This story is true except for all the bits that aren't.
xxxx
I'd given the afternoon off to Vito, the soldier forced on me by Guido Vannese's family while I visited their patch in Florence. Guido knew I was just a tourist and strictly speaking no longer a family man. But still, as a friendly gesture and sign of respect, the Vanesse godfather insisted I have a minder.
Vito, a huge man so ugly taxis wouldn't stop for him, was temporarily out of sight doing whatever a Vito does with his time off. Oiling his piece, wringing rabbit's necks, or more likely, shopping for a new, more tasteless fedora.
Myself? I was back in Italy reconnecting with my ancestors' genes. The piece of them that says guys walk down the street appreciating the signorinas - the blondes, the redheads, the brunettes.
As I browsed the crowded stalls in Florence's San Lorenzo market, the signorina alert system spotted what any fair judge would describe as a first class backside. Its taut, round, apple curved perfection was not ten yards in front of me. The owner was wearing a gold chain belt that matched her gold sandals, and clinging jeans that highlighted a show-stopping package of long legs and delicious ass. Her head was crowned by a stunning aurora of brilliant red hair that cascaded in lustrous waving locks past her shoulders.
The redhead half turned and I realized she wasn't a teenager, but an actual woman -- a milf in her very beautiful thirties. Then suddenly - whack! A young black man in a dirty shirt and greasy trousers jumped from behind a stall and flung her to the ground. She screamed out and scuffled, clinging desperately to her handbag as he tried to wrestle it from her. He slapped her face and pressed the blade of a large skinning knife to her cheek and, wide eyed with fear, her red hair fanned out over the pavement, she released her grip on her bag. The thief tore it from her hands, spat a sadistic yellow gob in her face, and shoving her away, sprinted clear.
"Turisti," he sneered at the redhead and charged towards me, waving his blade to menace any idiot stranger who intervened. These days I stay under the radar -- its part of my family's "respectable" job description. But I had a wild unreasoning flash of anger, and launched myself, crash tackling him. I grabbed his knife hand, slapped it on the pavement, rolled him on his chest and punched my knee into his back. He dropped the handbag and I held him hard on the ground.
"Oh thank you, thank you," she called tremulously as she ran up behind me.
"If you're okay, pick up your handbag. Check your passport's still there, your wallet too."
While the thief wriggled to break my hold, I could hear her behind me breathing hard, as she scrabbled inside her bag. "Yes, they're both here."
"Stay safe behind me. I don't want the police, and the guy's still got his knife." I pulled the bag snatcher back up keeping my knee in his back, and the blade clattered to the pavement. "Vamoose. Shove off," I yelled pushing him away. He staggered, then fell to his knees, and felt around his ankle.
"He's got another knife,' she screamed.
"Stay behind me," I told the redhead. Cursing, he came at me hard, the knife scything. His first stab stung my fending left hand and as I tried to avoid the second thrust I was in trouble. But he overstepped, and I caught his knife hand at the wrist. With my mind erupting red with anger, I hissed "Coward, Bastard," and sunk a Nike into his balls. He doubled over clutching his jewels, so I kicked him in his stomach and as his pop-eyed face lurched forward, I ploughed my left hand into his cheek and followed through with a right fist straight into the bridge of his nose. I felt it squash and break.
It spurted streams of blood as he sprawled at my feet, heaving and vomiting. I jumped back -- hell I didn't want his chuck on my new sneakers. The pool of spew sobered me, and I stood clear. He scrambled to his feet and ran off. Twenty yards free of me he turned, his face contorted with pain and hatred, gave me the bird, and mouthed something useless like: "I'll be back."
"He's sliced your hand," she cried, and flipped a blue scarf from her neck to pull it around the wound. "Thanks for being so brave. I can't begin to...." she quavered toffily, digging furiously in her purse. I thought for a moment she was going to tip me.
Actually, she came up with a handful of tissues, and as I saw her face, I knew the startled deep blue eyes, and the unforgettable beauty. It must be her, the virgin queen of my teenager years. But she'd never remember me. It was at least fifteen years since I'd admired the unattainable co-ed, Felicity Brown. And suddenly, here she was, the stuck up WASP from college days, binding my hand in a street in Florence.
"You okay?" I asked. She was in good shape for a woman who's just been rolled round the pavement. She nodded, and looked at me, her face puzzled.
"But don't I know you? Let's see-- why, of course. Weren't we in history class together? You're - you're Danny. Yes, Danny the --- Ohmigod! I'm sorry." Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Danny the Dago," I offered. "No drama, I know I was called Danny the Dago, but no one ever said it to my face."
She turned crimson. "I'm sorry. We were all so stupid back then," she blushed. "Danny Caluzzi. I read about you in the newspapers. But you won't remember me?" To me this was as silly as Angelina Jolie saying: "Hi, you won't remember but my name's Angelina."
"It's Felicity isn't it? And don't believe what you read in the newspapers -- there's more truth in the comics."
She looked at me carefully, then took my bleeding hand and inspected it. "Well Danny, there was never a guy I was gladder to see than you. I know the man behind the bar across the street here. Let's see what we can do about this blood."
The cut had bled badly, but it was shallow and didn't need stitching. Felicity borrowed strips of plaster from her friend at the bar and inexpertly bound my hand. She held it up, examined it closely, and then smirked. "We'll you're in better shape that the thief. He's got a Caluzzi fist tattooed on his nose for life.
"Now - let me buy you coffee." I watched her beautiful ass sway back to the counter. Felicity Stuck Up -- a snob endowed with classic redhead looks. With fair skin, fine features, pearly teeth, sparkling eyes, and a lithe yet curvaceous body. Women like her shouldn't be allowed. Fifteen years ago I'd been doing a business major, and she was studying Fine Arts. She came from a Brahman family of East Coast bankers and which was followed breathlessly by the social pages while my own family got followed by the FBI.
Felicity Brown returned to the table smiling. "So what brings you to Florence, Danny?"
"The olive oil business," I joked.
She laughed out loud. "No -- just a holiday," I added. "But you - you know the guy behind the bar. So you live here?"
"No, I'm finishing three months as artist in residence at a big gallery called the Accademia Molinera. It's a perk for my art being almost famous. I take a few advanced classes and give them two paintings when I leave. But what do you do Danny? You work for the Mafi.. ahh.... Well are you employed in your family's business?"
"Sure Felicity, I'm in banking."
What did she mean by Mafia?" She thinks I guillotine thumbs and garrote old ladies? Look, the family went legit two generations ago when my grandfather Angelo went down for tax evasion and founded a bank from his cell in the old Sing Sing. Our bank's a damn sight straighter than Wall Street, but to be scrupulously fair, by "legit" I mean "mainly legit." Occasionally there are offers we don't refuse, and we still look after a few old friends who hang on grimly to the famous Caluzzi connection. This creates the odd inconvenience -- like I can't lose money in peace in Vegas. The guys insist I get looked after. Last year - the final hand of my final night - they had me win twenty thousand with a pair of threes. I ask you.
