I get lost in my chick flick movie as the jet takes off and an hour later, we are back on our home turf. Turf has never been such a welcomed word before the attempt on my life.
Papa’s guards were with him when I disappeared, so there was no one else to blame but me, and possibly he blames himself. We walk to our waiting Mercedes limo van on the tarmac.
The flight home was unpleasantly quiet. I’ve never seen Papa so distraught.
“Giovi.” I pull his hand to get his attention. “What went down in Rome? Where did Papa disappear to? What’s going on? You need to help me.”
“You’ve never been involved before, why now? You love to put yourself first. Papa has shit going on, and you’re not making it any easier. Obviously, we have enemies who sent a message.” He lets out a huff as he dishes out his reprimand.
We used to be so close and now he’s more distant than ever. Mama isn’t in the mood to talk.
Laura tugs my arm. “Hey, relax. You’ll know what you’re supposed to. These men don’t talk, nor do the locals. You know this, but you want everyone to break rules for you. It’s dangerous if they do.”
“Yeah, but it’s dangerous if they don’t.”
“It’s the way it is.” She shrugs. “Meanwhile, I’m sure my father will get wind of this from yours and I hope we’ll still be able to hang out. You became a dangerous woman overnight,” she chides me as she bumps her shoulder into mine before we reach the van.
When we arrive home, Laura’s father, Paulo Scalici, is at our house and the men have a meeting before he comes out, says ‘hi’ to me and then tells Laura it’s time to go. He even carries her luggage and dress for her as they leave with one of his men who opens their car doors and drives them. Laura’s dad doesn’t mess around, so I know he has a gun on him and that his driver would have one as well.
It’s not like ours don’t. I mean, they don’t walk around with them hanging out like a badge. Technology has made us international now and I know from Papa’s underboss, Gambino, that we’re involved in places as far away as Belarus, Russia and the United States. I surmised this from Christmas gifts, the ones that aren’t envelopes filled with money that got passed around like cigarettes when I was a kid.
Then there is the Polish dark chocolate bar. They are two inches thick, the bitter kind, not the one that’s watered down with milk because I got to eat the chocolate. I overheard someone joke about how their Russian vodka has the highest percent of alcohol of all vodkas in the world.
I’m about to head upstairs when Papa calls my name. I wonder what he’ll do to punish me. Reluctantly, I turn back towards the dining room as his office is just past it.
With trepidation I walk into the room that has always been off-limits to us. I enter as he makes his way around a cherry wood desk and he waits for me to sit on the old brown worn leather sofa. He closes the door behind me.
The pictures hanging on the walls are of him with his friends in bars when he was younger. Some of these men aren’t alive anymore. There is a picture of Uncle Federico Gambino and Papa from when I was little judging from the colors in the picture and a little girl in a tacky outfit and it’s not me, must be Gambino’s daughter.
Papa’s has a family picture of son his desk along with their wedding picture. On the old bookcase beside is a 25th wedding anniversary picture frame and in it, they are in Greece. I remember how happy they were back then.
Papa sinks like a bag of bricks into his large leather chair behind his desk. In front of him is a wooden box, a gift from Russia. The box contains a pricey cognac. Supposedly it’s produced in Russia, but they import more due to the elite who demand it. I’ve heard it’s a prized commodity for their elected officials, also known as the Bratva.
“Look, there’s no way to make this easy so I’ll just tell you what you want to know.”
Finally, some answers. Whew, this is good.
“You know who attacked me in the garden?” I ask.
“No, that will take some time. But it concerns you.”
“Oh?” I sit on the edge of the brown sofa cushion, bracing myself for something, but I have no clue what to expect.
He rubs his hand over his face. This is bad. His hand remains on his head as his face is down. He finally looks up, takes a breath, and lets his hands slide away.
His eyebrows furrow and his lips roll together as he pauses.
He pushes his chair back and he stands, leans forward, and smacks both hands on his desk scaring the shit out of me. He blurts out, “You’re engaged to a man to be married next year. You’ll have Christmas here and then you’ll travel to Florence to attend a wedding with me in January. At the wedding reception, you’ll meet him and live with your intended until your wedding.”
“What?” I stand, clenching my hands as my arms are stiff, glued to my sides. “You made an arrangement and told me nothing? I don’t have a say in this?”
“Valentina, you always knew your husband would be picked for you.”
“But I should at least meet him, and not be handed over like a hostage.”
His eyes bulge and I wonder if he’s been held hostage. Did I hit my mark? Did I guess something he’s been hiding? After all these years of guessing what’s going on, did I finally hit the truth today?
“What are you not telling me, Papa? I thought I’d be married to a Sicilian.”