What the Nanny Saw

Chapter 8: Debauched intentions

The Tunisian prostitute was called Aya. Because, "Italians can pronounce it, without asking me to repeat it twenty times," she said drolly.

'Not what he expected' was probably the understatement of the century. Romano's ill considered, "You're coming with me," was met with a kick very near his freshly emptied balls. He counted himself lucky, in retrospect, not to be wearing a face full of mace.

The Inspector held up a hand and pleaded, "Police, Miss, here's my badge." But Aya turned out to be far from the young, impressionable immigrant he'd expected. His badge was subjected to a thorough review under a scowling glare. "Not immigration," she said as the badge was returned. It was a statement, not a question.

When he'd suggested an interpreter might be made available, she'd actually laughed at him. "Oh, Inspector, I'ma jus a foreign girl, I don a understanda no Italian," she'd said, rolling her eyes.

Aya wasn't a child, he guessed late twenties. Shapely enough. She'd probably been doing well at the trade. It had been a trying night, but Romano managed to restrain himself and regroup. Rather than the station and an interpreter, he offered a cafe and some cannoli, to which Aya was definitely more amenable.

"Inspector, you Italians see a Tunisian prostitute and all the assumptions spring forth. Do you think I grew up longing to be a whore? No, of course not." She answered her own question, a verbal habit, he came to learn. And Romano knew when to shut up and let a witness talk. "I finished school. I speak Italian and French, along with Arabic. I'm gonna be an engineer. I'm good at math."

A sip of espresso and a bite of cannolo and she continued. "So why a whore in an unfriendly country, you want to know. It's because of the math, Inspector. Do you know what an engineer earns in Tunis? IF I can find anyone to hire a woman? 1000 dollars a month. That's 250 Euros inspector. I can earn more than that a night here, AFTER I hand over the house cut. I don't need a rescue, Inspector, I need access to a legal bank account." This little speech ended with a break for more coffee. The Inspector watched with some regret as the last cannolo went next.

"I understand, Miss. Aya," he finally interrupted. "I'm not here to judge you and I'm not here to repatriate you, I just have a few questions. About a murder."

The cannolo wavered near her mouth, a few flaky crumbs descending. "Bonsingore," was all she said. The inspector nodded. Aya took a deep breath, nodded, and looked Romano in the eye. "What do you want to know? How I met him?"

She wasn't denying all association, so that was a start.

"Tell me how you met him, what he was like, when you last saw him. Tell me everything." Romano had a sense this was a whole story, which meant he could reasonably order another plate of cannoli. "This time with the candied orange," he thought.

"Well, you have to understand," started Aya, "I wasn't trafficked here. I worked hard to get here. And it was legal, at least the first three months." I worked as a clerk for my uncle in Tunis. I collected and sold used phone parts for the copper and palladium. I saved every penny I could. And I got the visa - three months of paperwork and interviews in exchange for a three month visit. The legal visit."

The tale Aya told was long, strange and depraved. Romano had a natural sympathy for refugees, and had to re-orient his thinking about Aya more than once. She was a victim, of course, but not in the way he'd assumed.

Aya had connected to Madame Bonsignore, Mirriam, early in her time on Sicily. Mirriam had organized a cultural day that had been publicized, Romano recalled, for introducing Tunisians to local culture, and Aya had attended. As Aya told it, Mirriam had seen her for what she was -- a girl on the make, looking for money-making opportunities, rather than how she appeared -- a friendly tourist. Mirriam had given Aya the address of the big house on Lucciole that day and Aya was at the door that night.

Aya was hired on as a 'nanny,' clearly the Bonsignore standard, but never met the children. She would "entertain" guests at house parties once a week and help with "media production" the rest of the week. Aya wasn't confused about any of this, Mirriam paid her the complement of being honest and clear about the expectations. The stipend was 300 Euros a week, a place to stay and food to eat. Her passport was taken, but Aya said she never felt she was being held hostage. Even so, that was leverage, and Romano understood leverage.

The parties were elaborate. And debauched. Security would secure the guests' belongings on entry, after collecting the entrance fee, and the guests would be given black masks to wear - both to protect identities and to create an atmosphere. The "entertainment" wore masks too, explained Aya. But theirs were less for concealment, than for clarification.

