An Ode to Cousin Luciano

Illinois, 1936

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night a candle burned in the window. The flame marked the end of a ritual that occurred on nights of tragedy and attempted to signal a hope for what was to come next. Since its first manifestation well over fifteen years ago, the ritual seemed to transpire more and more frequently.

Yet, not a single resident of the small Illinois town two hours southwest of Chicago had ever been witness to the candle’s light. Nor would they ever.

Though the small cabin on the thirty-acre property had been built nearly forty years previous, at the turn of the twentieth century, no one had ever lived there for more than several hours at a time. Whenever, on rare occasion, local children and teenagers snooped around the cabin and peaked in through the windows, they discovered that the interior was completely devoid of any furnishings. They did, however, come across dozens of dirt mounds spread randomly throughout the backyard and surrounding forest… if any of the trespassers had followed curiosity to its natural end and excavated any one of these tiny hills, perhaps this story’s note of tragedy would not be so piercing, but alas, it was not to be.

The only thing locals knew of the property owners was that they most definitely were not local. Several townspeople had briefly seen the out-of-towners along Main Street, but no one talked with them. They drove in cavalcades of two, sometimes three, large, black automobiles. The men driving them wore black suits and black fedoras, and had faces that had never been graced with the presence of a smile - or so it appeared. One day, late in the afternoon, Farmer Joe had sworn he’d seen a man in the back seat of an automobile wearing a bright red fedora, though this claim remained unsubstantiated among the local citizenry.

But in fact, Farmer Joe had seen a man in a bright red fedora, a hat that virtually every human being in Chicago prayed they would never see.

The infamous hat belonged to Don Riccardo Battesini, irrefutably the most ruthless, violent, and powerful figure in Chicago. The mafia boss, with his towering, bulky physique; jet-black hair; pockmarked skin and hands the size of baseball mitts, practically ran the city, its government and law enforcement nothing more than paper tigers in the face of his dominance.

It was because of this criminal mastermind that the Chicago Mafia became one of the Windy City’s largest employers with thousands on its payroll and resources that could pay one’s way into the Kingdom of Heaven. There were streets and alleys in certain sects of the Midwestern metropolis that even the most daring would not dream of entering without express permission. These avenues were known nationally as Strade di morte (‘Streets of Death’), hotspots of mob activity.

Battesini thought of his deeds as neither a source of shame nor pride. They were necessary acts in a harsh, violent world. In fact, he would most likely have argued that the city was experiencing a level of peace and stability unattainable without his guidance. He had united warring factions of organized crime in an unprecedented fashion, to the point where turf wars and mob violence had come to somewhat of a standstill.

In some ways, he considered himself a savior. He loved Chicago with all of his heart, and felt that its government was not taking proper care of its people. So Battesini did everything he could to help fill the void. His resources supported homeless shelters, food banks, educational programs, and a variety of other charitable causes. More importantly, to him, was ‘cleaning up the streets’ - ridding the city of those he deemed to be perverse, vulgar and dangerous, sending out his numerous acolytes to do his bidding. No one was safe if they were set in Battesini’s murderous sights.

Not even members of his own family.

“Trust no one but yourself to do the right thing,” he’d say to his subordinates, his soft but deep voice mired in a rich, lilting accent. “But do what I say no matter what.” He’d chuckle at the paradox.

Anyone, and there had been more than a few, who ignored this thinly-veiled threat found themselves on the business end of a gun named Tommy.

*********************************************

The weather was wet and foggy on this late-spring evening and it seemed to Don Battesini that he’d been in the car for an interminable amount of time, far longer than it usually took to get from Chicago to The Cabin. Not helping matters was the cough that refused to leave him alone. He’d been suffering with it for the past few days, the last remnant of a terrible two-week bout with pneumonia that doctors said he was lucky to have survived. The rasping and wheezing crescendoed and de-crescendoed continuously, sometimes becoming so severe as to result in blood hacked up into his red silk handkerchief. Whenever he tried talking to his driver or his bodyguard, sitting in the passenger seat, a coughing fit overtook him. He gave up, and nary a word was spoken the entire trip.

