uncommon for many of the locals to sleep during the afternoon, when the heat was most unbearable. Unfortunately, Michael could not take this option. There was a lot to do today.
Michael stood and replaced his sunglasses over his brown eyes, drying his hand on his cream shorts as he strolled calmly over to a café. He gazed over the green fencing and looked to see if he could sight a familiar face, but there was hardly any customers there to mention of at this hour. What did catch his eye, however, were two boys sitting at a table for two at the far corner, holding hands. Out of interest, Michael looked on, and after one of the boys smiled to the other, they shared a quick kiss.
Michael raised his eyebrows, but his mind accepted such behaviour. He saw nothing wrong with homosexuality; he, like the Don, was completely behind sexual relations of virtually any sort as long as a serious relationship built on love was fuelling it. Michael's eyes, accustomed as they were to guessing such things, could tell from the way both boys stared at each other that their affection went beyond purely sexual desire. Content with his, unbeknownst to him, accurate, assessment of that particular relationship, Michael carried on his morning walk, taking a roundabout route around the square and through a little market, where he sampled a few bars of chocolate fudge and a mini pizza (a strange breakfast for an Italian at this hour, but then again Michael did not see himself as an ordinary Italian), before making his way, just before eleven, to the church.

The stone church was across the square from the café Michael had walked by earlier. It stood majestically over the square and cast a shadow across the fountain as the sun reached the triangular tip of its face in the afternoon. As Michael walked towards the giant oak wooden doors he gazed up at the splendour of the Italian masonry, in particular the statue of a beautiful Angel with her wings spread across the arch of the doorway beneath her.
He paused when directly under her and gazed up at the stone face. Michael suddenly felt a strange sense of being watched, as he realised what the Angel signified. As he stepped through the doorway into the house of God, he was instantly aware that the eyes of all the Angels, and all the souls of the Uomini D'onore, were upon him.
With that in mind, Michael removed his sunglasses and stepped into the darker, cooler foyer of the church. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the sudden darkness, but once he had he dipped his hand into a nearby pool of blessed Holy water and marked the crucifix on his forehead.
Michael pushed through into the main area of the church, his footsteps echoing through the high ceiling. He ignored the statues and magnificent paintings of saints that gazed down at him from either side, but walked determinedly towards a small altar where a young girl in a headscarf was knelt, deep in the silent trance of prayer. Before her, was a giant crucifix with a statue of Christ hanging limp from it, a wound under his rib where he had been stabbed by the Centurion.
Michael came up beside the girl, and bowed his head to the statue, crossing himself, then knelt down next to her and clasped his two hands in prayer. He closed his eyes, but as he thought, realised there was feasibly nothing right now that he could ask the Lord for. He was not a cafeteria Catholic, content to ask God for every little pittance and not give anything back. If he REALLY needed something, he would pray. But for now, Michael thought, his priorities lay with the girl to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes and relaxed his hands.
"You pray for Gerard's soul?" he asked quietly. There was silence from the girl, so after a few seconds he turned his head to the left to see her beautiful face, half obscured from his view by the headscarf she wore.
"No..." at length, she spoke in a voice of honey, "...I pray for the soul of his brother."
Michael sighed. There was a sharp bitterness in her tone, which had not been present when he left her in the house that morning. Slowly, he reached a hand up to attempt to push back the folds of the headscarf.
"Why do you cover up your beauty? You are as God made you; in his house, surely you should let him bear witness to his work."
"Stop it..." Isabella Fratino swatted his hand away from her face, "I kneel before the son of the virgin mother of God. It would be improper..."
"And who lead you to believe that?"
Isabella turned her head to face Michael, and gazed deeply into his eyes with her own, "Myself," she turned back, and looked up at the peaceful face of Jesus. Peace, a state it seemed only Death himself could induce.
Michael shrugged, deciding to let his wife have her few moments of peace. But at length, he spoke again, "Why do you fear for Matteo?"
Isabella did not hesitate, "Because he is my little cousin, and I love him. It isn't right that he is being..." the words died in her throat, and she shook her head, telling her husband without speaking that she did not want to continue her sentence.
Michael reached a comforting arm around her shoulders, but again, Isabella shrugged him off, "Stop..." she whispered, "Not in the house of God..."
"I'm only trying to comfort you," Michael said in a calm, affectionate tone so as not to let her realise that he was beginning to lose patience, "Why do you so despise the slightest display of affection in a church?"
Isabella sighed, not sure herself on what the answer was, "If we do not have humility in front of the Holy Father," she said after a moment's pause for thought, "Then where will we have it?"