"They had this whole, ridiculous color coding scheme - what color you wore indicated what kind of "activities" you could be expected to perform," she said. A puzzled Romano asked what she meant. "Oh, you know, black hair in blue masks, the guests could get oral. Blonde hair in yellow masks were for fucking. And there was even a red headed amazon in a red mask who did anal. Want to know if she was popular?" she laughed. "She was. Very. It was all kind of dumb. The guests would ask for whatever they wanted from whoever, and most of the entertainment didn't care about the rules."

Romano also learned that not all the entertainment was hired on, or at least not staying at the house. There was a rotation of 3 to 4 girls at any given time, including the sullen nanny, who, according to Aya, did not participate in the Hollywood-inspired free-for-alls. "She stayed with the kids in the other part of the house during 'bunga-bunga time'.

The guests might have started out playing with the entertainment, but the parties tended to devolve into full blown orgies. "They must have made a fortune," considered Aya. "They only needed eight or nine girls for forty guests. And I'm not totally sure they were all even paid - a few seemed awfully friendly with Mirriam. Think of the return on investment," said Aya, with a tone of true admiration.

Aya had a sense that Bonsignore had turned to Tunisians because some other source of girls had dried up. "They seemed a bit frantic when I arrived and there were more and more of us over time. And the new ones weren't like me, they were bringing in refugees. Desperate girls. I was never cheated, and I think the new girls got what was promised, but it was less attractive than my deal. I mean, I was sucking a lot of dick for 300 euros and a bed. But these girls. I think they got a bed."

"But even so, the Bonsingores were moving them along like a pipeline. They must have needed money for something, because they could definitely make more with them through the parties, but those girls were commissioned off to the Russos pretty quick. At first they would last a month, but soon it was week to week. Then, when the blockade started, and they couldn't get new girls, things started to crumble. They got that nanny girl, or one of them, to participate. And more 'friends' I think. Italians don't talk to us, but I gather there were friends, because they were older and more, I don't know, confident?"

"In the end, I realized I could do better, and left on my own for the Pink Kitty. Mirriam was pretty disappointed, but I know she understood. We had become... close," concluded Aya, snatching up the last cannolo. Again.

Romano saw his opportunity to interject, and didn't waste it. "Ok, that's the parties. But what about the videos? I have a video of you and Mirriam, and 'close' isn't exactly how I'd describe it."

"The hanging one? With the whip?" asked Aya. And then, "of course it is," answering her own question. "Look, Inspector, I like money. But I also like sex. Does that surprise you? That a Muslim girl can like sex? We're all human. And I sometimes like my sex a little extreme. But don't let the video fool you. It's a production and it wasn't quite so dramatic as it seems. Not for me, at least. I ate a lot of pussy that day, but I maybe got actually hit once. I don't think that girl loved getting her ass fucked, though. Those were real tears I saw. She wailed when he covered her face in his cum. And the mixture of shame and anger when it was over. That was real... let's just say I was glad the knives were locked away already."

She continued, "there's a solid market for that, whatsit called, bdsm content. If he'd lasted longer, I think Bonsingore's money troubles would have resolved just from that. The traffic was really picking up, I understand. But what can you do? Anyway, once the cash flow from the video content became clear, I'm sure the Russos would have been after that, too."

Stories and cannoli all finished, the inspector wished Aya a good night, full of admiration for the young woman. "You can't do this forever, you know," he said.

"Of course not," she answered. "I'm five months from enough to start my own damn engineering firm, and then I don't need to find out if anyone in Tunis will hire a woman."

Walking back to his car, Romano called Sergeant Carlo. "Get yourself to Palermo first thing. That woman, Bonsignore, is coming in. Tomorrow. Ask the prosecutor for a warrant of arrest, if you need to. They can send it ahead."

"What did you find out, Boss?" asked Carlo.

"She's in it up to her neck. I have confirmation it's her in the video. We have procurement, racketeering, we have plenty. And she's been turning out refugees in some kind of rescue to trafficking pipeline of epic proportions. Let's just see if she has blood on her hands as well. But be careful, there's a mafia connect."

And with that, Romano turned his back on the Warf and the whole, sorry evening, and started for home. He thanked the Madonna that, at least, he'd gotten one of the cannoli.