The fight between Aelita and Amos over their son Feliciano continues … Amos desires to see the mother of his one and only son in jail. He is using his mafia connections to prove his power with a fatal result: He plans the kidnapping of his own child. The coup brings the boy all over he even the fingers of the kidnappers – mainly due to the cleverness of the child. The story is told by each of the protagonists Aelita, Amos and Feliciano. Each of them tells us their view – sometimes angry, sad, often anxious. Aelita who fights for her son’s life against the Mafia Clan, Amos who tries to destroy Aelita with every possible legal and illegal method, Feliciano - the son of the two – becomes the psychological victim of his father Amos who later on uses the unscrupulous gangsters of organised crime. The subject of kidnapping grabbed Delilah J. The number of missing children who are never found again – children who were killed. Often organised by the Mafia for satisfying profit and greed but sometimes even within the child’s own family – every day, everywhere – amongst all of us.
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The Italian Way
– A modern fairy tale –
“Mistress—The Italian Way”, Part 2
Original Edition, copyright © 2014 by Delilah J.
c/o pellybay films Gmbh
An der Alster 18
Layout and Production
2014, by Anita Böning
© by Kai Krellenberg
epubli GmbH, Berlin
For Massi J
All events described in this book are fictitious.
Similarities to living or dead persons were coincidental and not intended.
Qui dove il mare luccica
E tira forte il vento
Su una terrazza avanti al golfo di Sorriento
Un uomo abbraccia una ragazza dopo che aveva pianto
Poi si schiarisce la voce e ricomincia il canto …
I hear Pavarotti singing. His voice is clear, yes, almost loud. That’s how it sounds in this moment here at the cemetery. Silence. Blood drips from my fingers on Amos’ fresh grave. The thorns of the red rose pricked me. Drip, drip … Today is not my birthday and I am definitely not fifteen years old. The thirteenth Godmother was the only one in my life. She was the one that was not invited to the christening. The death curse hovers over me …
Te voglio bene assaie
Ma tanto tanto bene sai …
Tears roll down my cheeks.
“Te voglio bene assaie, ma tanto tanto bene sai …” Luciano and I sing together. I cry, my voice cries, too.
Una catena ormai
Che scioglie il sangue dint’e vene sai
I can feel my blood freezing in my veins …
Runway for the private aviation, London 6.55 am—my destination: Milano Linate airport, Italy. I am travelling light: A Louis Vuitton handbag, my laptop, documents, make-up, dressed in Chanel, Jimmy Choo shoes size 8, clip-in hair extensions, my Pucci sunglasses and antidepressants. My laptop is a must for writing this fiction. Later the lipsticks will be used for the manual correction of the printed manuscript and, of course, for pronouncing my full voluptuous lips. Accentuation—that’s my holy game! Where is my handbag? I try to find my co-codamol painkillers—here they are!
The Puerto Rican steward hands me the golden liquid: a glass of Roederer Cristal helps me swallow my special pinks much easier! What a cocktail! Soon I can feel a roller coaster in my bloodstream … My steward smiles at me. He knows the game! My best friend Kevin loves him: for his perfect beauty, his soft skin, his Spanish style and, of course, for his tight little ass and his big cock! Juan Carlos is the best ever—at least in this current moment. He adores me, I am his idol, he can read my wishes from my closed eyes and he is in love with my very best friend! He is loyal, devoted, discreet, faithful just like a best girlfriend without premenstrual fluctuations. He is my trolley dolly just for me! And for Kevin.
Permission received from air traffic control: We take off. Not only me but also my companion who is based in the hold of this luxurious Boeing 727 private jet I chartered specially for this occasion. Any smaller jet would have been sufficient for the short journey from London to Milano—maybe a Gulfstream or a Challenger or even a Citation X. But none of these birds would have been able to carry my precious cargo. No room, not enough space for him and his royal blue coffin with golden lilies that accompanies me. There he is—softly bedded in blood red velvet smoothly tickling his skin. He loved to be understate, simple elegance with style. Not noticeable. But this was my dramatic choice of a glamorous last suite for his still existing but dead body!