A minute may have passed in silence between them, Michael was not sure. His wife took religion very, very seriously, and yes while it did try his nerves on many occasions, he learnt quickly to forgive her and accept how she acted. If anything, Michael thought, it was an admirable and attractive quality in Isabella, who herself was the niece of Matteo Lupino senior.
Finally, Michael came to accept that his wife would not allow him to comfort her physically in the seclusion of the church, and decided he would have to soothe her with speech. After letting Isabella pray a bit more, he spoke up once again.
"Matteo junior will not get into trouble for this," he cooed, "The ceremony is merely a mark of protection from the family, after the shock of Gerard's death..." he remembered to cross himself, "...God rest his soul...this is just a precaution from his father."
"It's not the trouble he could get into I worry about," Isabella whispered, "It's the stigma that everyone who gets the title carries with them..."
She looked for comfort in her husband's eyes, but Michael could provide her with none. She had beaten him; Isabella's point was clear in his mind, and now he couldn't help but agree with it.
"It is your uncle's wish..." Michael could say no more. He watched as Isabella turned back to face the crucifix, and sigh deeply to herself.
"I know...and I know that his father knows best for him, but...there must be some other way...surely...?"
"There is no need for another way," Michael rebutted, "The Men of..." Michael remembered he was in a church, so did not finish that phrase, "Once Matteo goes through with this, he will not have to worry about the same end as his brother. He will be safe from such harm."
"Is it worth it?" Isabella almost cried, for now Michael could see rogue tears escaping down her cheeks, "Protection from harm in this world, only to burn in hell for eternity in the next..." she gasped, and looked to her husband, who she could tell was hurt by the comment, "Forgive me..."
Michael shook his head and swallowed his pride, "Isabella...did Jesus not forgive the soldiers who crucified him? Do you think as he hung on the cross he felt anger towards his brothers who had betrayed him?" Isabella looked up at the face of Christ, without saying a word, "Or do you think, in his final moments as he lost hope, that he still knew to forgive them?"
Isabella, finally won over by her husband's words, bowed her head and used her scarf to dry her tears, "If Jesus could forgive the Jews who betrayed him, and the Romans who crucified him, then so can he forgive the Men of Honour." She looked at Michael, a happy light returning to her eyes. Michael smiled warmly at his wife, then stood up.
Putting a hand on her shoulder, he said, "I must go and meet with Ricard."
"That's alright..." Isabella stood now too, "I'm going to have a sleep before evening...will you be able to join me for dinner?"
Michael nodded, "I would love to."
Isabella smiled, and they left the church together holding hands, before saying their goodbyes on the outside.

Michael watched his wife walk off out of the square, the sun casting a giant shadow on the ground beside her as she walked. Once she had turned a corner and so disappeared into the market place, Michael turned on his heel and walked back over to the fountain, again sitting down on the edge of it, this time however he sat facing the café.
The two boys from earlier had left, Michael noticed, to be replaced by a stream of customers as it approached the lunch hour. He watched calmly as the glass door that lead into the café opened, and a pretty blonde waitress came out into the sun, blinking rapidly in the light, with a tray of sandwiches in her hands. She approached a table where a young couple and their newborn baby sat, the mother feeding the baby from a bottle, and delivered both of them their sandwiches.
The young couple both smiled graciously at her, and the waitress bent over to play with the baby, at which the mother laughed and hugged the baby closer, with body language saying "God, you wish you had this kid," to all those who bore witness. After half a minute or so of this, the waitress stood up straight and smoothed over the creases in her apron, before heading back inside the shelter of the café. It was now that Michael stood up himself and walked over to the café door, pushing in, out of the benevolent beams of the sunlight.
Michael was quick to seat himself by the window, looking out over the sun kissed square. Silently, he praised the very forces of Nature for it's beauty...in the name of God, of course. He was not a witch, after all.
The blonde waitress from the couple's table came over with offers of coffee, an American tradition, but he refused, preferring instead to sample a bacon sandwich and a cup of cold water. The girl smiled warmly and muttered something about a discount before hurrying off into the kitchens to make the order. Of course there was a discount, Michael thought with a roll of his eyes. I paid for your college education, Georgia.
A lot of good it did you, though. Look at you, bussing tables in a no-name local café, your boss an associate of the Lupinos. But you didn't know that, did you? Michael sighed as he saw the girl talking to one of the chefs through a slit in the kitchen door, I bet you didn't know what your boyfriend does for a living. Or why your boyfriend works with the husband of Matteo Lupino's niece.
