I can’t deny most of my thoughts are about the hot Italian stud who surprised me with a visit earlier. In fact, he’s sharing space in my heart and my brain with the mystery surrounding my father’s death.
Increasingly my fantasies, late at night, involve his sculpted face and body in and out of the designer clothes he wears so well. I know I’m gonna get burned and yet I’m drawn to him like a bee to honey. Why am I obsessed with a man who pops in and out of my life like a jack in the box?
“I say he likes you.” Mila continues, retrieving a vase off the self. “You need to order more inventory; we’re going to run out of these.”
“There’s more in storage, on the shelves in the back.”
“Oh, cool. So, what’s happening with Marcello? You keep changing the topic.”
That’s because I don’t really have an answer for her. It’s not like we’ve been on a traditional date. Eating sandwiches in the street or at my desk doesn’t qualify. It would be nice if he asked me out on a proper date.
“I don’t think I’m his type.”
I’m not Italian, but I’ve heard Italian men tend to have a temper and an attitude. That would have come in handy standing up to my father, but now I have no use for a hard headed egomaniac.
“What type is that? You’re pretty and sweet.”
“If the way he dresses is any indication, he’s not afraid to spend money on clothing and accessories. Maybe he wants a woman who does the same, someone he can parade around as arm candy. That’s not me.”
“That’s no reason for a man to not like you. I mean some people are snobs, but if he’s going to judge you based on your wardrobe, then you don’t want him anyway. Right?”
“Right,” I agree, but it’s hard to concentrate on the conversation with so much on my mind. I’m feeling overwhelmed and getting irritated but can’t let it show. “I’ll go to the storage room and look for more vases.”
“Great, thanks. We need at least six more of these.” She holds up a generic green vase shaped like an hourglass.
Alone in the storage room, I can finally think without interruption. I’m proud that I have information from the coroner no one knows I have, not even Uncle Besnik.
See, I watched the jet setters at the ski resort have caviar and stone crabs flown in on helicopters and learned it’s the concierge who makes it happen. They have the contacts who can pull off crazy demands and requests without so much as a hiccup.
I’m new to the world of bribery, but it didn’t take much for the concierge to put in a request for my eyes only with the coroner. Turns out, I’m good at figuring out how to pay someone to do something.
The town of Cervinia was accommodating and when the toxicology reports came in, I had them email the results to Raphael, a college friend of mine in Florence, just to be on the safe side.
Raphael is a great guy who works downtown at the Office of Tourism. He speaks several languages and would have been my first boyfriend if Papa didn’t interfere. The truth is, Papa always wanted me to marry a man of his choosing and that was never gonna happen. It’s not just old fashioned, it’s barbaric.
The toxicology report listed a drug to give him a boner and the drug Digitalis. This is when I’m glad I paid attention in biology class because Digitalis is a heart medication derived from the foxglove flower. He doesn’t even have a prescription for Digitalis. As for a drug to have sex, he never looked at another woman after my mother. So both of these drugs are suspicious to me.
The question is, why would anyone give him these drugs and why is Besnik hiding this from me? And how much more is he hiding?
I climb a short step ladder and grab a box of the vases. I hear the other workers coming in the back door off the alley and am relieved that help is here. I want my nails to be pretty for tomorrow and not all nicked up from overworking my hands today.
I carry the box to the store front just in time to see Uncle Besnik literally blow in like a storm.
“What is this I hear about you doing flowers for Dante Micheli’s wedding?”
“Whatever do you mean? It’s a wedding, a huge wedding.”
“Like hell you will, you are forbidden to do business with those people. You need to figure a way out of it,” he demands, pointing his finger at me like I’m a puppy that peed on the rug.
“Let’s talk privately,” I say, gesturing to the people in the store, not to mention all my employees, who are looking at me like I have three heads.
We make our way to my office and Besnik is so worked up, I’m afraid he’s gonna have an aneurysm. He’s yelling in Albanian that the Michelis’ are our enemies and might have something to do with my father’s death. How dare I disgrace my heritage and insult the family?
“Family, what family? Besides a crazy aunt I never see, you’re all I have.”
“There’s more to it, Prende. You, I mean we, are part of a much bigger family. Your father did things others didn’t want to do and he moved drugs in nightclubs, a lot of them are Micheli clubs. That’s why Dante Micheli had the perfect motive to eliminate your father.”
“This is all news to me,” I answer in our language. “You can’t expect me to do the right thing when I have no clue what I’m supposed to be doing. If it makes you feel better, I’ll try to get out of the contract.”