His goal, of course, was to see his Italy return to a state of peace and prosperity and for his people to thrive once more. Figuring out how to reach that goal was the issue. First, though, he needed to check on Rachel.
After her hasty exit from the doctor’s the other day, he’d followed her to a nearby house and met this Paolo character—the man purportedly the love of Rachel’s life. When Tomas had first shown up, Paolo had been wary and done a terrible job hiding his jealousy. But Rachel had smoothed things over, promising Paolo there had been no intimate moments with Tomas, who was “one of her brother’s lackeys.” The comment had hurt, though what did Tomas expect? Her illness and the stress of the situation in the mountains wasn’t conducive to them really getting to know each other. Not that he was sure it would ever be a good idea, but that damn cat and curiosity…
It didn’t sit well that he wasn’t following Abato’s instructions to the letter, but he couldn’t hold Rachel against her will. So to offset the lack of the twenty-four-hour guard Abato wanted, Tomas had arranged to visit Rachel every day. She wasn’t happy about it but she had no choice as far as Tomas was concerned.
He arrived at the small house with the black door and knocked. No answer. He’d not been impressed by the dump she was living in with Paolo, but what could he do? Newspapers were piled high, there was a pathetic excuse of a mattress shoved on the floor in the corner, and the place smelled musty. She’d insisted this was where she wanted to be and that it was a palace compared to the hellholes she’d lived in while out in the mountains fighting for the cause. Besides, considering how many places in Palermo were shells of bombed buildings, Paolo’s abode was almost luxurious.
Tomas knocked again, figuring Rachel was napping—something she’d done regularly since the operation.
Nothing.
“Rachel!” he said in a loud whisper, not wanting to alert the neighbors to his presence. He had no idea who lived in this street and in his mind, no one could ever be fully trusted.
He banged louder. Still no answer.
Tomas twisted the doorknob and to his surprise, it opened. Stepping into the dimly lit room he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. The door closed with a click behind him and he lowered his voice. “Rachel, it’s me, Tomas. I’ve brought some medication for you.”
“Go away,” came a muffled voice from the far corner.
“Rachel?” Tomas walked over to where she sat, her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chin. Kneeling next to her, he asked quietly, “Should I get the doctor? Is it your wound?”
“It’s nothing. You need to go. Now.” When she looked up her eyes were full of terror. Her hair was a matted mess and it was stuck to the sides of her face and caked with something dark red…
Oh no.
Gently placing his hand under her chin, he tried to turn her face to get a better look. She yanked her head away and stared at the wall.
“What did he do to you?” He tried to remain calm, even though his body surged with anger.
“Nothing.” She went to bury her head, but Tomas placed his hand under her chin again and gently encouraged her to look at him. This time she didn’t resist. The skin was so swollen her eye looked like a slit, her cheekbone bore a red and purple circle and her bottom lip and forehead had deep cuts.
“Paolo did this?”
She nodded and burst into tears. Collapsing into his arms, her thin body let out all the pain she had shoved into a deep emotional cavern.
Helping Rachel to her feet, he grabbed the ratty blanket and wrapped it around her. “I’m taking you home.”
* * * *
Tomas paced up and down the hallway, fury fueling his footsteps, rage opening and close his fists.
The door to the bedroom clicked open and Nonna raised her finger to her lips. She stepped into the hallway, shut the door behind her and motioned for Tomas to follow her into the kitchen.
They sat at the table and Nonna smoothed down her apron. “She is in a bad way.”
Tomas let out a long breath and lowered his head. “Why did I let her go with him?”
“For the reasons you gave me. You couldn’t force her to do something against her will.”
“But I was supposed to protect her.”
“You did. You rescued her after a severe beating and…” Nonna’s pained expression told him what he’d feared most.
“No.”
“I’m afraid so.”
He jumped to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “I am going to find him and—”
“And do what?” Nonna threw her hands wide. “Kill him?”
“He can’t get away with this.” For the first time ever, he felt capable of killing someone and it scared him. “I’m going to find him.” Tomas grabbed his jacket and gripped it so hard his fingers ached.
“Don’t. Please,” said Rachel. She leant against the doorframe, her hair combed, one side of her face black and blue. When she moved into the kitchen, Rachel looked smaller, like a wounded bird. She sat gingerly. “I am begging you, Tomas, please leave this be.”
“I can’t.” He bunched his jacket in his hands.
“Sit, please.” Her large eyes implored him and he did as she asked. Towering above her like some angry giant would not help anyone. “You have done more than enough and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. However, you have to leave this alone. It’s between Paolo and me.”
“It’s not the first time, is it?”
Rachel bit her lip. A large tear ran down her face.
His heart went out to her. “Your brother doesn’t know about him, does he?”
Rachel studied her clasped hands in her lap. “No.”
“I thought as much, because if your brother did know, Paolo would not be alive today, would he?”
She shook her head.
