OCtober Day 5: Pié Cucinotta

I was catering a wedding to the Calvetti family when it happened. The mansion grounds that day were filled with the merrymaking of mobsters. Don Calvetti’s son had just tied himself to a beautiful lady he’d met at a ‘business meeting’. The ceremony had gone quite smoothly, or so I was told. Myself, I was busy arranging the feast in the lavish gardens. I had no ties to the family; they simply reached out to caterers they could guarantee would not snitch. My reputation in New York at the time was fairly low key. I kept my face under a veil and my eyes on the job, to save my neck from the chopping block. 

Once the alcohol had been circulated amongst the masses, the Calvetti heir himself took centre spotlight, calling for a toast. He held his glass of wine high, mouth open to speak. But, no words came. The silence was permeated by a bullet barreling through his teeth. It struck the wine glass. Shards clattered, liquid spilled, swirling into the trickling blood. Calvetti swayed forward, collapsing by his widow’s feet. Behind him, a fair distance away, a figure stood. Dressed in a waistcoat and tie, and a trilby hung low over the eyes. Shoulder length chestnut hair obscured the rest of the face. All of their clothes were black, except the dark red undershirt. In one hand they gripped a smoking pistol.

“It’s the Cherry Pie!” someone screams in Italian. 

In a manner of seconds before anyone can react, the figure bolts behind bushes and building structures, vanishing from sight. Multiple furious patrons reach for their guns, promptly forming a search party. Their efforts are for nought. Someone comforts the mourning bride. Meanwhile, I mindlessly cleaned the glasses, the visage of the assassin stuck in my mind.

I tried to ask around about this mysterious ‘Cherry Pie’. My efforts weren’t especially fruitful. No one knows their real name, no-one knows their gender, no-one knows their age. All that’s known is that the Rugierros picked them up many years ago. People assumed the nickname has something to do with the red shirt, or the blood they leave in their wake. Though the Rugierro family usually operated by night, the Cherry Pie is the lapdog they send out in the daylight, to steal, to forge and to kill. 

It would be several years until we were able to meet again.

After that meeting, I left New York for a while to explore the rest of the state. Upon my return, it appeared that the Rugierros were no more. Now they had no sway in the daytime, the Calvettis took the chance for revenge. A few of the younger lads took their assault to their turf. They burned the house to the grounds during a family meeting, taking everything and everyone with it. With that, my interest in staying had waned.

After paddling around the globe for some time, I found myself wandering into a set of islands, hidden under the smoke and mirrors of magic close to Japan. I get the impression I shouldn’t have been able to find such a place. Still, I was curious. So, I made sure to tread carefully, and respectfully. I soon came to learn that this realm was home to many gods, and each one headed their own pantheons. Each pantheon came with a small group of empowered followers, and something akin to temples. As payment for my accidental trespassing, I thought it wise to pay tribute to each of the gods here.

It was around the time I’d made it to the joint temple of four gods when I saw them again. Outside the dojo of the god named ‘Arthrit’, I came bearing an old sword I snatched from another realm. By the sheer luck I’ve come to be used to, both the god themselves, and the cherry pie gangster exited the dojo floor, conversing about something. The once fearsome assassin seemed quite dwarfed in the presence of this Arthrit. A tall, demonic, and beautiful being. Dressed in a black kimono, complimenting their black and green long hair. Two sleek horns curved towards the back of the head, and a pair of large bluish bird-like wings. They both spot me, just as I lay down the sword. An awkward silence lingers. Arthrit’s slender hands hover above the odachi on their waist. The mobster draws their pistol. In a move not to be killed right there, I raise up my hands and smile sheepishly.

“Hi...hello, sorry I know this looks bad, since you don’t know me and all”

“State your intention” the god orders. 

“I’m just passing through, however…”

I nod at their follower.

“1925, Alesso Calvetti married to Bella di Priolo. However, during the reception he was shot dead by an assassin known only as the Cherry Pie. That was you, right?”

They swiftly point the gun at me.

“How do you know that? Who are you?” they ask, deadpan.

“I was one of the caterers. Look, I promise I mean no harm. Quite the opposite, I became quite curious about your legend after that day, but I heard that your ‘family’ all died due to arson. I assumed that meant you as well, until, well…” I vaguely gesture.

They stand, tense and unsure. But, they do lower the gun. The god, it seems trusting their instinct, relaxes as well.

“What do you want?” 

“I just wanted to know more-”

“There’s not much left to say”

Another awkward silence. I slowly lower my arms, the sense of threat fading. The gangster looks away for a moment, staring at nothing in the distance. The brown hair shifts to reveal a pair of cold, hazel eyes against blood drained skin. They open their mouth to speak again, and I catch a glimpse of sharp fangs.

“My name...is Pié Cucinotta. My old name is dead to me. My family were Italian immigrants murdered by the Calvettis. Don Rugierro, their rival, took me in. Made me one of their own. You know what happened next. Two good people took me in after that, and after a while I came to serve the pantheon” they rambled. Each sentence was quick, robotic, like reciting a script for the thousandth time. “And that’s it”

Not wanting to push further, I simply nod.

“Thank you. Sorry for taking up your time”

Arthrit graciously motions to let me leave. So, I take a walk into the garden nearby to think about what I’ve just learned.