Flashback: He died of fear. A stich in his heart when the phone call arrived from the UK Inland Revenue followed by three estate agents calling to arrange viewings of the properties in his immense estate. Obviously arranged by his office as he was planning to sell his houses. This one here in Ferrara was his first real home. Living by himself for the very first time ever in his life at the age of fifty-five! Entering the manor house arriving in a huge entrance hall followed by two more foyers, seven bedrooms, a five hundred foot big dressing room—Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie in Sex and the City—or maybe both—would have been delighted!
And here it is: the indoor swimming pool! He is Mr. Big and this is his life! Five bathrooms with heated toilet seats. Hidden CCTV cameras survey the scene in every single room where ever he is in the world. A gym with a Jacuzzi! What would he need this for? The one and only trained muscle on his body is his cock! A separate house on the estate for his staff: the housekeeper, the butler, the gardener, the chauffeur. A suite for his son Feliciano or better known as Felix. The en-suite bathroom with black marble. Each line carefully enhanced from the expensive and rare stones. Invisible just like in Blake’s Hotel, London South Kensington. Lady Gaga, Mickey Rourke, David Bowie love staying at this hidden secret when visiting London. They adore Anouska Hempel and her extravagantly designed hotel. And right now outside his home the press are arriving. Cameras, lights, microphones are waiting for him targeting like shotguns towards the main entrance as well as around the back. For a range of reasons he wisely decides not to show up at all. Adrenalin fires his body—bum, bum—hitting him like electro shocks. I can count his blood pressure from far away: 250 over 120, his heartbeat reaches 300 a minute!
Ludmilla’s voice on the phone: “It is urgent,” she sobs into her iPhone, a charitable present to her after a generous shopping browse for himself to the Apple toyshop. Ludmilla, his small sin of recent moments of pleasure.
“I am HIV positive,” she cries into the phone. His pulse rises. Of course, he did not use any protection—as usual. He can see himself dying—slowly. But it is not enough—not yet. It is not easy to die from fear. Not for him who is about to die, not for the one who causes the death. The murderer? Or better—shall I call myself the murderess? Well, for the one who plans his death. Should I inject small doses or just increase the ammunition? I just wait …
I had met Ludmilla in Moscow at the bar of the Imperial Hotel where she was waiting for a film director. “An important role in a movie,”—so she said. But the director did not turn up.
“This would be the end of my dream being a successful actress in Hollywood!” she whispered. “And the producer is not here, too!”
“Don’t worry, Ludmilla,” I tried to calm her already having a special script in my mind. Ludmilla is tall, slender, blond, Slavic, young, naïve. Exactly his type of prey. She was waiting for her one and only moment to shine like a diamond. We had mandarin juice and champagne. Ludmilla sparkled after the first bottle of the golden bubble that went inside her without any hesitation.
“What a coincidence! I am so happy having met you in this tragic moment of my life! And I had already paid for the role, you know. A threesome … Me, the film director and the producer.” She reveals her best kept secret. They where very well connected with Hollywood, the Pinewood Studios and everyone who has the golden script in their hands. And she believed each word they said. And the more they painted a picture of their influence, their contacts, their power and the easy going life in Beverley Hills between the studios, Nobu Matsuhita’s first sushi palace, clubs with vanilla sugar lines laid out on the bar, Tiffany’s, Cartier’s, Bulgari’s, swimming pools on roof terraces, parties with celebrities—simply the world of success—the more enthusiasm she’d put in fulfilling their dreams. She was just nineteen and ambitious. She would make it—one day—being a beautiful actress on the stage of glory! She would do anything to get there, yes, anything … So here came my idea: “Would you like to meet an influential man, Ludmilla? Someone who is well connected with Pellybay Films in Hamburg and all over the world? You only have to promise me one thing: never mention my name.”
“How exciting! No, never ever! I will never mention anything.” Ludmilla jumped up and down on the cosy velvet sofa couch where we were sitting. “You can call me Dorota. This is Polish for Dorothy. Here is my number.” I hand her a piece of paper with an Austrian mobile phone number—I used it exclusively for “action Ludmilla”.
“Thank you so much,” she beams and promises to invite me to her first Oscar Awards if this should ever happen. She likes my script. “Oh yes, Dorota, I will seduce him. I know how to do that! What’s his name again?”
