I wanted desperately to return to Naples to my Ginevra who I was beginning to miss terribly. Physicians at the hospital were concerned the bone chip near my heart might be an issue so travel was forbidden until a round of tests was completed. I was in gnawing pain and miserable. John Lennon gunned down in New York. I just had to leave this cesspool even if it was to the violence of Naples. Ginevra did the best she could to keep my spirits up talking about our baby kicking her in the womb like a professional soccer player. That made me chuckle but being so distant it just made me cry in utter desperation.
I took long walks in Central Park but even then it brought more sadness as it sparked memories of the wonderful walks I had in the park with John Lennon. It was as if I had no place to turn to but a depressing and lonely hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton Central Park South. I had no appetite. Nothing to do. No place to go. New York once a glowing gem for me was nothing more than a piece of fool’s gold.
Then it happened. The worst day in my life. After a walk in the frigid Central Park I returned to the Ritz and as I entered into the lobby one of the crew from Don Lupara’s family I recognized “Greasy Fingers” Alfonso. Alfonso said he wanted to check up on me as Ginevra was unable to. We went to the lobby bar and had a martini and Alfonso said my beloved Ginevra, my sweet Calabrian plum and my unborn child had been killed in a roadside explosion. It was Cyclops that claimed responsibility. Naples, an assembly line of death.
As for what happened after that I remember very little except descending into a hellish violent rage. In fact it was a rampage smashing mirrors, lamps and anything in sight. I was later told Alfonso had attempted to stop me but I tossed that muscular man aside like a toddler. Police came along with the boys in white from Bellevue. I was placed in a straight jacket and off I was whisked. Ginevra dearest had been taken from me.