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“Ma che diavolo?[70]”The surprise in Tizziano's voice stops me from getting into the car.
I turn around, looking for the reason for his exclamation, and the scene that approaches us makes me tilt my head slightly to the side. The lamps in the front courtyard of the house illuminate theconsigliereleading a group made up of three soldiers and Gabriella.
The girl's dress is dirty and torn, she is pulling her skirts down, trying to hide her legs which, even from a distance, I can see are scratched. Her face has a swollen and red side, but even that doesn't hide the apprehensive expression on her face about meeting me.
One of the men is limping, despite all his efforts to walk normally, and the other two appear unharmed. Although the way they pull down their shirt sleeves says they're trying to hide something.
The story tells itself and with a speed proportional to how I understand it, the instinct of violence floods my veins. My anger grows with every step the group takes, making the image of a completely shaken Gabriella clearer. The mere idea that something like this happened on my property, under myauthority, makes the control, always so naturally maintained, threaten to slip through my fingers.
When only a meter of distance separates me from the group, I take a step with the intention of lifting Gabriella's face and better assessing her condition. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, and she is the only one to move at my approach, cowering. Immediately, I retreat.
I close my hands into fists. The look I direct at the men is also their sentence. Anyone within the boundaries of this property is considered possession of La Santa. Any attack, no matter how small, isn’t against a particular individual or thing, but against the authority and supremacy of Sagrada, and this will never be tolerated.
A Don's work is, for the most part, bureaucracy, lobbying and management: of crises, of people and of business. In the overall sum of things, there is much less action than one imagines when the position is mentioned.
There are times, however, when the creature beneath my skin seems ready to break through, ready to claim its right to enforce the only law it knows and has so few occasions to enforce: violence. This is one of them, it costs me an absolute dose of wavering self-control, to delegate.
“Give them an equivalent punishment.” That's all I need to say to Tizziano for a sadistic smile to transform his face.
“It will be a pleasure, Don.”
I give myconsiglierea look of recognition. With a short wave, Tizziano orders one of the men spread out, guarding the front of the house, to come closer.
Simone, Pietro and Rafaelle, Gabriella's attackers, are led towards La Santa’s training center, perfectly aware of what awaits them there. The scene forces disgust down my throat, even though low-ranking soldiers, until tonight, I believed they were men of honor.
The awareness of my own failure is like fire in gasoline, raising the bloodlust and inflaming my thoughts to the tenth power. They are my men, how they act under my supervision is my responsibility.
I watch them until the six of them disappear behind the house. Then, I turn to Gabriella who remains standing in the same position since she arrived: with her arms crossed in front of her chest in a protective posture, her head lowered, and her entire body committed to the effort of shrinking at any cost. I shove my hands in my pockets, fighting back the unexpected urge to touch her.
“Gabriella,” I call.
Her exhalation sounds loud before her eyes slowly lift to meet mine for the first time in a month and a half. Her dry face announces that, regardless of how violent the situation the girl was exposed to, she did not cry. This realization brings back the memory of the moment she opened the door to her home in Brazil and found me sitting in the middle of her living room.
Once again, I find myself being surprised by the way this girl has learned to suffer in silence. Weeks ago, her first reaction was also resignation. Today, however, if the state of their clothes, hair and skin are any indication, apathy was not second. Gabriella fought, very different from that day.
“Can you please get in the car?” I ask, deciding that I will keep her in my sights until I have the guarantee that the incident wasthe result of an isolated error of judgment and not of a collective conscience among my men.
The kind words have a bitter taste in my mouth. Asking isn’t something I'm used to. Still, I do it as punishment for my mistake.
Surprise is evident in Gabriella's dark eyes as they widen, but she doesn't hesitate to obey for a second, immediately climbing into the SUV that already has the door open. Ready to follow the usual routine, my four trusted men are standing still, waiting for me to enter and do the same soon after.
I bite the inside of my cheek, about to do something I never do.
“Luigi, Salvatore, and Antonio, we're going in two cars. Only Dario is going with me,” I warn, and the three follow the order without question. Heading towards the second vehicle in the convoy of five, which was already waiting to accompany my departure.
As I turn toward the inside of the car, I find Gabriella huddled against the window on the opposite end. I choose to sit close to the door where I enter, on the bench facing the girl, a place that is usually occupied by my security guards. However, the girl's withdrawn posture is clearly a way of keeping herself isolated from the world. A closed car in the company of three men is definitely the last place she would want to be.
I clench my teeth, pushing myself way past the pain threshold until they feel like they're about to break. Caring isn't usually on my to-do list, but tonight, I decide it seems fair enough. The journey is made in absolute silence while I use my cell phone to make some arrangements.
When the car parks on the runway, Luigi and Salvatore get out of the vehicle behind mine to do a security check on the jet, already waiting for me, while Antonio positions himself, guarding the door behind which I am sitting.
It takes almost five full minutes before Gabriella turns her face toward me, blinking her big eyes several times as she realizes where we are. The door opens, I go through it and the Brazilian woman looks at me, seeking confirmation that she should do the same. I nod, wait for Gabriella to get down and let her go ahead of me.
Inside the plane, however, her gaze searches mine again when she doesn't know where to sit. Submissive to the last molecule. The ease with which she gives up control could bring a man to his knees. I gather my lips on one side of my mouth before indicating that she sits in the chair opposite the one I'm going to sit in. The girl does.
“Put on your seat belt,” I advise. She wets her lips, sighs, and obeys the order.
For the first time, I really look at her.
