Chapter One #2
“You see, that’s what neither of you ever understood.
The role of a parent is more complex than simply giving life to a child.
To be a parent, an offspring needs the opportunity to build a nurturing, loving relationship.
A parent should carefully build such a bond on a foundation of understanding and affection.
I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve spent quality time with Papa.
You both chose to be absent from my life, yet now you expect me to care that he’s sick.
” She snorts. “He might be my father, but I know my postman better, and we only speak at Christmas.”
Her loud sigh tells me what she’s going to say before she speaks.
“You always were so dramatic and ungrateful. As you well know, your father sent you away to protect you. He’s provided well for you.
You attended one of the top schools in the world, giving you the best education money could buy; you spent your holidays in a safe, loving environment; and now your bank account is bursting with more money than you could spend in several lifetimes.
That you’ve chosen not to tap into your wealth is your idiocy. ”
During my early years, my parent’s lack of affection frequently caused me anguish. However, the longer I’ve been away from them, the less I’ve thought about them, yet in moments like these my bitterness is hard to repress.
“Love isn’t about money.” I respond, enraged. “Neither of you ever gave a damn about me. You were never a mother to me—Chess was the only person who ever drew even a flicker of your maternal instinct from you. When she died, so did any warmth or affection you had left.”
Her gasp instantly makes me feel guilty for my outburst about the girl I was supposed to see as a sister all those years ago, but fell madly in love with.
What I said is entirely accurate, but my presentation of the facts is far from kind. Chess’s death traumatized Mama; it destroyed both of us.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I mumble, even though the words burn my tongue.
Silently, I scold myself for sinking to her level and trying to wound her. After suffering years of parental neglect, it’s hard not to execute the odd grenade about what an appalling mother she’s been.
Her tone relaxes. “Carlo, I don’t want to fight with you. Will you please come home and see your father? There are certain arrangements he’d like to discuss with you in person before it’s too late.” Her voice breaks at the end.
I sigh with frustration. “When?” I ask.
“As soon as possible; tonight wouldn’t be too soon.” The raw emotion in her voice intrigues me.
“As I’ve told you, I’m in London. I can’t get to Sicily until the end of the week at the earliest.”
She takes a sharp breath.
“That’s too long.” Her words rush out in a high-pitched panic, which feels out of character.
“Duncan told me Papa was sick months ago, but I wasn’t aware his death was imminent.”
“Papa’s message was simple. He needs you here urgently. He told me I can’t discuss the specifics with you on the phone. Please just come?” she begs.
“You’re on a satellite phone; who do you think is listening?”
“I am, but you’re not!”
I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. Information in our family has always been scant and secretive.
It’s like being raised in some sort of alternate universe, and I hate it.
If I understood the need for this level of secrecy, it might help, but my folks refuse to explain it.
As if it’s normal to be unable to communicate with your only son on a regular telephone line.
My father has never even admitted what he does for a living.
He claims to be an accountant, which I don’t doubt, but there’s no question in my mind he works for the mob.
He’s a billionaire who lives in Sicily. It doesn’t seem much of a stretch to assume he has Mafia connections, but whenever I’ve asked he’s denied it.
Telling me the less I know, the safer I’ll be.
And that statement alone seems to contradict his previous denial.
Years ago, I looked into him, but found no evidence of a connection. Then, after Papa stole Chess from me, I did my best not to think of my parents at all.
The last time I spoke to Papa was when we arrived in Sicily to pay our final respects to Chess.
I was adamant that he had some involvement in her kidnapping and eventual death, but he’s always vehemently denied it.
The day of her funeral, something in me went into that tomb with her.
And since then, I’ve spent my life concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, while trying to find a reason.
After so long, perhaps it is time to hear his version of events before it’s too late.
The hand holding my phone handset feels slick.
Something must be very wrong for Mama to call me and virtually beg for my presence in their home.
I run my tongue over the outside of my teeth, trying to imagine what Spencer would do in this situation.
It doesn’t take much figuring out. I’ve always been the hot-head, Spencer’s far more grounded—especially since his recent counseling.
I know he’d tell me to hear my Mama out.
My impatient hand rubs around the back of my neck, kneading the knots of tension that always form whenever I think about Chess.
“I’ll take the consequences of revealing these secrets to the ether,” I say using my well-practiced sarcastic drawl. “Knowing what he wants will help me decide how urgent my visit is. Without further explanation, I’ll arrive in a week.”
I can hear her shuffling around; she’s clearly torn about her decision to discuss this over the phone.
“He’s asked me not to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
There was only a faint electronic buzz between us for several minutes, but I knew from experience that the line hadn’t dropped.
“Francesca Rossi is alive and well,” she whispers. “Married to Don Kenzo Geletini.”
My heart freezes in my chest. I reach for my solid desk, but miss. On my second attempt, I catch the edge.
“Chess is alive?” I demand, struggling to force my words past my tongue, which has suddenly grown too large for my mouth.
“I see her weekly; she’s fine, Carlo,” she replies, as if she’s discussing the weather.
Silence fills the air again until my throat finds a sound that isn’t a word.
Thirteen years of mourning calcifies into something jagged.
Joy hits first; it’s blinding, but then fury floods in behind it.
Black and bottomless. I bend over my desk because the room tilts, my chest won’t open, because my brain can’t hold the math of it: funeral, lies, a girl buried in my heart while she kept breathing somewhere I couldn’t reach.
“You lied to me for all these years? You fucking let me sit and watch them slide someone I assumed to be her into a tomb and seal it up!” I choke out each syllable. “Do you really hate me that much?”
Her bored-sounding sigh fills the silence. “And this is the reason I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d overreact.”
Barely giving her a chance to finish her sentence, I respond. “Why are you such a vicious bitch?”
Without giving her a chance to reply, I continue. “Tell me when I can see her?”
“That’s the problem. I need your help to get her out.”
“Get her out?” I demand in exasperation.
“It’s a long story; your Papa knows all the intricacies of the arrangement; it would be far simpler for him to explain it all to you.”
Which I’m certain translates as; the bastard sold her to a Mafia Don!
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I confirm.
“Papa’s jet is at Heathrow waiting for you,” she states. I choose to ignore her gleeful tone.
“Text me the arrangements for the jet.”
I tap to cancel our call, but my phone is already dialing Spencer.
Story continues soon . . .