“I’m sitting in the backseat of the tinted SUV munching on my bagel while Mario drives through a neighborhood filled with modest homes and manicured lawns.
He turns onto Allen Street. This is a familiar route that we have driven many times. I only hope this venture can give me the answers I seek. Finally he pulls into the driveway of a small ranch.
Looking out the window, I catch sight of the surveillance cameras mounted along the gutters and eaves. There are motion sensors, reinforced locks, and infrared lenses, along with enough hardware to deter any enemy. I don’t blame him. After me getting shot at the gala, and him taking a bullet to the head, no one can be too careful.
Mario cuts the engine and opens my door. Adjusting my coat, I step out onto the cracked driveway.
“Do you want me to wait here?” Mario closes the door.
I shake my head. “Go grab a coffee and come back in a half hour. This won’t take long. Besides, we don't want the neighbors to get suspicious.” My gaze sweeps over the aged brick.
The SUV comes to life as I climb the steps to the front door. Pulling my coat tighter, I ring the doorbell. My side still aches from the bullet wound but I feel stronger than I have in weeks.
Bruno’s maid Maria opens the door. A smile breaks out across her face.
“Ciao, Cipriani.”
She gives me a hug.
Maria has been Bruno’s housekeeper for as long as I’ve been alive. She’s from Calabria and in her mid-sixties, but has the energy of a teenager.
“Ciao, Maria. Where is Bruno?”
Wiping her hands on her apron, she guides me inside the house. “Bruno’s in the living room.” She closes the door. “He doesn’t understand the meaning of rest. All he does is pace back and forth, driving me crazy.” She gestures toward the living room and heads into the kitchen.
The smell of meatballs and pasta linger through the house. It makes my mouth water and my stomach growl.
“Would you like something to eat, Cipriani?” Maria calls from the kitchen.
“Yes, please.” I walk into the living room.
Jeopardy flashes across the screen as flames crackle in the fireplace. Bouquets of flowers are scattered about, lingering on the end tables.
I smile. Bruno never gave a damn about flowers unless they were lying on a grave. The boxes of cigars stacked high on the coffee table were more his style.
Bruno is seated in a large leather armchair with the footrest up. A blanket is spread over his legs. He’s wearing a robe along with comfy clothes. The left side of his scalp is bandaged and his eyes are glued to his phone. He looks pissed off and bored.
I knock on the doorframe. He snaps to attention. Turning to the door, his eyes catch sight of me and a smile breaks out on his face.
“Farfalla.” He opens his arms to me. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, of course.” I lean over and hug him. “How are you feeling?”
“Like hell,” he grumbles, gesturing for me to sit down on the couch. “I’m sick of being trapped in this damn house everyday. I want to get back to work.”
“Bruno, you know you’re in no position to be working right now. The doctors pulled a slug from your skull.” I sink into the couch, then reach over and squeeze his hand.
He scowls. “Those doctors love being dramatic. The bullet grazed my head.”
“Even so. You need to rest and recover. Soon you’ll be well and back on the job again.”
“How are you feeling, Farfalla?” He looks at me.
“I’m still in a lot of pain, but each day it gets better.”
“And how are things going with you and that boy?” Bruno leans back in his recliner and folds his arms.
“It’s going okay.”
