by Gina Azzi
Claudia nods in agreement. “Tell us what’s going on.”
Mama nods, “Si. I will.”
* * *
On Sunday even though I’ve had a full twenty-four hours to process everything Mama shared, my mind is still reeling, my temper running high and hot, and my patience obliterated. Fucking Benito.
After Mama told Claudia and me everything she knew, we immediately jumped in with every solution we could think of to rectify the situation. Mama sadly shook her head at every angle we thought we could play. In short, it seems Papa changed his will thirteen months before he passed. He did so while he was completely competent and of sound mind. His lawyer, Raffaelo Palmeri, was present and acted as witness to my father’s actions. Benito wasn’t there. Since Benito is expressly stated as the beneficiary of Papa’s will as well as his successor to the board, there is little Mama can do to contest Benito’s position.
The only provisions stated that Benito can’t mess with are our family home and Angelina’s Ristorante since it belongs to Mama independently of Papa. Everything else—the mansion in Liguria, the house in Lake Como, the apartment buildings in Sicily, the portfolios of investments, the factories in Turin, the vineyards in Tuscany, our entire fucking livelihood—all belong to and are under the control of Benito.
And now I’m going to fix it.
* * *
When Mia enters the restaurant Monday afternoon, I’m both frustrated and relieved. Frustrated because she’s kept her distance for more than a week; she’s been avoiding me since I kissed her. I haven’t even laid eyes on her since she came to Angelina’s with Pete-I-wear-fucking-polo-shirts-Buchanan last Wednesday.
But then again, I’ve been distant too. Except, I’m fairly certain that she’s kept her distance because of Pete Buchanan. And I’ve kept mine because my family is falling apart. Not even remotely the same thing.
Now she walks in here and I’m in the worst possible mood to have a conversation. Not to mention the timing is completely off as I’m about to leave to meet with Papa’s lawyer, Rafaello, and see if I can drag some useful information out of him. Still, I’m relieved because well, she’s here. And I get to appreciate her shy smile for several seconds before the scowl on my face wipes it off.
“Hey,” she says softly, sitting down at her usual patio table, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. It’s getting too cold to sit outside.
“Ciao,” I say back, running my hand over the scruff covering my face. I need to shave, to feel like a human being again. I’ve been a disaster since Mama dropped the Benito bomb.
“Um. Busy weekend?” she whispers, her eyes wide and serious. She pulls her sleeves over her hands, curling her fingers up into her jacket.
Damn it. Now this beautiful girl is going to think that my foul mood has something to do with her. Another thing I need to fix.
I attempt a smile. “Yeah. I have some family stuff going on that I need to take care of.”
“Oh.” She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
I rub my hand down my face. Just be honest with her, Enzo. I’m sure she’ll get it. She’s a reasonable girl. “Look this isn’t really a good time. I’m just heading out now. Can we talk later?”
She looks down at her shoes for a few seconds before raising her gaze to meet mine. Her face is pale and her eyes look worried. Otherwise, she sits still as a statue. “Sure.”
I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but I really don’t have time to explain and coddle her. I need to meet Rafaello in twenty minutes at a bar near the Spanish steps. I’m probably going to be late, even if I leave this minute. “Okay. I’ll message you later.” I tell her, giving her shoulder a slight squeeze as I make my way out of the patio.
I’m tempted to turn around but really, why torture myself?
* * *
Taking another sip of the Negroni, I breathe in the orange scent, and try to calm my nerves. I stare at my cufflink, the Medusa head mocking me, while I process Rafaello’s words.
“Enzo, mi dispiace,” he apologizes.
“I know.”
Rafaello sighs. The creases in his face deepen with sorrow and grief and a heaviness I never detected before. My father’s passing was hard on him; they’d been friends since childhood. But it’s more than that.
I stay silent, waiting Rafaello out.
