Chapter 18 Giovanni
GIOVANNI
Mario has amassed his own army. But rather than lead them like a general heading into battle, he has crawled into New York City’s underbelly, like the yellow-eyed rat that he is.
If my sister knows where he is, she is giving nothing away; after years of physical and emotional abuse, she still knows what the role of mafia wife requires of her.
She does not cry for the Russian pakhan.
They were using each other to gain what they wanted.
In Bianca’s case, this was freedom from her feral husband.
In the pakhan’s, it was an allegiance with the Sabatelli empire once I was removed from the helm and replaced by my sister.
Part of the deal struck when she enlisted his help fifteen years ago to murder my parents and fiancée.
I should’ve been in the car that was written off during the accident.
I’d planned to fly into Sicily a day earlier, a journey that was cancelled when a business proposition came my way.
One that I couldn’t refuse, at least, not if I wanted to expand my empire and the legacy passed on to me by my father.
Bianca struck the deal with the Russian, gave the order, and then went on vacation with her husband, lying low until the deed was done.
I can only imagine her disappointment when she learned that, on the day of the accident, I was still in New York.
She would’ve worn a fixed smile around her husband and their acquaintances, played the perfect hostess, pandered to Mario’s perversions, whilst secretly screaming inside.
Because with one failed attempt on my life behind her, she knew that risking it a second time would seal her own fate.
She leaves the pakhan’s house with us in silence.
Her expression remains neutral when we pass the bodies littering the front of the property. She sits beside me in the back of the car, eyes fixed on the passenger window like a convict sentenced to life imprisonment.
She doesn’t react until we pull into the airport where the private jet is waiting for us.
Her eyes slide my way, but her expression remains unreadable. “You can drag me back to New York, Gio, but I can’t tell you where he is.”
“I don’t expect you to tell me where he is. I’ll flush him out soon enough.”
Her eyes and lips twitch as if she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “What’s that supposed to mean? He won’t stop until you are dead, and he can take over the family business.”
“Leaving you free to step in, I presume.” I shrug. “We both know that Mario’s balls are in his mouth. It must’ve been a heavy cross for him to bear knowing that his wife’s bloodline would always outrank his.”
She stares at me, heavy-eyed, as the driver kills the engine. “Why did you interfere, Gio? I knew what I was doing. Mario would’ve been taken care of and the family business would have remained within the family, as our parents wanted.”
I always thought my sister was strong-willed, fiercely determined, a woman who would raise even stronger daughters.
But all I see now is a woman filled with resentment and bitterness, driven to murder the people closest to her through her own ruthless, self-absorbed ambition.
Family was everything to our parents. Unlike Bianca, family is everything to me.
“I’m disappointed that you need to ask. I interfered because you’re my sister.”
I unfasten my safety belt and climb out of the car. The driver opens the passenger door and stands discreetly aside while Bianca joins me.
Her eyes settle on the private jet on the tarmac. I wait for her to ask me to take her anywhere but back to the city, but instead, she squares her shoulders and leads the way.
Once on board, I check in with Bruno while Bianca touches up her nude lipstick using a small mirror from her purse and stares out of the window.
They still haven’t found Amber. My gut is torn in two.
I should be with Meggie; whether they find Amber or not, I should be there by her side, supporting her, protecting her, loving her.
But I have a duty to my parents to avenge their deaths, as well as a debt to repay Don Calderone. When this is over, I will be free. I already know that my future lies with Meggie, but I want it to begin with no baggage hanging around our necks.
Instead of champagne, I ask the steward to bring a bottle of brandy and two glasses. I pour large slugs into each and slide one across the table to my sister.
I sit back in my seat. Focus on the task in hand. “Tell me about Stella.”
Bianca swallows a mouthful of brandy and grimaces, her eyes darting around the jet’s interior.
Despite everything, she still exudes natural elegance and a sense of calm with her legs crossed neatly at the ankles.