As his driver, Roberto, focused on the road and on sticking his head out the side window (presumably to breathe uncontaminated air) Battesini ruminated on the beautiful countryside that blurred past him.

Fifteen years previous, the Chicago Mafia had purchased the thirty acres along with the unfinished cabin that happened to be sitting on it (what was to be a deceased local businessman’s retirement home) for storage purposes: namely, the storage of dead bodies. Over two hundred victims had been buried there, among them high-ranking members of government, leaders of rival mobs and a varied lineup of others Battesini and his cronies had long forgotten. Some of the casualties were dead long before reaching their final resting place, others were killed on location. Battesini had only been to The Cabin twice before - once to inspect the area, the other time to oversee the death and burial of who had been a significant adversary.

He couldn’t remember exactly why he had insisted on going today, nor could he remember the name of the person whose mutilated cadaver was currently stuffed into the trunk. He knew it was someone important, though. Why else would he be sitting in the back seat on a ride-along? His lungs refused to let him get answers from his employees.

At long last, the car turned onto the driveway to The Cabin. The forest was mired in fog, illuminated by a waning gibbous moon that pierced through stratus clouds.

The driver put the car in park and for a moment the headlights bathed the one-story log cabin in a warm, yellow glow.

“Where we puttin’ ‘im?” Roberto asked.

“Around back, I ‘spose, wherever the ground’s easiest,” Battesini’s bodyguard, Giovanni, replied.

Battesini was furious they hadn’t deferred to him but once again, he wasn’t allowed to speak.

Roberto and Giovanni stepped out of the vehicle. Battesini followed.

When he did, something remarkable happened: his lungs almost instantaneously cleared up. The country air had miraculously cured him.

He could finally speak. “Thank God, thank God, thank God, that’s over with. Miserable damn cough. Now, who the hell is that?”

His cronies had opened the car trunk and hoisted a body wrapped in canvas out of it. They completely ignored him. He might as well have not even been there.

“Did either of you coglioni hear what I said? I’m forgetting his name, what is it?”

No response. They carried the body away from the car.

Battesini spluttered and strode angrily after them.

He then stopped dead in his tracks.

Shadowy figures had begun emerging from the trees and the fog, large crowds of them. They moved like humans, but Battesini couldn’t clearly make out their features yet.

“I never thought I’d see you here,” a voice came from behind him.

Battesini whirled around to see a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen, standing with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face.

A chill ran up Battesini’s spine. “You… you’re… I had you killed.”

The young man sighed. “Yes, you did, and you succeeded.”

“What… what’s going on here?”

“Well, as evidenced by the fact that you’re talking to me, you’re dead. And apparently your guys over there are burying you here.”

At that moment, Giovanni returned to the car and retrieved a shovel from the trunk.

“Giovanni! Giovanni, you son of a-”

“The living can’t hear you, Riccardo,” the young man said to the apoplectic crime boss.

Giovanni strolled past, oblivious to what was transpiring.

Battesini then noticed the shadows milling about. They were, in fact, people, human beings of various ethnicities and ages conversing and laughing. Children chased each other across the dewy grass. It felt… normal, somehow, and it comforted Battesini just as much as it disconcerted him.

“Any of these folks look familiar to you?” the young man asked him pointedly.

The Don examined the faces of the crowd. He shook his head, then narrowed his eyes at the man he hadn’t seen in five years, a man he thought he’d never see again. “Who are they?”

The young fellow uncrossed his arms and gestured at the congregation. “These people are your victims, the ones you buried here, just like me. Some of them have been here for over a decade, some less than a year. The ‘victims’ that aren’t here… your mob friends, the corrupt politicians… they’ve already moved on.”

“What does that mean? Moved on?”

A shrug. “Well, they were here and pretty much within the same night, they were gone. Who knows?”