“Amos, his name is Amos.”
Her smile is brighter than the sunshine on a glorious summer day.
“Tell me, how shall I do it? I do not even know him!”
“Don’t worry. I will write the scenes for you. Tomorrow I will fly back to Vienna. But I will call you, Ludmilla. Soon …” So I leave her at the bar with another half bottle of champagne …
I am Aelita. Sometimes Amos called me Aelitina or Aelitissima. Depending on his mood, on his level of intoxication, admiration, contempt or desire. I was his mistress, his lover—his love. I am the one and only mistress of his life and regardless who he beflirts, kisses, touches, screws, chases after, desires, gives presents to—I will always be the one and only mistress! I don’t mean this in a sexual way—no, rather philosophical or intellectual. I am the mother of his one and only child, our son Feliciano. Feliciano and I live in London, Belgravia, Eaton Square SW 1. Soon we will live all over the world owning houses in almost every country. And here we are: flying from London to Milano on a private jet with this kind of worry on my mind and Amos in a luxurious coffin in the cargo hold being my heavy luggage.
1 Luciano Pavarotti: CARUSO Music & lyrics: Lucio Dalla
Soon Ludmilla called me:
“Didn’t I do well?” she asked me.
So I praised her talents and encouraged her to become an unusual actress.
Amos died of a heart attack combined with a stress induced stroke. He had just turned fifty-five. Not old but not really young. He was the kind of man who could never imagine himself dying.
“Se moio …—If I die …” His perception of death was only for anyone else but not for himself. Believing in his long life he had declared to Feliciano that he would live forever taking all kinds of vitamins each day. Just take a look at Amos’ slender body—not fat or big bellied like Felix’s friends fathers that he met every third Friday in front of the school when he came to pick up Felix. And he rewarded his dad for this by painting his fingernails fire red while he was asleep. The beauty company of this particular nail varnish would have named the colour “Killed by Fire”—right next to Sugar Daddy, Love me Tender, Viagra me!, Pussycat or Hollywood Glam. Little colourful bottles sitting in my bathroom … That’s my Feliciano!
He is very effective in torturing his father with his unusual taste, his imagination and his creativity: reduction of love, shortening time together, making him understand that he can boss his dad around in which ever way he likes. Amos would not even have held it against him, this red nail varnish application while he was asleep, if only he had the chance to figure out the embarrassing situation on time. But he didn’t. Not even when Amos fell into the swimming pool at his mother’s house on Procida island and the Kaercher—still plugged into the mains—dropped into the water straight after him was enough: the cable was strong but sadly the electro shock wasn’t …
But Feliciano succeeded with glory shaving Amos’ few hairs that remained at the back of his head proudly letting him go into a board meeting like this. Amos did only see the front of his head and his face but not the laborious ornamentation at the back. Oh yes, it took him some time until he noticed what actually had happened.
He realized immediately who had created this imaginative artwork.
My mother’s scream woke me up from a deep sleep.
No answer. I can hear her heart racing. I take her Blackberry out of her hand. My father did send her an email—that’s what I can see.
“He is dead,”
“Who is dead?”
I ask her.
“Amos, your father.”
She replies totally convinced. My mum tries to wrinkle her forehead, with limited success due to the overdose of Botox that is supposed to make her look younger.
She says slightly absent.
“This is impossible. He just called me a minute ago. I spoke to him over the phone!”
Her look tells me that she feels like another world just dropped crashing down right this moment in time.
The first time in my life I had ever felt another world crashing down on me was when my father let us drive through Italy in the dead of the night in front of us a wall of fog on the way from Ferrara to Parma. I was still little—very little. A truck honked our car out of the way, and from the shock, Mum and I almost rammed an Agip fuel tanker. We were cut off and forced to the right lane and only due to my mum’s brilliant driving kicking the brakes we were saved by the bale of straw the tractor lost right in front of us. And so we landed gently, pushing the straw in front of our car like a soft cloud that just dropped from the sky, rolling far and safe on a hard shoulder while the load pulled by the tractor burst into flames.
