Francesca
I’d just stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist when I saw my phone lit up with a call from my brother, Leo. I tapped the screen and put it on speaker. “What do you want?”
“I’ve called you like four times.”
“I was in the shower—”
“We’ve got a situation down here. I just pulled up to your place.”
“What the hell happened now?” I asked as I walked into my bedroom to grab whatever I could find.
“Just hurry the hell up.” He hung up.
I threw on the closest pair of jeans and a top. I almost forgot my shoes, so I had to double back and pull on a pair of flats before I headed down the stairs and out the front door, my wet hair flying back behind me as I made it to the dirt path.
Leo was in one of the work trucks, and he honked the horn like I wasn’t going fast enough, even though I was already running.
I jumped into the passenger seat, and he immediately flipped the truck around before he drove downhill on the dirt path between the vineyards and the olive trees back to the main road. “What happened?”
“Alfonso was shot. Mattia stabbed.”
“Cristo…”
“A robbery at the docks. They knew our guns were coming in.” He flew down the hill, the truck bouncing along the way.
“Anyone die?”
“Some of our security. Some of them. But the rest got away by boat.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Not sure right now,” he said. “But you know we’ll figure it out.” He made it to the bottom of the hill and then wrapped around the front of the main house, a three-story villa that my father had as his private residence, but it was always crawling with his men, so it felt more like a headquarters.
Leo hopped out. “The cellar.”
I jumped out of the truck and ran with him into the cellar, the doors below accessible on the outside of the house.
It was made of stone, with stairs that led to the expansive underground space beneath the house.
On the first level, I found Alfonso lying on a table, already turning a concerning shade of white.
My father stood over him, gripping his wound hard to stop the bleeding.
Mattia was seated in the chair, the knife sticking out of his side.
“Looks like you two had a fun night.” I grabbed the case on the shelf and opened it on a different table, pulling out the suture kits, the gauze, and the alcohol.
“Leo, I’m going to need blood for this. Grab it from the refrigerator. ”
Leo ran to the other room to retrieve what I asked for.
My father silently stared at me and waited for my orders.
“Cut his shirt off, then keep an eye on Mattia. He’ll be fine as long as we leave that knife in place.”
My father released the pressure then ripped the shirt with his bare hands before he stepped aside. “Can you save him, Frankie?”
“We’ll see.” I moved over to Alfonso and quickly examined the wound, seeing that the bullet was still lodged deep in the flesh, which was surprising, considering how much he’d already bled.
I pulled on gloves, grabbed the suture kit, and got to work, stitching him up quickly because I’d done this far more times than I cared to admit.
Leo returned with the bag of blood. “I got it. Now what?”
“Bring the IV pole over here.” I didn’t take my eyes off my work. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I can stop the bleeding, but we’ve got to replace what he’s lost quickly. Otherwise, we’ll be too late. The bullet is still inside, but we’ll have to get that removed another time.”
Leo got the IV pole from one of the closets and brought it close to me.
Alfonso’s eyes started to grow heavy as he slipped away. “Dad, keep him awake.”
My father walked over and slapped him across the face.
“Gently,” I growled. I finished the suture then placed Alfonso’s hand on the table.
His veins were thin because he’d lost so much blood and he was dehydrated, but I had enough practice that I was able to get the needle in on the first try.
I set up the pole and began the blood transfusion while also giving him fluids and painkillers intravenously.
“Keep him awake while I handle Mattia—and don’t slap him. ”
I changed my gloves then moved to Mattia. “Leo, get him on the table.”
Leo threw his arm over his shoulder then hoisted him up across the table, Mattia’s leg slipping over the edge and hanging off.
I gave him a shove and got him into the center. I grabbed a new suture kit. “Pull out the knife. Smooth and quick. Don’t stop and go. You understand me?”
“Capisiti.” Leo gripped the knife by the hilt and pulled it out in one smooth motion.
I cut through Mattia’s shirt with the scissors and then applied pressure with the gauze, putting my weight into it. “I need you to help me with the blood while I do the sutures.”
“Alright,” Leo said.
I removed the gauze then started the suture. “Keep pressure on the areas where I’m not working.”
“Capisiti.”
