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Not even if it’s to just give us a ride. It might be the one thing that someone comes asking questions about later.
And it’s not usually the law asking where we were last seen and going where.
I have a small place downtown, but I’ve been home for some time after Papa asked me to stay when his health started to go downhill.
Pulling up to the gates, I can see Papa stepping into the house as I hand the driver some bills.
The gates swing silently open once I get closer, and I hustle up the lengthy tree-lined gravel drive, eager to find out exactly what’s happened.
The whole grounds seem electrified with activity, even though there’s not a soul in sight.
I could dismiss this feeling as my imagination, but once I get to the massive front doors, the security grate gets pulled back, and I have a couple of 50mm barrels pointed at me until it’s clear I’m just trying to get into my own damned house.
“Sorry, Mr. Martinelli,” the men murmur, opening up and ushering me in, glancing around the edges of the doorway as if I’ve been followed.
“What’s going on?” I bark. “What’s happened? Where’s…?”
I want to say it.
I need to know, but saying her name aloud right now isn’t a great idea.
But I feel some relief, at least.
Since pulling up, I know she’s here.
I can feel it.
“Rocky!” my Papa calls out from the landing at the top of the huge oak staircase. “Come up. We need to talk….”
One thing my father’s never done is mince his words, and before I even take a heavy leather seat in his office, he’s giving me my next assignment.
“I needed to use you for a while today,” he sighs, tucking both hands behind his back as he stands closer to the roaring fireplace.
“…As a distraction. Letting Portello think we were too weak to fight anymore,” he adds, his shoulders slumping before he finally takes a seat, looking every bit as frail as he’s telling me he’s not.
His eyes suddenly blaze with passion like they used to in the old days.
“We got her, though. We got the mysterious Portello girl. Now he can know how it feels to lose some family….”
I open my mouth, but his hand’s up.
“I trust you, Rocky. And it’s you. I want to make sure the job gets done,” he says somberly.
I feel the back of my neck itch, sensing this is the time in a Martinelli’s life when the old blood asks you to prove yourself.
The time when they need proof of your strength and honor before handing over any real power.
“She’s in the guest house,” he informs me, shifting his eyes from mine to the fire.
“Maria…,” he murmurs to himself, half-smiling.
Now Iamconfused, more than ever.
I almost correct him, Jasmine’s name on my lips as well as at the front of my mind.
But I stay quiet. I know the only way to really find out what’s going on is for Papa to tell me in his own time and in his own way.
Jesus, though. If the girl they have is Portello’s daughter, then where the fuck is Jasmine?
