27. Maria
Maria
It’s nothing short of a miracle.
Having Papa back… well, I simply don’t know how else to express it.
When I think of the situation and all that happened, I struggle to take it in, even to believe it. Did all that happen to us? In real life? It seems unreal. Like a movie I watched, not like something I experienced firsthand.
I spent the night in the arms of Abe. Somehow it seems fitting.
He was the one who supported my entreaty to Grant to be allowed to be a part of Papa’s rescue.
He was my partner whilst we were there, covering my ass, making sure I was safe at all times.
And then, when I froze at the top of the zip line, he was the one that grabbed me and quite literally flew me through the air to safety in his broad arms.
Even though we hadn’t been late to bed or anything, none of us were up desperately early.
We were all tired, not merely from the twenty minutes or so of high-adrenaline activity at the Moretti’s property, but also from the missed night of sleep, the twenty-four hours of driving there and back, and of course the emotional trauma of the whole thing.
All things considered, we had been extraordinarily lucky, too.
No one from our team had even been injured, let alone seriously hurt, or even killed.
Tony was dead, and Papa was safely back at home with us.
What’s more, so far as we knew, the police hadn’t pinned the operation on us… not yet, at any rate.
With all of this to consider, it was hardly surprising that everyone’s in a pretty damned good mood that morning.
“Let’s go down to Martha’s for pancakes,” suggests Regan, “There’s no particular need to be cautious now about appearing in public.”
“In fact, it would be a good idea if we let ourselves be seen around here,” says Grant. “Establishes us as having been up in West Virginia rather than anywhere near New York on the following day.”
This gets a vote of approval from everyone, so we pile into Regan’s F-250 and my pride and joy, my wonderful new Honda Civic—well it feels new to me, even if it is a few years old in reality—and drive in convoy down to Martha’s truck stop and diner.
The five of us squeeze around a table and order coffees and pancakes all round.
As it’s breakfast time, Papa and I order cappuccinos, Regan orders a large caramel Frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate dusting, adding ‘Oh, and one of those little cinnamon hearts if you’ve got them’, making Papa stare at him in wild-eyed disbelief.
Neither Grant nor Abe bat an eyelid at it—no doubt they’re used to it.
Grant orders an espresso—Papa’s and my favored drink at tea time—and Abe has his usual Americano.
Once the pancakes start arriving, the boys jostle to fill their plates first, whilst Papa and I look on with amusement.
They eventually settle down, and Solomon—the diner’s chef and pancake maker extraordinaire—is ordered to bring more, and to ‘keep ‘em coming until we say stop’.
The pancakes really are quite delicious…
light, fluffy, and with a melt-in-your-mouth texture that leaves you begging for more.
My own preference with pancakes is either strawberries or bananas and perhaps a little cream if I’m feeling particularly indulgent.
But Regan insists I try at least one pancake topped with his ‘patented’ peanut butter, strawberry jelly, and chocolate-hazelnut spread with sprinkles.
They know him so well at Martha’s that they bring him out a plastic cup of sprinkles before he even places his order.
I try a couple of bites, but it’s too sweet for me.
Regan, however, seems to thrive on sugar, and yet he hasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him.
Must be all the nervous energy, I guess. Or just lucky genetics, perhaps.
By prior agreement, we don’t mention anything at all to do with yesterday’s adventures whilst we’re in public.
Grant and I pop into the convenience store to stock up on milk, bread, eggs and a few fresh vegetables whilst the other three pile into the F-250 and head back up the hill, with Grant and me following shortly behind.
We keep the radio tuned to the local news channel, but nothing at all is mentioned about any incident in Brooklyn.
“I guess the authorities would rather keep it quiet.” Grant says.
“Yeah, seems so,” I agree.
“With luck, they’ll think it’s a rival gang—you know, fighting over turf, that sort of thing.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think will happen to the Morettis, now Tony’s been… dealt with?”
“I’m not sure.” I scratch my head. “Papa might know—or have some ideas anyway. I’m afraid it never interested me. It always seemed so childish and immature to me. Grown men dressing up in expensive suits and pretending they were important. That sort of thing. I can’t take it seriously.”