Michael train of abusive thought derailed as the door at the far end of the café opened and gave way to a young, clean shaven man in a leather jacket, hair dyed blonde by the natural caress of sunlight and lemon juice, face the young mask of vitality and on-the-surface innocence that Michael, even though he was only three years this man's senior, had lost.
Ricard Bonnano walked triumphantly and proudly through the café, stopping only to exchange a quick word with the young waitress, Georgia. She giggled after he finished speaking, and walked away, Ricard quickly slapping her on the rear as she went. She gave a yelp and giggled her way out of sight. Ricard grinned, pleased with himself, then spotted Michael and hurried over to the table.
Michael rolled his eyes as Ricard came to a halt, spreading his arms out, awaiting the formal embrace and kiss that was the custom of Italians, especially in their class of society. Michael shook his head once, however, and, lighting up a cigarette, said "Sit down," motioning to the chair across from him.
A little bewildered and hurt, Ricard took his seat.
"What's the matter, Mike...?" he asked quietly.
"Have you no fucking respect, Ricard? None whatsoever? Madonna mia, if anyone saw a display like that..."
"Hey, it was just a little fun! What, we can't put hands on our girlfriends in this thing of ours now?" Ricard said with a defensively raised eyebrow.
Michael looked Ricard up and down, drawing a long drag of smoke from the cigarette, "You know what, forget it. It's not like you're a member. Do what you will."
Ricard grimaced, "About that, Mikey...I was wondering..."
"No."
"What? You didn't even hear me out yet!"
"I know what you were gonna' say, and no! We've been through this."
"Jesus, Mikey, I've made my fucking bones! You were there! Why the hell haven't I be bumped up a notch?"
"You WERE bumped up a notch! Wonder why they don't call you an associate anymore?" Michael snapped.
Ricard ran a hand through his blonde hair, "I mean the real thing! I mean I want to finally call myself part of the family! How much more clear do I have to make it, Mike?"
Michael cut to the chase, "You want to be made?"
Ricard nodded, "If you want to put a word to it, then yes. I feel like my time has come."
"Madonna. After that little display of affection, Ricard, it's obvious you don't have the maturity to handle a position of responsibility like that. Besides, even if it was your time, the books are closed."
Ricard rolled his eyes, and Michael could tell he was a little hurt now, "That's bullshit! How can they have room in the family for Matteo junior, but not me?"
"Look at the kid's last name!" Michael said in a raised voice, "Besides, it isn't official. He isn't getting his wings or anything...it's simply a sign to the Luvidecci's that if they try to pull the same shit they did to Gerard last year, this time, the family will come for them."
Ricard opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again.
"And if you still have a problem..." Michael continued, "You take it up with the captain. This is none of my business in the first place."
"Christ..." Ricard shook his head before resting it on the table, nested comfortably between his arms. As if from nowhere, Georgia reappeared with Michael's sandwich and water. He thanked her and slipped her a gracious tip; despite her earlier talk of a discount, of course, "if I see the Capofamiglia, I'll take it up with HIM..." Ricard said once his girlfriend was out of earshot.
Michael laughed before taking a large bite out of his bacon sandwich, and pausing to savour the delicious smoked bacon, then swallowed hard and burst Ricard's bubble by saying, "Yeah, you do that. I'm sure the Don would be happy to arrange an appointment. He can book you in, you can lie on a couch, tell him all your problems...he'll even give you dental advice while you're at it."
"Ok, if you're going to make fun of me, I won't bother."
"Look, Ricard..." Michael sat forward, deciding to be sincere with his friend, "We don't make the choice about when we get made. That's the captain's decision, and finally, it's the Don's. You will get made, but an attitude like yours will only delay that. Just sit back, and wait. Don't be a fool and think that job you did went unnoticed. Your day will come."
Ricard sighed, but a look into his friend's eyes told him that he was being told the truth, "Alright..." he muttered, "You know this stuff better than I do, so...I'll wait."
Michael nodded graciously. His friend could be a fool sometimes, he knew, but at the end of the day Ricard's heart and soul were true. He noticed Ricard looking over his shoulder, and turned his head to see what he was gazing at. The two boys Michael had noticed earlier, outside the café, had come in now; he hadn't noticed them when he first arrived.
"You see those two?" Ricard gestured to them.
"Uh huh..." Michael hummed his acknowledgment.
"Both of 'em are fucking Fanochhio, you believe that?"
Michael shrugged and turned back to Ricard, "Yeah, so what...?"
