* * * *
Elsewhere that night, a group of men sat around an opulent oak table, heaped with exotic dishes from all around the world. The table would only stand out in some other environment, since everything else around it in the room—indeed, in the entire mansion—was just as luxurious and expensive. The New York mansion boasted thirty rooms—modest compared to some estates perhaps, but each room was lavishly furnished and decorated with some of the most expensive and rare items in the world.
This was Manari’s house. The small Italian sat at the head of the table, surveying his so called “friends”—though they were more like lecherous sycophants. He despised each and every one of them. His red plush chair actually sat higher than his guests, giving him the impression that he was looking down like royalty on everyone. He rather liked the effect. His short, curly black hair was immaculately trimmed, and his goatee had been professionally groomed. He wore a business suit that would have beggared most of the rich men in the city—if anyone here could really be considered rich anymore.
His house—the mansion—was an exercise in extravagance. He used it like a hammer, bashing his wealth over his guests’ head like a bludgeon, forcing them to recognize his superiority, wealth, and position.
He was the head of the New York Mob Syndicate. Only two other Syndicates in the world boasted more power than his—Rome’s and Moscow’s. The Family Heads, based in Rome, pretty much allowed him to do whatever he wanted as long as he brought in steady revenue. Well, these games would be the largest source of revenue the Mob had seen in over thirty years. And it was all his idea.
He put on a smile and glanced at the silent, and somewhat cowed, men around him. More likely, they were scared to leave the table. Three well-trained pit bulls and two foul-tempered German Shepherds sat or lay around the room, keeping a wary eye on the guests. Anytime one shifted too much, a chorus of growls would still him in his seat. Several of the men had sheens of sweat on their face.
Manari reveled in it.
“I will meet with the President soon,” he was saying. “The groundwork has been laid and most everything else is in place. We just need to hype up these games and get people to buy into it. I suspect the betting should be furious.”
Marco Venditti cleared his throat. “Are we certain the President will play ball?”
“He doesn’t really have a choice,” Manari explained. “His nation is practically bankrupt. Crime has risen steadily and the jails are full. This new Ts2 device—or whatever they call it—may be a marvel of technology, but unless they can find a practical application that they can sell to the general public, it is no more than a cheap parlor trick.”
A hybrid black widow spider was crawling over some of the stacked fruit. Most of the men were watching it warily. It was rather hard to miss, being about seven times the size of an average black widow. Its poison was reputed to be seven times more deadly as well. This was something Manari was eager to test. He continued to speak while the spider crawled with impunity around the table.
“No, the President doesn’t have any choice but to comply. The Mob will control the money and the games. We’ll give the US a healthy cut for supplying the contestants, but we’ll make Rome exceedingly pleased with us.”
“That’s good,” one of the men said, shifting his chair back as the spider crawled close to him. The dogs growled and he froze in terror.
Manari just smiled. Lighting a cigar, he puffed on it before continuing. “How is the camera installation coming?”
Fabio spoke up. “We are almost finished with it. There are several regions that still need adequate coverage, but the terrain is rugged and the crews are battling the monsoon season right now. I expect within a few days, it will be complete.”
“What about dead zones? Do we have any?”
“Mostly around the village. Bangor threatened to skewer anyone who attempted to install a camera in the village. There are a few other spots, mostly along the coast line where the Komodos are not usually found. They shouldn’t be a problem.”
Manari scowled. “I don’t like that giant barbarian. When this is over, I may just decide to teach him a lesson.”
No one bothered to respond to that.
“I do have a question,” Fabio said. “Does Rome really think that making a public spectacle of these executions will help their reputation?”
Manari’s skin went cold. “Are you questioning the wisdom of the Mob Family?”
Fabio squirmed in his seat. “No, sir. It’s not that. I just can’t help but wonder what good this will do us. If we make people hate us, how will that increase our revenue? I am not questioning their wisdom, Boss. I just want to make sure that they have all the facts.”
There it was. That was the real reason Fabio was bringing this up. Standing to his feet—he wasn’t actually taller than in his high chair, but he didn’t care—he glared at his lieutenant. “You think I am keeping something from them? You think I am stealing or that I have plans to promote myself above the Family?”
“Uh…no, sir. I was just asking.” Fabio swallowed and looked around for support. Finding none, he licked his lips and tried again. “I just wonder what it looks like to make a spectacle out of Bangor’s tragedy. The kid got eaten by a Dragon! It wasn’t a murder or anything like that.”
“You’re starting to sound like one of those eco-terrorists,” Manari growled. He looked around the room. “Does anyone here share Fabio’s doubts about what we are doing?”
“I wouldn’t call it doubts exact—” Fabio started to say.
“Shut up!” Manari interrupted. “Anyone? Anyone else have something they would like to say?”
All the men shifted around, making sure not to make eye contact with either Manari or Fabio. No one said a thing.
With a snort of disgust, Manari pulled on a thick leather work glove. “Fabio, you seem to doubt the power of an animal, any animal, to generate disgust and revulsion in the human psyche. Apparently, I’m going to have to demonstrate.”
He reached over and picked up the huge black widow. The angered spider tried biting the glove, its every movement lethal and deadly.
Looking at Fabio, he calmly said, “Hold him.”
Both men to either side of Fabio leaped from their chairs and grabbed the startled man, holding him in place. One of them shoved the protestor’s head down until it came to rest on the table top. Marco then got up and took a pair of tongs. He moved around the table and then used the tongs to pry Fabio’s mouth open.
By this time the terrified man had begun trashing around in a futile effort of escape. Another man came over to help hold him down. They all looked scared, but none of them dared to resist or protest. They knew Manari. They knew his temper. Fabio had dug his own grave, and the rest of the men were content to let him bury himself in it.
“It’s time you learned a lesson about the dangers of the animal kingdom, my friend,” Manari said, moving closer. He cupped the spider to Fabio’s mouth. With nowhere else to go, the spider, crawled into the panicky man’s mouth. Perhaps if he could have remained perfectly still, the spider wouldn’t have bitten him. But it is nearly impossible to keep the tongue still when something is crawling on it.
The spider reacted with lethal instincts and bit Fabio on the tongue several times.
Fabio let out a squeak of pain. Taking his hand away, Manari allowed the spider to exit where it scampered away onto the table and hid among the bowls, agitated and angry.
Meanwhile, something terrible had begun to happen to Fabio. Marco removed the tongs, but the poisoned man wouldn’t have been able to cry out regardless. His tongue had already swollen up so large that it filled his mouth, choking off his airways. Foam began to run out of his mouth and down his chin. His body began shaking uncontrollably, so strongly that the three men holding him were forced to release the body and step away.
Fabio rolled off the table, struck one of the chairs and fell to the ground where he began twitching violently.
“Will he live?” Marco asked.
Manari shrugged. “I doubt it. Don’t really care. He won’t be able to interrupt again, anyway.” He looked around him steadily. “Anyone else want to express their dissatisfaction?”
No one said a word.
“Good. Then let’s get back to business.”
With Fabio’s convulsions growing weaker, the group of men continued their strategy meeting. No one, except Manari, touched the food on the table.