“Yes. They’ve made great strides—88 percent recovery rate.”
“Fantastic.”
He nodded. “Is Cardinal Andrew still spending the weekend with you and Giacomo in Ottati?”
“Yes. I so love talking with him. He said he needed time away from the Vatican. You know he’s working on the reunification of the churches?”
“Yes, I read that in the Times. He’s a good man.” Tony opened his briefcase. “This is for you.”
“Your new novel?”
“Sure is.”
“I can’t wait to read it. Did you catch me on TV?”
“I did—the entire world saw you. You pissed off a lot of people.”
A chime echoed through the cabin, signaling the impending takeoff. Rio placed the manuscript to the side.
“I don’t care, Tony. When are these stupid politicians gonna realize we are the people—we voted them in, we can vote them out. They destroyed our country with greed and indifference. I shouldn’t say they destroyed—but they allowed it. So many people barely subsist; they muddle through life with no hope of change. Those senseless ass bureaucrats can’t get out of their own way. We need a president the people can trust, not a demagogue. Now the imbecilic morons want to collude with Trivette.”
“You don’t like Trivette?”
“No, not really. We’ve had several conversations. In fact, we spoke two weeks ago. I have a bad feeling about that man, but what he’s done with the European Union is astonishing. There’s more to him than we understand. Besides, we don’t have to get in bed with him. We could do something similar—it’s our government that won’t let us.” Her hands animated, she pointed her finger at Tony. “The government can’t help those families affected by the natural disasters that pummeled us in February.” She shook her head in disgust. “The politicians are more concerned with themselves than with the citizens. How many homeless—two hundred thousand? Shit, they’re all jackasses. We are on the precipice of another economic collapse and a revolution—please . . .” She scowled and continued the rant. “They didn’t even learn from their mistakes—the people are disgusted with politicians. The issue is not only the presidency; it’s the other five hundred gimokes on the Hill.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Rio. However, you’re not making any friends when you tell our enemies in Congress to resign. Then, to top it off, you called them moronic a-holes in front of the world press. The news media characterized your remarks as inflammatory and embarrassing to the United States. You’re hurting the American Party.”
Rio said nothing.
“You’re an internet sensation. You went viral on YouTube—over fifty million hits in one day. Euro News branded you ‘the revolutionary.’ So much for staying under the radar.”
“My Italian temper got the best of me. Tony, they should resign. So many of our people live in poverty. There is no middle class. As my father said, the failure of our government to end the two-class society will cause a revolution. You wanna know the real issue?”
“Sure.”
“This fight is the government against the people—the conspiracy theorists are in their glory. Believe me when I tell you we’re facing a genuine uprising. A downright bloody face-to-face battle. Rumor has it the brigades are preparing.”
Tony raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry, Tony. I’m not stupid enough to back the FFB. My point is my father will be right once again.”
“Not everybody believed the words in his journal—especially President Stalworth and now Waldron. Remember, Rio, we’re part of the rich.”
“I’m well aware. We have to gather the wealthy like ourselves to pool our resources. We need to help the poor, begin a real revolution—a legal revolt—by voting out the Democrats and Republicans in Congress and replacing them with the American Party. We are the people, damn it. One victorious sweep to rid the current politicians. Tony—we can do it. By the next presidential election, we’ll have enough support for the party. We’ll abolish the establishment; they will be humiliated into oblivion. They should’ve heeded my father’s warnings. In their arrogance, they let the country fall apart. All he wrote came true. We were fools to give Dad’s journal to the administration.” Rio’s eyes welled.
Tony listened and nodded as she continued.
“What I said to the leaders of the House, well . . .” She hesitated and allowed herself to relax.
“At least you had the guts to tell them. You were the topic of conversation at Katz’s.”
“Katz’s—you guys from the old days still meet there on Tuesdays?”
“We sure do, now that we’re retired. Warren’s pig roast is next month. He’ll be expecting you and your brother.”
“I’ll be there. Can’t speak for Giacomo.”
The flight attendant came down the aisle; a pretty woman with auburn hair that fell below her shoulders, a bright smile, and beautiful brown eyes.
“Tony, when would you like to eat?”
“Whenever you’re ready, Sharon.”
“Half hour?”
“Sounds good.”
“What’s on the menu?” Rio asked her.
“Veal marsala, green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes.”
“Excellent. How about a Pepsi with dinner? Rio?”
“Please.”
Rio grabbed the manuscript and leafed through the typed pages. “A murder mystery?”
“No, a love story—about your father.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah. Read chapter 42. Tell me what you think.”
Rio pushed the recline button on the armrest. A motor hummed as the seat tilted back. She opened the manuscript to chapter 42 . . .
The day after Sydney arrived in Ottati, the two reunited lovers sat on the portico. Below them, a valley of colors. Green trees and golden meadows sprinkled the mountains. The midmorning autumn day was warm and bright with the fragrance of fall. Italian music serenaded them. Giacomo, Rio, Arnaud, and his daughter Emily sat inside at the kitchen table. Their smiles were radiant as they watched Paolo with the love of his life, Sydney Hill.
