Chapter 97
97
Ibegan to train Dario immediately.
First, I had him demonstrate what he knew. He explained that he’d boxed a little as a teenager.
Some of his technique was good, but most of it was sloppy. I told him he would have to unlearn most of what he already knew.
He was a good student – neither arrogant nor defensive. He didn’t protest when I told him to change something. He accepted that I was better than him at hand-to-hand combat, and he listened to what I said and immediately implemented it.
We started with balance first, then footwork. That alone took weeks.
He had an impressive physique, but it was mostly from weightlifting for aesthetics. He lacked strength in his core and leg muscles, so I put him through a punishing regime of calisthenics and bodyweight exercises. The first day, he could barely do a handstand; five months later, he could kick up in a handstand against the wall and do 100 vertical pushups in a row.
I taught him how to channel all of his energy into a punch by using his hips as the driving force. We got an extra mattress and hung it on the cinderblock wall, and he hit it like he would a punching bag. We started with a plush mattress like the kind we had in our bunks; after six months, we exchanged it for one of the inch-thick pads most prisoners slept on. After a couple of years, he graduated to punching the bare wall with his hands wrapped to keep him from bloodying his knuckles. Eventually, I took away even the hand wraps.
I taught him how to block – but I also taught him that the best way to deal with a punch was to move out of the way so he couldn’t be hit in the first place.
We eventually moved on to kicks, then ground fighting, then fighting with and against weapons like knives and shivs.
Speaking of shivs, he gave me some of his improvised body armor on day one: phone books secured with duct tape around my stomach and lower back.
I have to say, I felt a lot more confident walking around with the knowledge that no one could stab me in the gut or kidneys. Slit my throat, yes. Stab me in the eye, maybe. But 50% protection was better than none, and ‘none’ was what I had before.
As for teaching me Italian, Dario was relentless. He was a good teacher, constantly drilling me and making me perfect my pronunciation. He would force me to say a line a hundred times until it rolled off my tongue like I was a native.
And he didn’t just teach me polite conversation, either.
“Va’ a farti fottere, pezzo di merda,” I repeated for the 50th time.
“Che significa?” he asked.
Which means p>
“Go fuck yourself, you piece of shit p>
“Questa è la migliore traduzione in inglese, sì, ma letteralmente significa p>
That’s the best translation in English, yes, but it literally means p>
“Go get fucked, you piece of shit p>
He laughed. “Excellent p>
He schooled me in the use of Italian profanity, which was an art form all its own, full of nuance and musicality.
I learned that Madonn’ was a shortening of Madonna, the Italian term ‘my lady’ – which was used to refer to the mother of Jesus, as in ‘Madonna and child.’ Madonn’ was used as an expression of shock or surprise. After I found out what it meant, I realized I heard it quite often amongst the prisoners of San Vittore.
The more Dario taught me, the less hostile and incomprehensible the prison became. It was still an environment full of danger – but also humor and small kindnesses.
When you can’t understand what someone’s saying, and they get frustrated – a common occurrence with Italian males, who wore their emotions on their sleeves, unlike Swedes – everything sounds hostile, even when it’s not.
He also taught me to pay attention to tonality, speed, and hand gestures. Those three things were often more important than the words themselves.
It was like Dario showed me how to tune the dial on a radio. At first the reception was staticky, and I only caught every other word – but eventually meanings came through crystal clear.
He also taught me the key to surviving San Vittore: understanding the different factions.
“You already know about my business acquaintances, the Cosa Nostra,” Dario said as we strolled through the yard. “Originally from Sicily, they spread to America in the late 1800s and took over New York City in the 1920s. From there, their influence spread across the United States.
“The Cosa Nostra also gained a bigger foothold throughout Italy over the last 50 years… Rome, Venice, Florence. That’s not widely known, by the way. Most outsiders think that the Cosa Nostra is still largely confined to Sicily. In reality, they expanded quite a bit over the last half-century. They just managed to keep it secret from the authorities.
“For the most part, the Cosa Nostra families ruling the different regions co-exist in peace… but you can never be entirely certain that another family isn’t plotting to take your territory. However, out of all of the factions inside San Vittore, the Cosa Nostra are the closest thing we have to reliable allies p>
“The day you got attacked, I saw you speaking to an older man on the bleachers. Was he Cosa Nostra p>
“Yes – Don Godino. He’s the head of a smaller family based in San Rimini, on the eastern coast of Italy. I’ve known him ever since… well, I’ve known him a long time p>
I noticed that occasionally Dario would catch himself, as though he’d almost slipped up and told me something I shouldn’t know.
I was pretty sure his connection to the Cosa Nostra went far deeper than he let on, but his lack of transparency didn’t bother me. After all, I had never been completely honest with him about why I was in San Vittore. I had certainly never told him about MI6 or why I had been visiting Italy when I got arrested.
Dario continued. “You also know about the Camorra from our first encounter in the yard. They’ve traditionally controlled Naples and the surrounding areas, although the Cosa Nostra has fought an invisible war with them over the last 40 years to try to break their hold over the region. Because of the situation in Naples, the Camorra hates the entire Cosa Nostra – and that’s why they’re the ones we truly have to watch out for in here p>
Dario gestured towards a group of tattooed thugs surrounding a 40-something man with close-cropped grey hair and a vicious scowl. “That man is Aristide Caproni. He is the highest-ranking member of the Camorra in San Vittore. If I had to bet, I would say he’s the one who ordered the hit on me. Beware him and his lieutenants.
“Then you have the ‘Ndrangheta.” Dario pronounced it DRAHN-geh-tuh, with just a hint of an ‘n’ at the beginning. “They’re based in Calabria, the ‘toe’ of the boot of Italy – and right next door to Sicily. ‘Ndrangheta is Greek, which is still spoken in pockets in the south of Italy. It means ‘men of honor’ or ‘manly virtue.’ I don’t know if I’d agree with those translations,” Dario said drily, “but that’s how they think of themselves.
“They’re originally descended from bandits forced out of Sicily in the 1800s. Actually, there’s an old ‘Ndrangheta myth that says the Cosa Nostra, the Camorra, and the ‘Ndrangheta were started by three Spanish knights who arrived in Italy in the 1500s. I think they just like attaching themselves to the Cosa Nostra the way some people brag about being related to Pope So-and-So from the 19th century. It’s bullshit, but it makes them feel better about themselves.
“What’s not in dispute is that the ‘Ndrangheta are probably the most powerful of the three groups today. Not so much in Italy, but internationally. They’ve spread throughout much of Europe and into parts of Asia. Drugs are their most lucrative trade, and they are to Europe what the Mexican cartels are to North America. They are no friends to the Cosa Nostra but they generally don’t bite unless provoked p>
Dario talked about the smaller criminal organizations that were also represented in San Vittore: the Basilischi… La Stidda… the Sacra Corona Unita… the Società foggiana, the Nuova Mala del Brenta, the Banda della Magliana, the Banda della Comasina…
The sheer number of organizations rivaled the many tribal warlords that made Afghanistan so difficult to control. And that wasn’t even counting the various crime operations based in Albania, Romania, and Serbia that conducted business in rural pockets of Italy.
It was a lot to wrap my head around, but at least now I knew where the land mines were buried.
I just had to make sure not to step on them.