He looks around slowly, his shrewd eyes assessing. We’re in the back of an old bar I’ve never been, a place where no one would even recognize us. Rafaello is jumpy and jittery, a far cry from the usually collected, confident, assured man I grew up calling zio.
He clears his throat quietly, his fingers tapping against his glass. “He … Benito…” he lowers his voice “…he got to your papa.”
My eyes jump up to his face at that announcement. Still, I bite my tongue, knowing Rafaello has to go at his own pace. I narrow my eyes, hoping he gets to the point a little faster.
“He blackmailed him,” he whispers, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening. Since no one is sitting within five tables of us, I’m fairly certain he’s fine, but still … Benito is a ruthless man, so I understand his concern. Especially if Rafaello is right and Benito was blackmailing Papa. There’s no telling what Benito would do to destroy Rafaello.
My mind races over everything I know regarding Papa’s business ventures, projects, investments, etc. I recall a few snippets from conversations and several documents I saw lying on his desk. Other than that, I don’t know much. In fact, I’m embarrassed and disappointed in myself when I realize how little I do know.
Silently cursing myself, I lean forward in my chair. “What did he have on Papa?”
Rafaello closes his eyes and a pained expression flits across his face. “I’m sorry, Lorenzo.” Another apology.
“Rafaello, whatever you know, please just tell me. I need to fix this for Mama and Claudia.”
He winces at the mention of Mama and it automatically raises my suspicion. What the hell?
Rafaello takes a long sip of his Negroni and clears his throat again. “It was many years ago, you have to understand that. Your papa, he was different then, in a different place in his life.”
“Just tell me.” It comes out more like a growl and a small smile flickers across Rafaello’s face at the anger in my voice, which probably reminds him of Papa.
“Your papa, he met someone a long time ago, on one of his business trips.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, my mind already racing ahead. Where is he going with this?
“It was before he met your mama. He was single at the time. He would never do anything to hurt Elenora,” Rafaello says clearly, his eyes intense, honest and staring directly into mine, demanding I grasp onto the truth in them.
I nod.
“She was a fun and careless woman and after their weekend together, they kept in touch. Her name was Carmela.” Rafaello pauses.
“And?”
“He would see her from time to time, mixing business with pleasure, you know how it goes.”
I nod again, even though I don’t. I’ve never actually had to work to know how to mix business with pleasure. For me, it’s always just been pleasure.
“Two months after your papa met Elenora, Carmela called him and told him that she was pregnant.” Rafaello pauses, letting his words sink in.
In the silence that follows, it’s as if all the air from the bar has been sucked out and I’m underwater, slowly sinking. I have a brother or another sister somewhere? Is Rafaello fucking kidding me?
“Salvatore sent her money to help her with the pregnancy, medical bills, vitamins, those kinds of things. And afterward, well … he helped support her and her son ever since.”
A brother then. I have a brother. Panic grips at me as I realize what this means. There is someone else who can claim Papa’s wealth. Someone else who can manipulate the situation to rip Mama’s security out from under her feet. The eldest Barca male, the rightful heir to the Barca legacy, to the inheritance.
I breathe in sharply as the pieces click into place. I take a gulp of the Negroni, hissing as the Campari hits my throat.
Rafaello nods in relief that I managed to sort the puzzle out.
“So, this Carmela person, has she contacted you? Is that how Benito found out?”
Rafaello shakes his head sadly. “No, Benito knew all along. Right from the beginning. You have to remember how close Salvatore and Benito were; they were truly brothers, Lorenzo. Benito always knew about Carmela. He even helped set up the bank account that would ensure Anthony’s future.”
Anthony. I have a brother named Anthony.
“Carmela,” Rafaello continues, his eyes trained on his Negroni, “she died four years ago. A car accident. By then, Anthony was already of age. He had full access to his trust so it seemed pointless to try and change anything. Benito had set everything up in a way where Anthony never knew who his father was, where the money was coming from, and Carmela preferred it that way. She was scared that Anthony would want to know his father, would want to come to Italy, and would leave her. He’s all she ever really had and she wanted to keep it that way.”
