29. Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Fabrizio
W ith a glass of whiskey in hand, I find myself standing on the porch, staring into the uncertain abyss that seems to stretch out endlessly in front of me. Every tremor in my hand betrays my inner turmoil, and I hate how my own body refuses to keep up a calm facade. The amber liquid swirls in the glass, its lively movement a stark contrast to the stillness of the early morning.
While it’s a bit early for a drink, I desperately need something to steady my frayed nerves. Tension gnaws at me, leaving me more on edge than I’d care to admit.
Yesterday had started off just like any other day, the sun casting a gentle glow over the horizon as I arrived back in Atlanta.
I was confident that the threat to my children had been neutralized and could be dealt with accordingly.
But within minutes, everything spiraled into chaos. Too much happened to fast, shattering any semblance of calm I had.
Michael Brenton’s comment about my wife threw me off more than I want to acknowledge. Even though I knew he was likely trying to distract me, it worked, if only momentarily. His words lingered, casting long shadows over my thoughts and adding to my growing unease. But that brief distraction vanished as soon as my brother called. Seven little words, and it felt like the ground beneath me shifted, leaving me teetering on the edge.
The details of his call still play over and over in my mind. Standing on the porch, I take another sip of whiskey, its warmth doing little to soothe the coldness that has settled in my bones. The morning is still, but my thoughts race like a runaway train, colliding and crashing, leaving me more disoriented with each passing second. I lean against the porch railing, feeling the cool wood beneath my palms as my mind drifts back to the events of the previous day, replaying each moment in excruciating detail.
As I stand there, lost in thought, the whiskey glass becomes a metaphor for my existence—fragile, yet resilient. I know I must piece together the fragments of my shattered composure and stand firm in the face of the chaos threatening to engulf me. For my family’s sake, I cannot afford to falter. Taking a deep breath, I take one last sip of whiskey, feeling its burn as it runs down my throat. My attention shifts as I hear footsteps behind me. Turning my head, I see my brother, Marcello, leaning against the doorframe, watching me intently. A complex mix of emotions surges within me. On one hand, I am irritated by Marcello’s intervention. On the other hand, I am profoundly grateful.I had been teetering on the edge of losing control when he stepped in, ensuring everything necessary was being handled—the safety of my children and medical care for Oliver.
Oliver. Shit. I’ve been too caught up in this mess even to think about his condition. I turn to face my brother, who starts speaking immediately, as if he can read my mind. “Security at Dad’s place has been significantly increased,” Marcello says softly. “And the Doc is checking in with Oliver right now. He’s taken a severe blow to the head, but he’ll be all right.”
His words barely register as I nod absentmindedly, my mind lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, a million miles away. “Look, I know you’re shaken, and you have every right to be, but the twins are safe and—”
“And they took her and left the children behind, which means they knew I’d come for her. They counted on it,” I interrupt, my voice trembling with the raw edge of realization. The thought crashes over me like a tidal wave, bringing a jolt of clarity and igniting a fierce resolve deep within. It was a chilling epiphany, one that first occurred to me in my panic and has now solidified into an unshakeable conviction. They will soon learn, painfully and irrevocably, that they have messed with the wrong person.
“You shouldn’t,” Marcello interjects, his tone stern and laced with genuine concern. His voice acts as a tether, momentarily pulling me back from the precipice of my determination. Despite his interruption, I can’t suppress the humorless chuckle that escapes my throat. Of course, he’d say that. My brother is becoming more like our father with each passing minute—ruthless in his logic and seemingly uncaring in his demeanor.
Yet, beneath that hardened exterior, I know there is a man who cares deeply for his family, even if he struggles to show it. My father, in contrast, has developed a noticeable soft spot for his grandchildren over the years, a tenderness that has become his Achilles’ heel but could also be the key to unraveling this tangled mess.
“Don’t worry,” I reply, my voice low and steady, masking the turmoil within. “I’m not going in unprepared. First, I’m going to visit an old… friend.” I’m no fool. I know that whatever awaits me is likely a trap, a meticulously crafted snare designed to exploit my vulnerabilities. Yet, I possess a crucial piece of leverage, a trump card my father wielded for years to keep the formidable Silvio Vitarelli at bay. The information, nestled securely in my jacket’s chest pocket, offers a reassuring weight against my heart. “And he will tell me everything I need to know,” I add with quiet confidence, patting the pocket gently.
Marcello steps to the side, physically blocking my path, his face etched with earnest concern. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, his voice tinged with a mix of worry and disbelief. “You could start who knows what just because of that woman. Are you really willing to take that risk? Are you willing to risk your family and your life for a woman you’ve just met?” His words hang heavily in the air.
I pause, taking a deep breath to steady myself, feeling the full weight of the decision before me. “Without hesitation,” I say.
“Because you’re in love with her,” Marcello states instead of asking, and I can see it in his face and hear it in his voice that he isn’t too happy about this. But the revelation isn’t new—he knew with certainty as soon as he called to inform me of Sienna’s disappearance. And if she didn’t matter to me, we wouldn’t be here, having this talk. I know without a doubt that my brother considers my feelings a weakness. That’s one of the reasons he never considered a serious relationship or even taking a wife. Caring for someone makes you vulnerable, and that’s something men in our position can’t afford.
“I am.” There is no point in denying what we both know is the truth. The woman I’d taken with no intention of keeping has become too important to me to allow anything to happen to her.