We worked together, sewing the wound shut so Mattia wouldn’t lose a ton of blood like Alfonso.
“Stay awake, Alfonso,” my father said. “My daughter told me not to slap you, but I’ll slap the shit out of you if you try to die on me.”
I cut the thread and saw traces of blood along the cuts, but it never overflowed.
“Looks like you’re going to live, Mattia,” Leo said.
“Then can I get some painkillers like Alfonso?” he asked in a tired voice.
“Sure, why not?” I nodded to Leo to get another IV pole.
Leo ran off.
I ripped off the gloves then disposed of all the bloody materials in the trash. I came to my father’s side to look at Alfonso, who was already starting to look better, despite how tired he seemed.
“You think he’ll make it?” My father turned to look at me.
“About eighty percent,” I said. “He’ll need to get that bullet removed at the hospital, though. Could turn into an infection.”
“You know they can’t go to the hospital, so just give him the antibiotics now.”
Instead of sighing and arguing, I went into the other room where the fridge was stored and pulled out the bag of antibiotics before I added it to the pole.
My father shared some words with Mattia before he came back to me.
“You have the hands of God, Frankie. I would have lost way more men if it weren’t for you.
” He looked at me the way he looked at Leo and his other favorites, with a fatherly look of pride.
Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“You aren’t on the front lines, but you’re definitely one of us—and I’m proud to call you my daughter. ”
I worked in the kitchen with the staff to prepare dinner, the purpose to boost the morale of the men.
My father’s vineyard was expansive, covering five square miles.
He housed some of the men in homes on the property in lieu of payment for work.
They also provided security and protection for the estate.
A large stone wall surrounded the property along the roads, but in the rear, there was nothing stopping someone from walking directly onto the vineyards.
But they would only be able to get there on horseback, so it was unlikely. Not impossible, but unlikely.
My father referred to all the men as family, and sometimes it really felt that way, especially tonight when we had to cook for a hundred hungry men after a long day of working in the vineyard or pushing his weapons into the hands of dealers and exporters.
The wine and olive oil we made were superb, but sometimes, we shipped olive oil bottles that were filled with coke instead.
Easier to ship because it weighed the same whether it was filled with olive oil or powder.
The wine business allowed my father to have friendships with the restaurants and store owners throughout Sicily, as well as international friendships with the United States and South America, where he got most of his product.
I wasn’t sure when I realized my father was a criminal kingpin. It seemed like I’d always known.
I helped the women prepare the pasta and the sauce on the stove, along with the cannoli that would be served after dinner.
I knew my father paid his men who lived off-site well, and these dinners were more of a bonus.
I was on the payroll as well, getting paid for my medical expertise and given accommodations farther up the hill.
It was a nice house, newly renovated but preserving its Sicilian soul.
I left the kitchen and headed outside onto the patio, the white lights strung overhead, with two long tables that accommodated fifty men each.
Wine bottles were everywhere, the men drinking the batches from the grapes picked from our vines.
My father sat at the head of the table, his jawline dark and covered in hair from his thick beard.
He’d had me when he was very young, so he was still youthful, younger than most of the men who worked for him.
He had been just twenty years old when I was born, and after my mother was killed, he raised me on his own.
Now he was forty-six, but he still looked like he was in his late thirties.
We were close, to say the least.
I walked over to him. “The bread is coming out. Dinner will be ready momentarily.”
He sat at the head of the table, Leo on his left and Elio, one of his closest captains, on his right. A lit cigar sat between his fingertips, and he wore a collared black shirt. He had been relaxed in the chair a moment ago, but he straightened when I spoke to him. “Thank you, Frankie.”
I turned away.
He gave a quick whistle, something he’d done since I was a little girl, like he was calling a horse, and it made me halt.
He nodded to Thomas, who sat on the other side of Elio. “Find another seat. Elio, move over.”
“Dad, it’s no problem. There’s plenty of room in the house.”
He ignored me. “Thomas.”
Thomas didn’t hesitate before he grabbed his wineglass and vacated the chair to find a spot at the other table.
Elio left the chair then pulled it out for me so he could help me sit, treating me like a lady.
“Sit,” he ordered me. “You’re one of us. You eat like one of us.”