“Wait a minute,” I raise my hand up to halt Rafaello’s story, “Carmela and Anthony … they didn’t live in Italy?”
Rafaello shakes his head. “No. Carmela, she was an American. Anthony was born there. He lives in New York. In Brooklyn.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. He’s got to be fucking with me. Really? I have a brother in New York. Where Mia lives. Of all the fucking places in the world? The universe is really laughing its ass off.
“Okay, so then what happened?”
Rafaello leans back in his chair, a bit more relaxed now that he told me this news and I didn’t fly off the handle, flip out like he obviously expected me to. Jesus, what does that say about me?
“Carmela raised Anthony with your papa’s money. The account was in Carmela’s name with Anthony as a beneficiary, so after her passing he inherited everything and is in pretty good shape, financially speaking.”
I nod, twirling my finger to indicate that he get to the part that matters.
“Once Salvatore was diagnosed, Benito started showing up. Playing the concerned brother role, wanting to mend fences, etc. Salvatore never believed him. When his niceties didn’t earn him a way in, Benito resorted to typical Benito behavior. He told Salvatore that if he didn’t change his will to include him and to give him a role on the board, he would tell Elenora about Carmela. And Anthony.”
I sit up in my chair so fast I give myself a head rush. “Mama doesn’t know?”
Rafaello shakes his head.
“Why? Why didn’t he tell her? He told her everything!” If there was ever a marriage young couples should strive to emulate, it was my parents’. I’ve never once questioned my papa’s loyalty to Mama nor her love for him. Until now. This, this changes everything. How could he not tell her he had another child? A son.
“The timing. Salvatore had just started dating Elenora when Carmela contacted him. He didn’t want to push her away and risk losing her. Things were different back then. Not like today, with young couples living together before they marry. Hell, before they’re even engaged.” He takes a sip of his drink, flicking his hand absently. “Anyway, then Salvatore and Elenora married and he didn’t want to ruin the honeymoon period of their marriage. Once you came along, he figured what was the point? He knew Carmela would never be an interference; she had more than enough money to live however she wished, she had sole custody of Anthony, and she didn’t have to leave America. It was a win-win, so your papa never felt the need to share it with Elenora and upset her. Once Benito began to blackmail him, well, he didn’t want his last days with Elenora to be filled with shame and guilt and fighting. He wanted to love her the way he always did. He hoped that by signing over everything to Benito, Elenora would never find out the truth. You have to understand, Benito promised he would take care of Elenora and you and Claudia the way Salvatore did. He swore to Salvatore that being the beneficiary wouldn’t disrupt or interfere with your lifestyles.”
“He lied.”
“Of course he did,” Rafaello says simply. “I tried to tell Salvatore this. I never trusted Benito. Not even when we were schoolchildren.” He laughs bitterly for a moment, his eyes faraway, perhaps relieving some childhood memory he’d rather forget. “By then, it was too late. Salvatore was grasping onto whatever he could still control. He refused to listen to reason because he didn’t want anything to affect your mama and their last days together. So he chose to believe Benito. And maybe…” Rafaello sighs heavily, draining his Negroni “…maybe he really did believe Benito at that time. They were brothers after all.” He shrugs.
I nod, remembering the heavy heart Papa had when things between him and Benito crumbled. He was devastated. For years, he reached out to Benito, tried to help him, provide support, bring him back into the family fold. I’m not sure exactly what happened to cause Papa to cut ties completely, but I remember the day well. He threw a framed photo of him and Benito against the wall, nicking it slightly as the glass shattered. Mama jumped up, her fist flying to her mouth in shock. And Papa, his shoulders slumped and a single tear trickled down his cheek. “He’s dead to us. I don’t have a brother anymore,” he declared. And no one mentioned Benito in his presence again.