“Syd, I can’t believe you’re alive.” Tears welled in his eyes. Paolo gently touched her face. “Life has a new meaning today.”
“I don’t understand.” Sydney held his hand.
“Everything we’ve been through, and now I’m on death’s doorstep. God brought us back together for what purpose? I say that as a question, but I know the answer.”
“What’s that, my love?”
“I came to realize life is how we love one another—in our struggles, in our hurt, in our tragedies as well as our joys. Without the essence of love within ourselves, we’re nothing but flesh and bones. Our legacy to each other is the love within hearts that we hold dear to ourselves. I sit here with no misgivings of loving you and the love I have for you. I’m grateful I am here today.”
“That’s beautiful, but I’m sorry for—”
“Sydney, be joyful. Qualms only get in the way; there is no longer time for uncertainties. Life continues.”
“But, Paolo, what I did—”
“Sydney, stop. You’re here now.” He reached up and wiped the tear that trickled down her face.
“Thank you, Paolo. Do you mind if we stay here for a couple of days?”
“No, not at all. It would make my heart happy.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Sydney kissed the dying man on the cheek and walked into the house. She passed Giacomo, who was speaking with Emily, and went to whisper something in Rio’s ear. Paolo stood by the black wrought iron railing and gazed out over the orange roofs of his village, Ottati. The pain in his head diminished as joy overcame him.
“Paolo?”
He turned. Sydney held an object in her hand. Behind her in the doorway were Giacomo, Rio, and Sy
dney’s children—Andrew and Lisa.
“What are Andrew and Lisa doing here?”
“Paolo DeLaurentis, will you marry me?”
“What?”
“Will you marry me?” She held a miniature replica of the Eiffel Tower. “Will you marry me?”
Paolo was speechless as his eyes welled. “Yes, yes, yes.” With a broad smile on his face, he asked, “Would you care to dance?”
Paolo embraced Sydney, and as the two danced, he repeated, “How I love this woman . . . how I love this woman.”
The next afternoon, they were married in the Church of St. Biaggio, surrounded by their children and friends. Piazza Umberto filled with guests, music, food, and laughter. Two days later, they returned to the States where, after three months, Paolo lost his battle with brain cancer. He passed away in his sleep on January 23, 2004, with his wife, Sydney DeLaurentis, holding his hand.
“Tony, this is beautiful. I remember the day. The smile on Dad’s face . . .”
“It’s a wonderful story.”
Sharon entered the passenger cabin with their meals. “After you eat, I’ll prepare your beds?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Tony and Rio dined in companionable silence.
“The food’s delicious. Tell you what, Tony—I’m exhausted.”
“Go to sleep. Sharon will wake you up a half hour out.”
“I only need a couple of hours.”
Rio closed the sliding doors; the stateroom partitioned from the rest of the plane. She lay in bed reminiscing about her coffee with Dean that morning. She reached inside her purse, pulling out the envelope he gave her. She opened it. A picture of two young children dressed as adults had been printed on the front of the card. The little boy held a bouquet of roses behind his back as he leaned forward to kiss the girl. The inside was blank except for the words “I’m falling in love with you—Dean.”
Rio unclasped the heart-shaped charm around her neck and placed the jewelry in the cupholder next to the bed. She fell asleep smiling.
Chapter 5
Rio awoke, stretched her legs, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Refreshed, she entered the cabin. Tony was drinking an espresso and writing on a yellow pad.
“Morning.”
“Morning. How did you sleep?”
“Excellent. The bed is comfortable.”
“It better be—for what I paid for this thing.”
The pocket door that separated the passengers from the cockpit, galley, and crew quarters slid open, and Sharon appeared. “Rio, care for a coffee or espresso?”
“Yes, coffee please.” She sat in the seat next to Tony. “Starting a new book?”
“Yeah, seeing where my mind takes me. By the way, we need to call Giacomo and tell him we’re ahead of schedule.”
“I’ll give him a ring.”
Tony opened a leather compartment and withdrew a satellite phone. “Here—you can use this.”
The captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Tony, we’re approaching Corsica and Sardinia.”
“What a beautiful sight. Have you ever been to Corsica?”
“Yes, the island is gorgeous.”
Rio dialed her brother’s cell phone as they approached the Amalfi coastline. She squinted out the oval window as she listened to the distinct ring. In the distance, she saw an odd flash—before she could register what it was, a rush of air screamed into the cabin. As she grabbed the armrests, she noticed a hole in the side of the aircraft.
“Tony!”
“Holy shit, Rio!”
An alarm sounded, followed by the pilot’s instruction to prepare for an emergency landing. As the crew struggled to keep the crippled plane in flight, Pontecagnano—a village on the shoreline—grew closer. Not able to reach their destination, the captain announced their decision to ditch in the Bay of Salerno. While they coordinated the rescue with air traffic control, Sharon prepared Rio and Tony for the controlled crash.
The skilled pilots set the Gulfstream on the water five hundred feet from the shore. The tail pointed precipitously toward the sky as the nose of the plane tilted downward in the ocean waves. Within seconds, rescue motorboats surrounded them.
