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CHAPTER FIVE - ALESSANDRO (2 Weeks Later) – Cagliari, Italy
“…still no arrests in the Fuoco explosion. Police say that they suspect foul play, but the owner and operator, Alessandro DeLuca, is not a person of interest. The explosion initially left seven survivors, all of which were staff members. However, the chef, Kane Maxwell, succumbed to his injuries this morning two weeks after the explosion, leaving only six survivors. Among the dead were the Valentino family, the famed Black Moonlight Vineyard owners. Carlo Valentino, his wife, Zahra Valentino, and their daughter, four-year-old Zoe Valentino, were diners at the restaurant. There were no survivors among the family. The funeral will be held for the Valentino family this Thursday at one at Bethlehem Memorial Church on Goodwin Road in Barrow County.”
I flick the TV off the CNN news station I’d been watching.
Grabbing the phone, I head outside to make a private call. I have to check on a situation that very few people know about.
“How is she?” I ask over a secured line from my parents’ patio in Cagliari, Italy.
“She’s still in shock and not talking much, which could result from the head injury, the shock, or missing her parents. She asks for her mommy and daddy repeatedly, but honestly, Ales, we can barely get her to drink, let alone eat anything. I’m worried about her welfare. Maybe we should turn her over to the authorities now,” Sabrina Amato, Bones’ wife, says.
“No!”
“I don’t know what else to do with her,” Sabrina replies.
Sabrina is a nurse, and she’s often helped the family in times of crisis. The explosion in my restaurant a couple of weeks ago was one of those times that we needed her.
While I understood the ramifications of what would happen when Carlo Valentino went against the mafia, I wasn’t going to finish their dirty work for them. They would want that little girl dead, and the men who performed the hit would be dead if Frederico Colombo learns the kid isn’t dead.
I need to keep her safe for now, and the only way to do that is to let the world believe she’s dead, which means she’s now in the protective custody of the DeLuca family.
It worked in my favor that she was pronounced dead on the news. It made it easier to hide her.
My first thought was to get her to safety, so I took her to Sabrina and Bones’ house. It was almost twenty-four hours before she would speak and tell us her name.
“I’ll make arrangements for her. Let Mattia know what you need, and I’ll get it done.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Is there anything else that you need?” I ask as I hear Edoardo DeLuca clearing his throat behind me.
Spinning around, I spot my father leaning against the doorframe, puffing on a cigar. He nods and turns away from me.
I instantly end the call with no goodbyes and head back inside the double doors leading to the lanai. Six men are sitting around the table.
“Antonio,” I nod, greeting my oldest brother, who sits at my father’s left hand.
“Alessandro, welcome home,” Antonio replies.
“Niccolò,” I greet my youngest brother, who seems to have trouble meeting my eyes. I tuck that away for later.
“Massimo. Marco,” I greet my twin brothers in order of their birth.
They both nod and smile a greeting at me.
“Elmo, it’s been some time,” I say to my father’s right-hand man, who sits to his right.
“Alessandro. It is good to have you home,” he says.
Although those are his words, I know that he probably feels otherwise. Elmo has never been fond of me. He had advised my father years ago that I was a hothead who might learn from some good discipline. Elmo was one of the reasons that I went to America to live with my uncle Aldo. And he’s probably the main reason this meeting was called the day I landed in my home of Cagliari.
An hour ago, my private jet landed on the private airstrip at my parents’ mansion, DeLuca Palazzo. My mother affectionately named it that three decades ago when my father purchased it for her. I plan to be here for a couple of days and then return to America. This meeting with my father is the first order of business that I have to handle. Everything else is child’s play compared to this.
“Good evening, sir,” I greet my father, who sits at the head of the table, as I finally take my seat at the opposite end.
My father nods, and those narrow, dark eyes pin me in place.
“You made it home in one piece,” he rasps.