Ricard shrugged, "Well...one of them...the black haired one...his older brother? He's la stessa cosa."
"Are you serious?" Michael had not known that, and admired Ricard's knowledge of the subject.
"Yeah. Funny world, where the Luvideccis let guys with fags for brothers become made."
"Hey look, it would have been no different if that guy's brother had come to the Lupinos..." Michael defended, "Besides, what his brother does is of no bearing on the guy himself. Maybe he's a good earner, maybe he's a strong hand...maybe he's just lucky."
Ricard shook his head, "I don't know...whatever happened to good old fashioned family values? Like, guys going out into the country with their beautiful blonde wives and having a bunch of cute kids...nowadays its all sorts of free sex bullshit. The world is slipping, I tell you that much."
Michael smiled, "I personally don't see a problem with it. Homosexuality is fine by my count, but then I admit it was ill advised for the Luvidecci family to let a guy with a brother like that into the fold...for a whole number of reasons, not least the impression it gives on their family."
"You got that right..." Ricard shook his head, then sniggered.
A minute or two must have passed in silence by Michael's count, because by the time Ricard next spoke, the bacon sandwich was finished and Michael was downing the glass of water.
"So I take it you're off now to initiate Matteo junior?"
Michael stubbed out his cigarette in the table's ashtray, "Yeah. Jesus, the kid must be on a high..." he and Ricard shared a laugh.
"Either that, or shitting himself..." Ricard's olive oil voice came.
"Yeah..." Michael nodded in agreement, "One or the other," both of them broke into a fit of laughter
The two of them let their laughter die down naturally, without saying a word, then Michael spoke up again, "So what I want you to do, quite simply, is just drive by the house, make sure Isabella is home safely. I'm not so comfortable leaving her there with the new neighbours next door..."
"Jesus, Michael," Ricard shook his head, "A minute ago you were telling me how I was moved up a notch, now I'm being sent off like a messenger boy?"
"Hey, it's either that or you sit here all day and watch the two guys behind us. The choice is yours."
Ricard smiled a broad, fake smile, "Have I ever told you how much I enjoy working with you?"
Laughing, Michael slapped Ricard's face, "That's the spirit..." both of them stood up, and after sharing a grin, embraced, Michael kissing Ricard on the cheek, "With all the stuff that the captain is talking about the Luvidecci family, all I can do is promise you that something's about to give one way or the other. You'll have your fun pretty soon, I promise."
"Would hate to miss it..." Ricard nodded slowly. The two men walked out of the café and back into the blistering heat of the Tuscan sun.
"Look..." Michael said just before Ricard left, "Once you've checked up on Isabella, go see Rafealo, tell him I sent you for the pay. Keep half of it. You've been out of your own action for a while, so you deserve a break."
"Jesus...I can't accept that, Michael..." Ricard said, with eyes that divulged his gratitude.
"I'm not offering. I'm giving. Go buy yourself something nice."
Ricard smiled, "Thanks, Mike..." he hugged his friend again.
"Don't worry about it."
They said their final goodbyes, and Ricard turned to leave Michael standing alone in the square, for the second time that day.

*

Evening came.
The sun, in its glory, started to dip and drown beneath the horizon, its once valiant rays waning and loosing their energy as they turned from the once majestically bright shade of golden to a dim, cold pink. The stream of people in the Imperia square slowed to a halt in the hour gap between the time when the locals retreated back to their homes, and when the tourists came out for their evening meal.
Imperia, for that hour long window, was a ghost town. And as Don Guido Lupino stood still in the graveyard next to the church, eyes closed and head bowed at the tomb of Gerard, his late grandson, the old man could have sworn the ghosts of Imperia had arisen around him, dancing and mocking the living, whose days on this Earth are numbered, as opposed to the countless days the dead spend in the white kingdom of Heaven.
When the old Don had finished his prayers, he opened his eyes slowly and, allowing himself to gently emerge from his trance, tilted his round rimmed hat upwards to look at his son, Matteo senior, who stood with his hands folded over one another, in a silent peace. The captain said nothing, he did not have to. The magnitude of the event that was about to take place bore down on both of them.
At the end of the graveyard, beyond the black spear-like gates, a black Mercedes was parked, a man in a black trench coat standing by one of the rear doors, waiting for his order. He looked inquisitively at Don Guido, but the old man shook his head. They were not ready.