Chapter 6
Giacomo and Emily DeLaurentis sat on the breakfast terrace at Le Sirenuse in Positano, Italy. The rays of the morning sun highlighted the tiled dome of the church of Santa Maria Assunta shimmering purple, gold, and blue as the day began to warm the chilly air. The fifty-eight-room hotel had spectacular views of the village that scaled the mountainous Amalfi coastline. By midday, the stone-cobbled stairways would fill with tourists.
Giacomo read a report from his Italian business partner. Retired from the army, he owned a private security firm that provided aerial surveillance for American corporations and the governments of the United States, Italy, and France. The company was a hobby—Giacomo didn’t need the money. He employed over a hundred personnel stationed throughout the world. Remote, LLC operated fifty high-tech drones that patrolled the skies. The precision-guided cameras downloaded images to the contracted agencies.
Emily taught French Studies at Yale University. Her father, Arnaud Chambery, a longtime friend of her father-in-law, Paolo, now headed the French DGSE—the intelligence agency akin to the CIA. The thirty-eight-year-old mother-to-be wore an above-the-knee white summer dress. The V-neck accentuated her breasts, and a simple gold cross hung around her neck. Giacomo and Emily were an attractive pair. No longer sporting a military haircut, Giacomo—his brown hair loosely styled—wore jeans and a green short-sleeved polo shirt.
Emily’s Parisian accent intrigued those who met her. The sound of his wife’s voice was one of the many attributes—besides her beautiful face—that had attracted Giacomo. “Mon ami—my love.”
“Oui, mon ami.” Giacomo rested his hand on hers. They were both fluent in English, French, and Italian.
“What time are we meeting Tony’s plane?”
Giacomo put the report about the clandestine search for a man named Sharif on the chair next to him and glanced at the clock. “They should land in a couple of hours.”
A waiter approached with a carafe of Italian coffee and a basket of breads and pastries. He placed them on the violet-colored tablecloth. The view of the bay of Positano and the islands of Capri and Li Galli added to the ambiance.
“Grazie,” Giacomo said. He picked up Emily’s hand. “You’re radiant today.”
“Merci, mon ami.”
“What a great visit with your father. Did you see his face light up when you told him?”
The pregnant woman placed her hand on her stomach. “What about when I said we’re having twins? I thought he’d faint. Then when I told him ‘boys,’ . . . jeez.” They both laughed.
“Cardinal Andrew will be excited when he hears the news.”
“He will. He’s going to meet us in Ottati.”
“Do you think he can be a godfather to one of the boys?” Emily asked.
Giacomo’s cell phone rang. He answered to the sound of a whoosh, then silence on the other end of the line. Fear gripped his body and almost caused him to vomit as he felt the blood drain from his face.
“Giacomo, who was on the phone? Is everything . . .”
He shook off the sick feeling. “Must’ve been a wrong number. What did you ask?”
“Do you think Andrew could be a godfather to one of the boys?”
Giacomo was flustered as he replied, “Sure . . . why not? We’ll ask him this weekend.”
Chapter 7
Cardinal Andrew Angeloni sat in his Vatican office behind a cluttered, seventeenth-century dark oak desk. In one corner were two pictures: The first, his stepbrother and father, the young boy in the photo twenty years his junior. The second, him with his mother and father as they posed with Mickey Mouse at Disney World. He was eighteen ye
ars old when he stood between his parents. The vacation would be their last, his mother dying of pancreatic cancer. That year—1975—influenced the rest of the cardinal’s life.
Born in the small town of Bethlehem, Connecticut, the only child of Frank and Maria Angeloni, Andrew was an average American boy, with typical adolescent tendencies. There was nothing to set him apart from his peers. He and his girlfriend, Carla, had dated for two years, experiencing love to a point but keeping their virginity. In the summer before his final year of high school, they went their separate ways.
Bethlehem is Connecticut’s Christmas town. Each year during the holiday season, the post office is inundated with thousands of holiday cards from around the world seeking the Bethlehem postmark. The municipality was the site of the first theological seminary in the country. In 1947, a group of Benedictine nuns established the Abbey of Regina Laudis. Andrew worked in the abbey’s mailroom during the Christmas season and did chores at the convent during the spring and summer months. The sisters adopted him and prayed for him daily.
Andrew would never forget the day he traipsed through the door of his parents’ center-hall colonial home. A senior, he enjoyed privileges and was free to leave the school premises as long as he had no classes. That day, he was going home for lunch, then off to the abbey.
“Mom, I’m home.” The tall, lanky, long-haired teenager entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He grabbed the Genoa salami and sharp provolone cheese and made a sandwich. With his mouth full, he called for his mother again.
“Andrew, Mom and I are up here,” his father’s voice boomed.
With lunch in hand, Andrew climbed the stairs. In the master bedroom suite, his mother sat on the sofa, her eyes red. His father gazed out the window.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing good,” his father quipped.
“Mom?”
The words couldn’t escape her mouth. She sobbed.
“Your mother has cancer.”
“Cancer?” Stunned, Andrew turned toward his mother. “Mom?”
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