Battesini swallowed hard and chuckled nervously. “This is a bad dream. You’re not real, you’re not the real Luciano Battesini.”

Luciano caught the attention of someone standing at the edge of the yard and beckoned them over. “Oh, it’s me, alright. Poor cousin Luciano, who you had killed for… what reason again?”

No response from Battesini.

Luciano continued. “I guess it could have been worse. I’ve found a real family here. I’ve gotten to spend the last five years with the love of my life. And every time your goons have brought some poor soul out here, that person gets to meet the family. We all come out, just like tonight, and welcome them.”

Luciano sneered. “But we’re pretty good at snuffing out the bad ones. That hat you’re wearing? Everyone recognizes it. That’s why no one else is coming over and introducing themselves. They know you, and they hope you don’t last.”

Finished with their work, Battesini’s employees walked back to the car.

“Not gonna miss him, that’s for sure,” Giovanni stated.

“I just hope we never have to come back here, gives me the willies,” the driver, Roberto, responded.

They hopped into the car and drove off.

Battesini was still not convinced that what was happening was more than a pneumonic fever dream.

The person Luciano had beckoned over reached them. Battesini recognized him, but couldn’t place the name.

“Hey, handsome,” the man said. He and Luciano kissed.

Luciano then glared at Battesini, his first cousin twice removed. “You remember DoRe? Sorry, there’s nothing you can do about us now.”

Battesini clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “I did what I did for the good of the family. You got caught, and I couldn’t let your actions sully my… our reputation.”

DoRe put his arm around Luciano’s waist and squeezed him tight. His eyes blazed with anger. “The only person who hurt your family’s reputation is you. Look at us here… women, children, men, immigrants, drag queens, people who didn’t do nothing to you but be what they were born.”

Battesini fumed but said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a light flicker: the flame from a candle in a cabin window.

Luciano grasped DoRe’s hand and explained nonchalantly to Battesini, “The candle is lit whenever we get a new addition. None of us know how it happens or why it happens, but it’s the only light we ever see. That and the moon. We all miss the sun, though. When it rises, we disappear and only come back at night.”

“Handsome, you’re all the sunshine I need,” DoRe said to Luciano. They both laughed at the corny flirtation and brought their foreheads together.

Battesini sneered and began threateningly with, “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you’re real, I will tell you right now-”

“Stop!” Luciano suddenly shouted at him. “We don’t need to listen to what you have to say. We don’t want anything to do with you and I hope you enjoy the hell that is coming for you.”

He turned to DoRe with a demeanor that suggested he was unaware that his cousin existed. “Let’s enjoy the night, yeah?”

Suddenly, orange light gleamed all around Battesini. He thought, for a moment, that the forest had suddenly caught on fire. But that wasn’t it.

Every member of the community was glowing with an aura the same color as the flame in the window.

Shouts of surprise and fear cut through the night but they were soon replaced with cries of joy and laughter. Collectively, these men, women and children began rising into the air, their mortal images disappearing, replaced with glowing orbs of golden light.

Luciano and DoRe both grinned and hugged each other tightly.

“We made it,” Luciano whispered.

They vanished, and two golden lights ascended into the clouds.

Battesini rubbed his eyes. He was going to kill the doctor who had given him whatever drugs he was currently on.

The candle in the window was no longer burning. The night was completely quiet, with absolutely no sounds of life.

Battesini took a deep breath. When he exhaled, he started to cough.

And couldn’t stop.

His lungs refused to clear and the fit was so violent he couldn’t inhale oxygen.

He was suffocating.

The mobster fell to his knees, clutching his throat, blood spurting out of his mouth.

That’s when he noticed the blades of grass beginning to grow and wrap around his body. They wound around his torso, his neck, and his extremities and viciously tugged him to the earth.

He tried to cry for help, but he just coughed more hysterically.

And then the grass pulled his entire body far, far under the ground, leaving behind only his bright red fedora.