Rafaello’s explanation puts a lot of things, memories from my childhood, scattered moments that stream through my consciousness, into perspective. If only Papa was here to explain it all!
“Now what?” I ask Rafaello.
He shakes his head sadly. “Now, Lorenzo, it’s up to you. Whatever you do with this information, well, it’s your decision.” He stands abruptly. “I have to get going.” He extends his hand to me, and I jump to my feet to shake hands.
“Thank you, Rafaello. Thank you for telling me the truth.”
“I hope it was the right thing to do.”
“It was.”
“We’ll see. Good luck to you, Enzo.” He reaches over and ruffles my hair like he did when I was a boy. “I’ll see you around.”
I nod and watch as Rafaello leaves the bar.
Then I sit back down and order another Negroni.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mia
I click submit, electronically posting two of my assignments to Blackboard before powering my laptop down and leaning back in my desk chair. I prop my toes up on my bed and close my eyes. I’m so confused over Lorenzo and Pete, it’s driving me insane.
I’ve never had two guys like me at the same time. Ever. Well, I don’t know if two guys have ever actually liked me at all! I felt so guilty when I saw Lorenzo yesterday at Angelina’s, as if I did something wrong by kissing Pete. But really, it’s not like we are together or anything. I mean, we’re not anything at all. And Pete, he’s from Connecticut. If things between us escalate, we can still date when I’m back at McShain next semester. I can visit him at college, cheer him on at his baseball games. We can meet up in the city and go on dates over the weekends. I sigh. I am so far out of my comfort zone right now, I don’t even know what to do.
If this was the whole point of the group pact, I’m totally winning.
A knock on my door has me looking up quickly.
“Hey, girl, hey.” Lexi sticks her head around my door and smiles.
“Hi.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Just finished some assignments. You?”
She pushes the door open fully, walking in, and holds up a bottle of wine. She’s wearing a tight pair of gray leggings with a long, oversized olive green sweater and brown boots. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, a few pieces escaping to frame her face. Her green eyes glitter. “Wine time?”
I laugh, glancing at my phone to check the time. “It’s 1:00PM.”
“And 5:00PM somewhere.” She winks. “Come on. You’ve already done your school stuff for the day. Let’s have some fun!” She places the bottle on my
desk and sorts through my closet until she finds a pair of jeans.
She throws them at me. “Get dressed. We need to cross drinking at a public fountain off our Rome bucket list. Especially before it’s winter and too cold for us to enjoy it.”
She tucks the bottle into her shoulder bag and stares at me pointedly.
I groan but get up and slide into the jeans, pulling on a pair of thick wool socks and boots. It feels like winter already. Even though October has just started, it’s unseasonably cold.
Although I grumble as I dress, secretly I’m thrilled. This is the type of fun Emma and Lila were always getting into as Maura and I watched from the sidelines, always too busy with rowing or dance to fully participate. But now, now I might as well live it up.
“I’m ready.”
“You’ll thank me for this.”
“Sure.”
But really, I already am.
* * *
The frosty bite of not-winter stings my cheeks as Lexi and I sit under a fountain in Trastevere. It’s late afternoon and the sun is sinking behind the century’s old but beautifully charming church in front of us. We finished the wine a while ago but the warmth from the strong, bold red still coats our bellies as we people watch.
Students with backpacks and shoulder bags walk home, their hands fumbling to send text messages and make plans for the evening. Old men with graying hair and knotty canes take slow steps, their hands tucked into the crooks of their wives’ arms. The old women all have their hair pulled back, secured into low buns, wool shawls wrapped around their frail shoulders. The business crowd hurries by at a brisk clip, until the smell of espresso beckons them to take a quick pause at a café where they inevitably lose track of time. An entire city swirls around us, bold and bright and beautiful.
“What happened with Pietro?” I ask Lexi.
She shrugs. “We had dinner together a few nights ago.”
“And?” I prompt her.
She sighs. “He’s engaged.”