Back then I admired the firework in the cold damp winter fog. A late New Year’s present! I remember the “bang” like an explosion which sent a huge fire cloud flying over our heads. My dad tried to kill my mum and me! But I didn’t understand this at that dramatic moment on the road from Ferrara to Parma.
Every newspaper in Italy wrote about it in detail. The fire cloud and our car with the Berlin number plate I saw on television. Mum and I on TV. Of course, my father ignored the accident, the reports on the newspapers, the interviews on TV with my Mum.
Suddenly we both were in the spotlight. I wasn’t his son—legally at least—at that time. Rather an “option” for the future being kept waiting for the right moment between investments, hedge funds, helicopter flying, blackmail, corruption as well as enrichment through the exploitation of anything one can possibly think of. My young life changed instantly that late afternoon. Murder has many faces. Attempted murder, too … Back then I was just about three years old—now I am almost fourteen.
Amos is alive! Bellarosa is alive! I am awaking from a beautiful dream. Slowly the evil reality is overtaking me. Completely petrified I sit in my bed. I simply cannot believe it. Has this all just been a wonderful dream? A dream I called “Mistress—The Italian Way”? It was so beautiful … I freeze in moments trying to differentiate the reality: my love for Amos, my grief for him, feeling how much I hate him.
What remains in just this moment is Feliciano who is handing me a glass of water. “Mum? Are you ok?” he asks me with affectionate concern.
“Please tell me that I am in the middle of a dream.”
I ask Felix. I look at my hand, I see no blood, watch my index finger. There is no puncture, no thorns and no spindle.
“You are awake, Mum! Why should you be dreaming? We are at home in our house in London. Look outside—it’s raining!”
Suddenly I realise that this all has been a dream. The “Mistress” was a dream and I thought this all was real. Amos is alive! We—Feliciano and I—live in this ridiculous doll’s house in Barnes near Central London. This is not Eaton Square in SW1, Belgravia! No, this is Barnes! For me the proof of narrow minded middle of the road conventionality. A neighbourhood that celebrates itself on the steadily rising real estate prices, day by day. A narrow minded society and I don’t fit in and never wish to be a part of it. The postcode is SW13. No manor house in Scotland but my dogs Bonnie and Clyde are faithfully on guard at the end of my bed. No dressage trainer for me, no eventing trainer for Felix and our horses. No kibbuz in Israel and no Robin Hood of my dreams. Bang! My dream is blown away—Amos is still enjoying his aging existence called life. His life, a life he never lived. No inheritance for Feliciano, no sale of Amos’ assets in Italy—all his real estate. Also Felix did not win any award for his surfboard designs or his invention of the latest stylish elegant sporty eco car.
And Bellarosa is still alive! Was she not pushed off her yacht and drowned? I am sure: this wasn’t a film or a dream –definitely not! Or am I wrong? Yes, I am, and sadly another wish that did not come true. The dream of my one hundred years of deep slumber:
“On her fifteenth birthday the princess shall prick her finger on a spindle and fall down dead”
So the thirteenth Fairy Godmother said.
She turned around and disappeared again. Everyone who heard these words was shocked. Then the twelfth Fairy Godmother stepped forward. She was the one that had not yet bestowed her gift to the baby princess. I can hear the storyteller’s voice of my childhood who seems to speak to me from a dark empty space of the fairy tale. I take on Sleeping Beauty’s identity that suits me so well.
“Although she could not make the spell of the dreadful wish unhappen, but she could soften it.”
The storyteller of my childhood reads from the big old book of fairy tales.
“The princess should not die but fall into a deep slumber for a hundred years.”
Still puzzled it takes a while until I realize that my imagination did carry me away. My Blackberry buzzes—an email from Amos shakes me from my Sleeping Beauty slumber:
I read the response to a letter by a child psychologist with whom Amos and I recently had our first and last appointment. Amos monologuing as usual. I was bored as always. My first fiction Mistress—The Italian Way or better: my sweet revenge—of which he knows nothing yet—makes me chuckle to myself.
One suggestive comment after the other in the Mistress about him, his life, his death and his funeral—a spectacle as never seen before—not to forget his execution! The world is full of people with much less talent—skills—as my lawyer Chiara calls my creativity. Oh yes, I do have skills! And I do prove them constantly! The way I choose words—which is easy for me. I am a linguist and I use the words of desire all the way to destruction in any of the languages I know. The way I use my tongue—Amos can tell plenty about that!
