Page 1 of The Man with a Treasure

In the cold and barren room, the woman held the child close. The only blanket she had to offer was the warmth of her love. That love flowed through her, just like the story she was whispering, “… His wings, so grand, they almost blocked out the dark sky…”

Gasp! The child was mesmerized by the tale her mother was sharing. On their torn and empty mattress, she whispered, “The Angel of the Night, Mamma?”

The woman wished she could finish the story, but knew time was running out. Not only was the moon shining through their only bedroom window, but the men who held them captive could be heard on the other side of the locked door. The lock was not for her protection. It was for her imprisonment, as were the bars on the window.

The sound of her drunk jailers struggling with the key in the door made her naked body tremble, but she still answered her child, “Yes, it was.” The woman’s heart pounded as she gently nudged her daughter to face the wall. To hide her fear, she softly said, “It is time to go to sleep, Vita Mia. Remember not to open your eyes or you will miss your dreams.”

The little girl—only about the age of five—faced the wall as she always did when told and closed her eyes. “I hope I dream of the Angel, Mamma.”

Seven sets of heavy footfalls echoed in the dark room as she replied, “As do I.” Mean hands pulled the woman from the bed and pushed her to the floor, as she cried in silence. “As do I.” Her body used to suffering the common abuse, she thought to herself, May he come and take you away, my Vita Mia.

In Italy within the Giordano family may have not been the ideal place to raise a teenager, but my father was the head of security, and so that is where I grew up. After my mother died, my twelve-year-old self was delivered to my father, a man I had rarely seen. Up to this point, he had only provided for me monetarily. Now that he was to be my full-time caregiver, I was nervous, hoping the larger-than-life stranger would accept me into his own life. Without my mother or her family, I felt lost.

The Mercedes that had picked me up from my uncle’s house looked and smelled more expensive than anything I had ever experienced. My aunt, my mother’s sister, cried terribly as they pried me from her loving arms, forcing me to leave behind all that I had known. As a man, I now understand her tears weren’t merely because she would miss me. They were also tears borne of fear. She knew the lifestyle in which I was about to be introduced and trained to live.

Italy is beautiful. Where I was headed was no different, just much more rural. There were no other houses, just hills off in the distance. Eventually, we pulled down a dirt and gravel road that felt endless. I stared at the rows and rows of grapevines. There was nothing else to do since the car’s driver hadn’t spoken a word to me over the last hour.

Finally reaching a clearing, I saw sizeable trees with canopies sheltering conjoined wooden tables, enough for large gatherings, all standing in front of a house that resembled a castle. Guarding the castle were several men in black suits, one of whom had a rifle casually resting in his arms. They all wore dark sunglasses and were watching our car approach.

As we parked, dust from the dirty road settled and the impressive front door opened. Exiting was the man I had seen at Christmas when his arms had been full of gifts. He walked toward me as I got out of the car. My eyes looked to the ground in a nervous manner.

“Eyes up,” in Italian, barked the man who had spawned me. “Always know your surroundings.”

His dominance had me doing exactly as he demanded. “Yes, sir.” I studied above me to avoid his heavy stare. There were strings of lights in the tree, making me curious as to what they looked like at night. My mother could never afford such things. I startled when noticing a boy my age staring down at me with golden brown eyes and lighter hair. I pointed up. “I am being watched.”

My father, now standing in front of me, dipped his chin. “Well done.” He peered up. “Come down and meet my son.”

The boy dropped from the tree and stood next to us. With a huge smile, he shared, “Hello, I am Sal.” He leaned back and proudly opened his arms. “Sal Rossi.”

Even at the tender age of twelve, Sal had swagger and impressive self-esteem.

Not quite so confident, I replied, “Hello, I am Angelo.” I looked to my father, not feeling nearly as proud as Sal of the name I carried. “Bianchi.”

Sal kept smiling. “Welcome, Dark Angel, finding his roots.” He spoke with a ‘knowing’ expected from an elder in a family. Since he was so young, I felt his claim to be wrong until I looked at my attire—which was what he was apparently judging.

I winced, seeing he was right. I was dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans… It was late spring. I should have been in lighter colors to avoid the sun baking me while working in my uncle’s fields. Now, peering at my father in a dark suit, it was hard to deny my subconscious may have been trying to imitate the parent I had, apparently, been longing for.

Instantly, a little guilt pelted my heart. Would my mother be disappointed in me since she did not have many kind words to share about the man who had destroyed her future? According to her, their marriage had not been of love, but of responsibility, because he impregnated the young naïve Italian girl. When I was four, my father’s priority with the Giordanos outweighed his responsibility to us, and he left my mother and me for good, only to return on a few holidays.

Reminders of my resentment had me daring to ask, “Father, why am I here? My uncle was willing to provide for me.”

“Your loyalty no longer lies with him.”

That was it. I had been claimed and would now follow my father’s footsteps, whether I wished to or not.

Now, all I felt I could offer was gratitude for the one thing he had given me. “Thank you for allowing me the time to finish mourning.” Even though I was positive mourning and grieving for my mother would never end.

My father only dipped his chin, not mentioning my mother’s name, which was common practice for us superstitious ones.

I gestured to the security guards. “What is being hidden here?”

My father lifted a brow. “Hidden?” He shook his head. “No. We are protecting.”

“Protecting what?”

“What belongs to the Giordanos.”

What belongs to the Giordanos, was complicated yet simple. The simple definition was one dark trade for another. The complicated part was how many innocents would be caught up in the illegal dealings, and how all involved, including myself, would pay.