The World Under

Skinning ya demons

Chapter Two

Respect is a trait treasured and revered among gangsters. 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. It is taught and practiced right from the cradle; the very cornerstone of every society—the 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. In keeping by the book and its laws, he held his wife—Mara Visconti in such high regard as he would any man ‘in their line of business’. Which was the more reason he had her summoned up to the living room two hours after Jerry’s departure.

Unlike earlier, 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 already in the basement by now and attended to in there till he was old enough to give up all those annoying cries and infuriating demands, he thought silently, his expression turning impassive.

Not that he was misopedic or anything, but he had always hated the sight and sound of babies crying right from time.

To 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.

Reading meaning into her husband’s expression, the astute Mara Visconti’s eyes shot to the boy at once, her long, thick lashes fluttering as she said. “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 own.”

Same as earlier, 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, and so is his wife; Clara, and every member of his family.” Even the great 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 all at once. And her face became overwritten with unhappiness.

When she finally spoke moments 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 over to the boy in the go-cart.

“Oh, he’s so cute and adorable,” she said, pinching the boy’s cheeks, and 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 the 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 he thought it was, 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 and away from the living room.

Yes, respect is something accorded to anyone in the underworld, but 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.