“Yeah, I guess not.”
“He had some cousins, I think. Maybe one of them will take over. “
“Yeah, or maybe they’ll fight amongst each other until they’re all dead.”
“Doesn’t sound very likely,” I say.
“No. It isn’t, I guess,” he says. “Do you have any contacts who can let you know?”
“Not really… well… yes, actually there is.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I used to do waitressing, as you know.”
“Uh-huh.”
“One of the other waitresses there… well, she was a similar age and background, so we got friendly. Not super close, you know. But we used to go out for a drink after work sometimes, if we happened to be on the same shift together. She was Italian-American too. Gabriella. She’d know.”
“Hmm… maybe we could get a message to her. Where does she work?”
“She works at Casa Romani in Carroll Gardens. Mostly she did breakfast and lunch shifts, eight until two.”
“Okay. Well, can you describe her?”
“Sure. She’s about my age—twenty-seven or twenty-eight perhaps— maybe five-six, slim but not skinny.
Dark brown hair—usually tied back in a ponytail because she’s always rushing around working.
Pretty face, but tired-looking around the eyes sometimes.
Olive skin, brown eyes. Small gold nose stud in her left nostril. Always talking.”
“What does she wear?”
“At work? Usually, she wears black jeans and a black Casa Romani t-shirt with one of those little waist aprons for tips and order pads. Oh, and white sneakers—well, they used to be white.”
“Gabriella, you say?”
“Yes, but everyone calls her Gabi.”
“Gabi?”
“Right.”
“Leave it with me, Maria.”
Back home, the men still don’t feel like working, and I’d called Shane and asked for the afternoon off, which he’d agreed to, so I didn’t have to go anywhere either. Somehow, we still all wanted to be together. Not for anything. Just to be close.
We head to the kitchen, since we can all fit around the table, and I make iced tea for us all in a huge, glass jug, the ice clinking merrily as I pour a helping into a glass.
“Must be nice to be back home, Sandro,” Regan passes a glass of iced tea across to Papa before taking one for himself.
“You got that right, son,” says Papa. “Wasn’t much fun being Tony Moretti’s guest.” He sips his tea. “The worst part was worrying about you, though, girl. The last thing I wanted was for you to come running after me. After all, that was exactly what Tony wanted.”
“She insisted,” says Grant. And Abe backed her. Said if it was our parent we’d want to go too, so in the end, she came.”
Sandro sits back in his chair, thinking about this. Finally he nods. “Yes, she always was a stubborn madam. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before. She even refused to go out with Tony when he asked her. Did I tell you that before?”
“Yeah, you may have done, once or twice,” breathes Regan, half under his breath, making me giggle into my tea.
“So okay, least said on it the better. We all made it back unharmed and that’s the main thing.”
“What happened to you though?” asks Grant. “We know you got kidnapped from here by some of Tony’s men, but what happened after that?”
“You want to hear my story, huh?”
“Yes, Papa,” I join in. “Tell us everything.”
“Very well, piccolina. But it’s not all that exciting.” He takes another sip of his tea and passes his glass back for a refill, then settles down in his chair to talk.
“I was busy in the garden, putting up the poles ready for planting runner beans, when suddenly, these three guys threw themselves on me. I only got to see them for a second before they got a hood over my head, but they were Italian-Americans, and they were dressed in suits. Before I could even think straight, they’d wrestled me to the ground.
One of them held me there—a big guy, they mentioned his name…
Vinny—and the other two tied my wrists and ankles real tight.
Then they bundled me down to their vehicle—I don’t know what it was because I couldn’t see it and they threw me in what I assume was the back seat, because one of the three men followed me in. ”
“What happened next?”
“Well. I was struggling and shouting, and generally doing all I could to get free. But then I felt a pinprick in my arm and a kind of numbness, and then that was it.”
“Oh my God, Papa, they drugged you!”
He nods. “Guess they must’ve, because I don’t remember any journey. Next thing I remember is waking up to find myself lying on an old mattress in an upstairs room, with my wrists and ankles all tied together in chains.”
“Chains?” My hand reaches out for his. He holds my hand in his and smiles at me.