Only the tiny, almost indiscernible blood spatters on her shirt give away the fact that we’re leaving a blood bath behind us.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” We have a long flight ahead of us even though Bianca isn’t yet aware of this.
“She’s … beautiful.” Bianca turns to the window and blinks as the aircraft starts cruising along the runway.
“Pale skin, fine blond hair, high cheekbones. Like a pixie.” She smiles at her own reflection in the pane.
“Sometimes, I wish I could carry her around in my pocket. Keep her safe. She’d hate it if I told her this though. ”
I know what she’s trying to say. I feel the same way about Meggie.
It isn’t a desire to keep her locked up so that no one else can get close to her, it’s the overwhelming urge to shield her from all the unpleasantness the world has to offer.
This need to shield and protect, at any cost, is in our blood.
She talks about how they met: Stella was employed by my sister to design the interior of their new apartment on the Upper East Side.
It wasn’t love at first sight—Bianca was still in denial over her sexuality—but the physical attraction was undeniable.
The gleam in her eyes when she speaks about Stella makes her look like a teenager again. She is a woman in love.
But I have to remind myself that our parents are dead because of her.
Several hours pass by before Bianca presses her forehead against the window, her body shifting closer as she tries to make sense of the landscape far below.
“Gio, where are we going?”
“Home.”
It must be eating her alive, but she has the dignity not to press me for information during the flight. She greets Sandro with a warm smile when he meets us at the airport, her outward appearance that of a woman who is happy to be home for the summer.
But Sandro has been with us long enough to know when to keep quiet.
The drive across the island to our family home passes in silence, for which I’m grateful.
When we landed, I received the news from Vermont that I’d been waiting for: they found Amber.
I want to get this matter concluded as quickly and as painlessly as possible so that I can fly back to the States and spend time with the people who are most important to me.
In the back of the car, Bianca’s fingers play with the tassels attached to her purse, the only giveaway that she’s anxious about my intentions.
Our home is exactly how I left it after my recent visit to Emiliano and Caterina Calderone, but it is somehow different.
The house hasn’t changed; I have. It is now a whole lot more than my childhood home, the place where I was loved and learned to love, the home where I discovered who I was and the man I would become.
It is altering its shape to accommodate Meggie and Amber, and any future children that we might have together. I can already hear laughter and music and lullabies. I can smell sugar and pasta and ripe olives. And I can feel the love oozing from the minute cracks in the walls.
I climb out of the car and smile, filling my lungs with the fragrance of home.
Head down, Bianca climbs the steps to the whitewashed porch ahead of me. I allow her a few moments of privacy when she steps inside; her nostalgia will be cut short soon enough.
Her eyes glitter when she turns around to face me inside the warm, terracotta-painted foyer with its over-sized plant pots and raw silk lampshades.
Our mom disliked extravagance, preferring instead the simple, traditional style of Sicily from when she was a child.
The rooms are welcoming, comfortable and stylish, but never impractical.
This is a home that has seen generations of Sabatellis grow from smiling, plump-legged babies to bright, happy adults.
It laughed with us, cried with us, and greeted us with love.
And now it will learn who was responsible for the death of our parents.
“I’m going to shower and retire for the night.” Bianca already has one foot on the bottom step of the majestic staircase.
“Later. There’s someone waiting to speak to you.”
She falters, her hand patting the air before it finds the polished mahogany banister. “Who?” Her voice quivers with suspicion.
I gesture for her to precede me to the rear of the house and the enormous kitchen that overlooks the terrace and the extensive olive groves.
She moves slowly. Perhaps she is expecting me to have found Mario and have him brought here under duress, kicking, yelling, and spitting profanities at us both while Enzo holds a gun to his head. Her shoulders are tense, bunched up around her neck.
But everything loosens when she spies Stella sitting at the pine kitchen table with a glass of white wine and a small dish of green olives in front of her.
“Stella?” her voice cracks. “What are you—”