“I think she might have had one too many, who uses the word divine anymore? I mean, outside of a church?”
Dante quietly watches the women leave.
“Okay. Juliet, how are the plans going for the wedding?” I ask, changing the subject when the appetizers arrive.
“Fine, I mean it’s nice to have Ms. Loren’s help, she is very organized and has great taste. But more importantly, Marchello,” she fixes me with a stare not to be messed with, “are you bringing a date or not?”
“Yes, it would be a travesty if I showed up to one of the major social events of the year without a date.”
She lets out a giddy laugh and I push the calamari towards her, insinuating she needs to eat. I love my sister-in-law to be, but she’s a lightweight when it comes to drinking on an empty stomach.
I help myself to more bread and some of the mushrooms as we place our orders for the first and second courses. I’m thankful we’re inside as we watch the monsoon rains and buckets of water pour off the rooftops in the plaza.
10
Prende
Ilock the door behind the last person to leave for the day and make a beeline for the safe.
The words my mother spoke before her death come back to me in my moment of truth as my hand is on the safe in my office.
I turn the dial with the same combination I have for the past two years that Papa and I have had the business. I turn the dial, once, twice, and after the third click the door opens and I pull out the ledger Papa used for records. Papa said he liked the old ways and computers could be hacked. He liked things written, and I remember the little black book sitting in my drawer at home next to his money.
Sitting on the floor with the ledger open in my lap I stare at the page in front of me wondering what I’m supposed to be looking for as I flip page after page of meaningless numbers, until I spot the sum of a bank deposit for a wedding I did last month.
I know what we charged for that wedding and when I ask Papa how much profit we have, he always gives me a number and we’re constantly growing. So the numbers should go up but the number in front of me is huge. Like, exorbitantly more than what I charged for the wedding, as in six figures. This means Papa is laundering money through my shop.
I look at some of the entries and it turns out my business made a quarter of a million euros last year and Papa was on the payroll as a manager of the store, and he was paying himself more than me.
More than me!
The nerve. I do all the work and stay here on weekends. I built this business. Now I question all the contracts that came in when I needed them. I drop the book and lay my head in it.
Tears of betrayal roll down my face and I’m relieved I’m alone.
I scream! How could I have been so naïve?
My beloved father used me. He used me to launder his filthy money for the Albanian mafia and now they want me. They need me.
But they also need me to be quiet and not blow the operation.
What did Marchello say? Find out what they want and play their game?
But how could Papa do this to me? My business? And what will these men want from me now that Papa is gone? Surely, they will want me to launder their money as well, which means the man they want me to marry will keep up the work my father was doing. And who is this man? I doubt he’ll be as dashing as Marchello.
However, Marchello knew, he’s streetwise, he knows how this works. He’s my tutor without me knowing. But I don’t want to be a pawn in their games and privy to their criminal schemes.
My stomach churns. Bile rises in my throat. This is hard to take in the truth even though I’m looking at it. Now that I’ve seen this book and the book at home, I’m guessing it was gambling debts or protection money he collected and washed through my store. But who knows?
The florist shop was never for me. It was an elaborate money laundering operation to help him rise in the ‘family’ business.
“Arrr!” I yell as I stand and reach into a nearby carton, pick up a glass vase and throw it against the wall in front of me. Breaking something makes me feel better so I pick up another vase and throw it against the wall and watch as hundreds of shards of glass cover the floor.
Oddly, it makes me feel better so I throw another for good measure and the next thing I know, I’ve gone through a box of the vases and I sink to the floor again.
How could I have missed this? Why did I trust him? Mama tried to warn me. Was this it or is there more?
The events of the week catch up to me. Exhaustion has set in, and I’m overwhelmed by the sticky situation I’ve been tossed into. More like served on a platter.