Many miles away, in the mountain forests that surrounded the Lupino residence, a wolf, coat a magnificent clean cut of grey, tilted back its majestic head and looked to the sky, letting out a cold, blood curdling howl. By the Lupino's swimming pool, Selina Lupino, who had been bending over to pick up a book she had been reading at poolside earlier, braced upright upon hearing the howl. The cry ran into her pores and through her veins, for a second rooting her to the spot. She had not grown up on this mountain like her husband, and so was still not really used to the sound, but she always took a second of peace every time the wolf howled at this hour; a second to marvel, once again, at the infallibility of Mother Nature, and the wonder of her creation.
Infallible the great goddess may be, but mankind was not. Before the howl had even died in the enclave of the nurturing forests, Michael had arrived at the churchyard. Since his meeting with Ricard that morning he had changed now into a black suit, and ran a comb through his hair, even shaved his face. He looked now everything a young Italian man should, in the eyes of the Don, and he smiled warmly as he approached Matteo, embracing and kissing him on each cheek.
So the three men, the three Uomini D'onore, stood with each other in the cold, unforgiving stone graveyard. Once Michael had embraced Don Guido in the same fashion as Matteo, he took his place at the captain' side, trying to see beyond the cracking gravestones and tombs, overgrown with green moss. Trying to put his mind somewhere else, and escape the morbid symbol of death that graveyards serve to represent.
Don Guido, now content that everything was in order, nodded towards the man by the car. With a grunt of acknowledgement, the man opened the car door and out stepped the youngest of Lupino boys; Matteo junior.
Seeing his son dressed in such formal clothes, walking without hesitation to where the three men stood, at the tomb of his deceased older brother, brought tears to the eyes of Matteo senior. So much innocence we sacrifice, he thought, if only to defend the guilty.
Matteo junior came to his father, and it was now the three men noticed that the boy was as pale as a sheet. Matteo put an assuring hand on his son's shoulder, and he may have whispered words of encouragement to him, but they were lost as a strong gust of wind kicked up, raising the leaves from the ground and shaking the tree branches that hung low over them.
"You understand what is about to happen? You have no qualms or doubts?" Matteo senior asked his son.
"No," the boy of fifteen did not look into his father's eyes when he spoke. His eyes were fixed on the engravings on the tomb of Gerard.
"Alright then..." Matteo senior nodded, "Not only is this not to have a bearing on your place in the family, but you are my son, so we will skip the usual formalities," Matteo looked to the Don, who nodded at his son, "Alright. Hold out your hand."
Matteo junior did as he was told. He held his hand out, palm facing upwards, in the open air. With a nod from Don Guido, Michael now approached him, drawing a long blade from his jacket pocket. He took Matteo's hand in his, and placed the edge of the knife to the boy's tender skin.
"This won't be pleasant..." with no further warning, Michael sliced the blade across the boy's hand, drawing blood on the first cut. Matteo would have cried out from the pain, but he bit his tongue hard to stop himself.
As Michael nodded now to Matteo senior and wiped the knife clean, he noticed a solitary tear escape down the boy's cheek. He did not cry out, Michael noted, and the cut was deep.
Matteo senior now approached his son, still holding out his hand, which was now pumping out crimson blood each time the boy's heart beat. Matteo drew from his pocket a small picture of the Virgin Mary and held it up for his son to see. Matteo junior looked at the girl in the picture, not noticing as his father dipped his forefinger into the slow stream of blood oozing from his palm and smearing it across her face.
The captain now drew a lighter from his back pocket, ignited it, and held the golden flame teasingly under the picture.
"Cup your hands," he spoke softly, his voice almost at one with the calm winds. Matteo junior did as he was told, and cupped both his hands, so now the blood ran down into the chalice shape of his hands, and dripped through, spattering his shoes. This was of no importance to him, however, as the next thing his father did was ignite one corner of the picture and drop it into Matteo's cupped hands.
Gulping as the fire scalded his flesh, Matteo did as he had been told to do countless times before. Sucking down the tears that tried to explode out of him at the pain, he recited slowly, "May I burn like this blessed virgin if ever I should betray the family..." and so he repeated himself, until the picture of the Virgin Mary was ash.
His father's eyes shone with pride, and he put an arm around the boy, who lost all previous conviction of self-restraint, and allowed his tears to flow freely. None of the men present thought any less of him for it. Don Guido, his grandfather, came over and embraced his tightly, as a grandfather would do to any of his grandson's. Next, his uncle, Michael, came and shook his uncut hand. There was suddenly a deep rooted understand between each man present. Each man. The fifteen year old Lupino boy had been Initiated; he was no longer a child.