“Aelitissima, you are the one who has always sucked my cock best! Nobody does it better … Magnifique!”
So he always groaned. And more: my networking skills, the art of making the right contacts. To maintain and use them; to lock them up in a little precious gem box and turn myself from “Mrs. Nice” into the unpredictable bitch. Well, this is one of my many skills, too. My creativity I showed in my first novel the Mistress became the base of many court cases. Some didn’t like it … My arrogance grew with my success in every TV show, with each press conference and all the extraordinary readings I gave. I became a brand. I am a brand: a firebrand—self-styled, created from a basic need: The need for revenge!
Lufthansa LH 2483 from London Heathrow to Munich—that’s where I am at the moment. A business appointment with the worldwide market leader in IT security. I might look after the emerging markets for one of their strategic partners. Globally and worldwide. They have the licence to print: Euros, identity cards, passports, sensitive insurance chip cards. They are the ones you ask:
“Hey, Obama, what happened? Can you make the Europeans happy again?”
And yes: this is the corporation that might have the answer: preventing attacking Angie Merkel, illegal acquisition of sensitive banking details, observing plans for terrorist attacks—they save the world in Germany and everywhere! This is Captain Kirk! Spock—please answer! Just as I do by working with them in their major secret project! Specialised in countries of corruption watching their behaviour and making sure they put their secret data into our network! Yessss, that’s what it is! Having spent time with Amos and listening carefully between blowjobs and intercourse made me become a girlie spider: My arms carefully wrapped around his gorgeous body I knit a net for my brain network! Oh yes, this is one more of my many skills. I call it applied intelligence.
Every month I will fly to Asia. Hong Kong, Singapore, Mumbai—all for the purpose of security. I will have access to the secrets of the world, secrets which could start a World War III: banks, insurance, asset management groups, hedge fund companies. I will access the most precious FBI and CIA jewels! Spying next to James Bond. I will be number 001. Above him and under him. He on top of me shagging me. And I would kill him if I have to—for my own safety. And for Feliciano! I am 001, Aelita, the number one Bond girl! Throwing pillows at Sean Connery. Crushing sheets with Pierce Brosnan. And all that at the same time … Bond girl 001 drives away in her Porsche Carrera—just like in real life. Black leather seats inside. The sunroof is slightly open like all Bond girls’ lips when they fake an orgasm. Lights switched off. Eyes closed. The sexy 911 has been built for athletic human beings! So I exchange Sean Connery for Daniel Craig. A sensual muscle play—skin touching the black leather. There is no place in the world where sex could be better than in a 911 …
My bank account fills up on a daily basis. More court cases against me for the Mistress—The Italian Way by Amos, followed by Bellarosa’s ridiculous assumption the story would include her and the Gransignore in Carozza in his red racing car whom I actually wished into jail at the end of story: Aelita, the hero, the mistress! Fighting against the mafia, ruining the Italian society with her Mistress—The Italian Way. Shouldn’t they all have better things to do these days of the never ending economic crises? The Mistress became a movie, merchandising starts and all rights are in my hands!
I despise anyone without talent …
Soon Amos and I will be sitting again in front of many shrinks with Feliciano—as usual—on Amos’ choice. Felix is so happy! But apparently Amos does not know or rather this is his response to our renewed dispute over money, the house and school for my son. The old struggle over power and control that does not seem to end. A year ago Amos insisted on dragging Feliciano to child psychologists and therapists all headed by a child psychiatrist. Amos wanted to establish scientifically that Felix is totally unhappy.
The three of us taking part in the assessment at the hospital of Dr. Alon Steinberg, the eminent Child Psychiatrist, who is greatly and happily respected by all Family Courts in the country. Dr. Marisa Paoli, his Italian child psychologist begins the assessment asking.
“Amos, would you please describe your relationship with Aelita?”
Feliciano is with us in the room slouching on the psycho couch. Amos wrinkles his forehead pulling his mouth angles down. His expression turns into an evil Walt Disney character. And like so often I can see him suffering …
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