Free Atavus by S. W. Frank Page A

slumped in the seat with the cell balled in his hand. He beat his knee, shit, what a mess!
    The driver turned on the heavily traveled palazzo where tourists flocked like cattle. He checked the mirrors to ensure they weren’t followed. His boss made it clear, anything suspicious is a warning that trouble’s coming. The boss’ Capo sat in the passenger seat, with eyes on everything, Glock on his lap and a stern expression of no-nonsense. He often talked Spanish to his Boss. They were aware he didn’t understand a lick of the language. He was born and bred in Germany, a military brat. His Boss nicknamed him the ‘German’, and the guys teased him about having it rough as a black German living in a country where a dictator set the tone for racist groups. He ignored them, that was before his time and he didn’t have problems with the German people. In fact, he felt more at home there than in America which is considered the melting pot of the world. However, the plate is sectioned, similar to charts that display grains, vegetables and dairy. They are all foods, eaten, used for nourishment and then excreted for fertilizer. These are the purposes of foods, and people function as simply as that, until mental charts of separation are drawn. He preferred Europe; his life was not complicated due to color. Money was the divisor.
    Alfonzo tapped the back of his seat. “German, pay attention and cut a left.”
    The German turned as directed and then entered a hidden parking lot adjacent to a large metal container with Italian markings he did not understand.
    Going from light to darkness within an instant caused him to squint. He nearly collided with a huge column, narrowly missing it and receiving a bark from the Boss when his shoulder struck the window. “Shit, that’s what headlights are for German!”
    “Entschuldigung!” The driver exclaimed.
    “Sorry my ass, pull over to that black car!” Alfonzo snapped. He exited as soon as the vehicle screeched to a halt. “German you couldn’t outdrive my mother.” Alfonzo grumbled while hitting the remote to unlock the black auto. He went to the other car, opened the door, reached inside for a disposable phone under the seat and dialed Emilio. The call went to his voicemail. “Emilio hit me up,” he said and then shoved the cell in his breast pocket.
    Alfonzo went around to the rear, lifting the trunk to access a laptop there. He sent a message to the pilot before erasing the hard drive. He had several hidden spots similar to this one in case of emergencies. Once utilized he never used them again. He tucked the laptop under his arm, and returned to his vehicle.
    “Get me to the airport in one piece German,” he said as he returned to the plush interior and put the laptop on the floor.
    “Yes sir!”
    Alfonzo rested his head. He’d call Selange before boarding. These emergencies upset him most. The concern for members of the family didn’t stop because he resided in another country. If Jessica told him Emilio was missing, he had a duty to respond and aid in the search.
    With many of his legitimate company stocks plunging, the donations to Selange’s charity decreasing to the point where she had to ask him for money, said a lot. What’s the likelihood of even Giuseppe’s companies experiencing fines and losses to his stock portfolio?
    Ever since Yosef entered the picture, the headaches mounted. Yosef was hated, although in Alfonzo’s opinion the others had a lot of nerve snubbing the guy because he wore a yarmulke. They were all criminals, involved in rackets, from insurance fraud to slinging dope. Alfonzo wasn’t exempt; everything he did wasn’t legal, especially premeditated murder. 
    Alfonzo wasn’t convinced Yosef was the reason for the insurgency. Many despised him too. Frankly, some member’s true colors had begun to show. Using Yosef as a smokescreen to tighten the screws for access to his legitimate holdings could be the ploy.
    Someone or a collective group