Of course, he would never dare to express his fears aloud. Not even to his longtime friend Gaetano "Johnny Chisels" Chisli.
"You think Don Pietro maybe left some of his marbles back at the hospital, Favio?" Gaetano had asked recently.
"I think you bedda shud your fuckin' mouth, Johnny, that's what I think," Favio Briassoli had responded. But the truth was, the Don Pietro he was working for wasn't the Don Pietro of the old days. Not even close.
When everything had seemed to be going to hell a few years back, and he and the rest of the Scubisci syndicate had gone to the mattresses against the Pubescio family of California, Favio Briassoli, like any well-trained Mafia soldier, had fought right alongside his fellow soldiers.
But when Don Pietro had lapsed into a coma after eating a tainted piece of fish, and Don Fiavorante Pubescio of California had taken over the Scubusci family, Favio Briassoli, like any small-time hood who broke kneecaps for a buck, understood it was time to lam out to someplace safe until things cooled off.
They didn't cool off until Don Fiavorante cooled off, as in "whacked out." And in his stead returned the man the best doctors at Mount Sinai had declared was trapped in a "persistent vegetative state."
Favio wasn't sure how it had happened. Don Pietro, once he had mustered his old crew, declined to go into details. But of one immutable truth, he was sure.
Don Pietro Scubisci was in charge again.
But like a deep wound that refused to heal, Don Pietro's mind was not what it once had been. His years of poisoned sleep had caused damage the eye could not see.
The business with a low-life from Boston named Tony "No Numbers" Tollini had been the first evidence of this Favio Briassoli had seen with his own eyes. Favio Briassoli still shuddered at the gruesome memory.
He had been the trigger man. He had splattered the brains of No Numbers Tollini all over the walls of Don Pietro's place of honor at the back of the Neighborhood Improvement Association building. Afterwards, the don had taken one of the greasy fried peppers from the stained paper bag he always carried with him, dipped the pepper in No Numbers' brains, and brought the soft, cheesy matter to his dry, brittle lips with relish.
"It was like he was trying a freaking cake at a freaking tea party," Johnny Chisels said, once they had exited into the fresh air of Mott Street.
"Shut the fuck up, Johnny," Favio Briassoli had replied. He was busy expelling his lunch of linguini and clam sauce into the gutter in front of the Neighborhood Improvement Association building.
There were other occasions that prompted street talk-such as a recent interest in the ways of the encroaching Chinese-but he was Don Pietro, so these lapses in decorum were ignored.
As a reward for their loyalty, Don Pietro had entrusted Favio and Gaetano with the job of protecting his frail old life. And that's where they had been for the past few weeks. Inside the Neighborhood Improvement Association, perched on hard straight-backed chairs on either side of the front door, steeled for the trouble that was now unavoidable because too many mouths were whispering that Don Pietro was a weak old man with no more of a mind than a squash.
This night it was warm enough that they could have sat outside, but on the sidewalk they would have been targets for drive-by shooters and Feds with cameras. And besides, no one came to the Neighborhood Improvement Association who didn't have business there, and no one came to the plain wood-facade, steel-reinforced door without quaking in terror at what the tiny old shell of a man and his army of thugs could do if he were displeased.
On this night, Johnny Chisels was on edge. As he leaned back in the wooden chair, he kept bouncing it back and forth off the wall behind him.
He stopped bouncing long enough to ask, "You think there's somethin' really wrong with him this time?"
"Hey, I ain't seen nothing wrong, so shut up," Favio had responded. "You wanna get us killed?"
Johnny Chisels fingered the butt of the 9-mm Glock pistol in his shoulder holster. He had lifted the weapon off a Colombian hit the year before, and he had treasured it ever since. Owning a piece none of his friends could spell made him feel worldly.
"And quit playin' with that foreign piece of shit," Favio added. "It's gonna go off one of these days, and take your fuckin' nose with it."
"Aw, lay off, Favio," Johnny Chisels complained.
Favio Briassoli had gone back to staring glumly at the floor, and Gaetano Chisli had just gotten up to stretch his cramped legs, when the front door exploded inward in a million shards of wood and metal, carrying Johnny Chisels with it. The two became a red abstract painting on the painted plaster wall behind.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" a voice called from out on Mott Street.
Favio Briassoli was up in a heartbeat. His chair clattered to the floor as he slammed his back firmly against the wall to the left of the door, his heavy Wildey Survivor .45 clutched in his meaty palm. About a dozen other burly thugs in ill-fitting suits came cramming into the small foyer from back rooms, Uzis in hand and backs dragging sweat marks across the thirty-year-old wallpaper.
"What is it, Favio?" one asked, eyeing the remains of Johnny Chisels.
"Shut up!" Favio hissed.
They waited in silence, but nothing else happened.
Tentatively, Favio Briassoli pushed his arm out the door, weapon first. He'd come out firing, and maybe peg off a couple of rounds into whoever had done in Johnny Chisels. But before he had a chance to depress the trigger, his gun was plucked from his hand like a spring dandelion. It disappeared in a blur out the front door.
"What the fuck . . . ?" Favio demanded. His fingertips were tingling. He hadn't even seen who or what had taken the gun from him.
A moment later the large handgun rolled back into the foyer. Its long barrel had been tied into a neat overhand knot.
"This is wrong," a sing-songy voice complained from outside. "We are not to harm any who dwell within this place without instructions from Smith." "Since when did you become a pacifist?" the first voice complained.
Wondering if the Irish Westies were making a move-since very few Sicilians were named Smith-Favio motioned to two of his burliest men. They took the signal and rushed to the door brandishing their Uzis. They leapt out into the street, while the others listened anxiously. The weapons managed a few feeble burps, and then were strangled into silence. Somehow . . .
Weapon in hand, Favio eased to the gaping front door, keeping off to one side. He was about to order the next wave into the fray. He got as far as jerking his thumb toward the door, when something that felt exactly like a steel vise grips reached in and dragged him, thumb-first, out onto the pavement.
He rolled back into the hallway a moment later, his spine knotted in the same manner as his handgun.
Next a face appeared at the door. It was youngish, about thirty or so. The man the face belonged to waved once to the cowering pack of mobsters, with an ordinary hand that was attached to his forearm by an extraordinarily thick wrist.
"Borrow a cup of ammo?" he asked cheerfully.
One of the gangsters opened fire, saying, "All I got are fuckin' clips."
The first volley of bullets ripped into the walls around the door, chewing up wood and spitting fragments of plaster onto the well-worn carpetand incidentally, adding a few kinks to Favio Briassoli's already knotty spine.
The man with wrists like baseball bats easily dodged the leaden storm.
He was in the hallway now, advancing on the startled group.
"Gee, all I wanted was a cup. That had to have been more like twenty," he said.
He was too close now for their machine pistols. They ran the risk of shooting one another in such a confined space. A few pulled handguns. The closest pair reached for him with their bare hands.
Those with outstretched hands lost the hands. The thick-wristed man simply collected them like so many toadstools. The newly maimed members of the Scubisci family dropped to the floor, howling and cradling bloody stumps. There were only four left standing. They stuck their guns in the face of the intruder and squeezed their triggers in unison.
Before the rounds left their chambers, their bodies had hit the floor. Bullet strikes peppered the surrounding walls.
But nothing else. For the intended target had vanished from the convergence of bullets, to reappear off to one side.
When all was quiet, Chiun entered through what remained of the front door. He picked his way through the carnage, delicately raising the hem of his silvery kimono.
"Thanks a heap for all the help," Remo complained.
"I disposed of the one who gave orders," Chiun sniffed. With his toe, he indicated the pretzel-like form of the late Favio Briassoli.