Tomas tried to keep calm when all he wanted to do was smash his fist through a wall. Or against Paolo’s face. “We can’t let him get away with it. He has to pay.”
“Tomas…”
He looked over at Nonna, who shot him a warning look. He couldn’t push this any further—Rachel would clam up or, worse, she’d hightail it out of Palermo and away from his watch.
“I’m going for a walk.” Tomas stood and strode down the hall.
“Where are you going?” Rachel called behind him.
He didn’t answer.
* * * *
Tomas had stalked the streets of Palermo until the sun dipped behind the horizon and a coolness descended upon the city. With every pounding footstep, the violent feelings grew, leaving him disturbed that someone could elicit such a strong reaction.
Rounding the corner, he arrived at Piazza Canzone. Now blanketed in darkness, the square remained quiet except for the fountain where water trickled down the worn stone and pooled in a green stench at the base. What had once been a place of beauty now had a sinister and dark feel—so unlike when he was a child and the residents would promenade of an evening, dressed in their finest as they stopped to chat with friends and family. That seemed like a lifetime ago. These memories needed to be nudged to the side as they served no purpose other than to dishearten his hope for a future that wasn’t draped in destitution and war.
“We need hope,” Tomas muttered as he looked down at the feet that had taken him across town and into his old neighborhood.
“I heard you were back in Palermo.”
Tomas looked up to discover the owner of the voice was a man with sandy hair and toothy grin. Tomas couldn’t contain his happiness. “Well if my eyes don’t deceive me, I would say Donato Moretti is standing right in front of me!”
“Your eyes are correct!” Tomas’s old school friend pulled him into an embrace, then slapped him on the back. “My god, it’s been forever! What brings you here?”
“My legs needed a stretch.”
“I also needed the fresh air,” said Tomas. “How did you hear I was back in town?”
“The good old grapevine.” He raised an eyebrow, but it only confused Tomas.
“I don’t understand.”
Donato leant in close. “Abato.”
“Ab… How?”
“We’re all in this together.”
“You’re…?” Tomas looked around the empty square. “I never knew.”
“There are many of us. In fact”—Donato slung his arm around Tomas’s shoulder—“I’m off to a meeting now. Why don’t you come along?”
The last place Tomas wanted to be was at a meeting that could attract the attention of Mussolini’s men. Painful memories crashed in on Tomas of the last few moments he’d spent with his nonno at the Jewish meeting. Surely bloodshed like that couldn’t happen again. It just couldn’t…but it just…might.
“I don’t think I should go,” he said.
“Why not?” asked Donato.
“They don’t know me.”
“They know me very well. If I vouch for you, that’s all they need.”
Maybe if Tomas went to the meeting, it would help him figure out his next step. Fear gripped his insides.
“So is your silence a yes?” pushed Donato.
“It’s…” He needed to find a way to extract himself from Abato, as slaughtering young, terrified Italian soldiers was inhumane. There had to be a better way. Perhaps the answer was at this meeting. “How did you hear from Abato? I’ve been waiting on a communication but haven’t heard a thing.”
“Networks, my friend, networks. Abato’s a loose cannon—that we know—but he’s valuable. His fearlessness gets the job done, though every so often we have to rein him in.” Donato motioned for them to start walking. Tomas followed, his legs having already made the decision even though his head and heart weren’t sure.
“No doubt you’ve heard about his sister,” said Tomas.
“Only briefly. I heard you got her back here. Abato made sure he got that detail. He also heard the book was eventually delivered.”
“Was the story on the front page of the newspaper?” He couldn’t help the sarcasm and luckily his friend laughed.
“Look, I’m the first to admit there are massive communication leaks and gaps that need plugging, but what can we expect? We’re not organized like an army and there are major egos getting in the way of us all working together. Yet every so often news travels like wildfire.” Donato let out a short laugh. “Do not look so concerned. She’s alive, right?”
“Yes.” Tomas tried to block out the state he’d found her in only a few hours earlier.
“So all is good and you and she will return to her duties in no time. When do you head back out?”
“I don’t really know.” He had so many decisions to make and none of them appeared easy.
“Well, this evening you come to the meeting with me. You just never know what will happen, especially now the Allies have arrived. Tonight, the future may change right before our eyes.”
Chapter 16
Rosie sat in the kitchen with her father and passed him the specially designed spoon. Through trial and error, she’d finally come up with a design that could make his life easier now that he had to adjust to being left-handed—if he’d give the spoon a proper try. Instead, he looked with suspicion at the specially designed utensil in his hand.
“It’s just a matter of practice, Dad.”
“I can’t do it.” His dejected tone broke her heart.
“Please, just try.”
“I can’t do it!” He dropped the spoon and it clattered against the table.
“Time is all we need.”
“I don’t have time. Neither do you.” He tucked his left foot under his crippled right leg to move it into a more comfortable position. That small maneuver gave Rosie hope.
“You’re doing great, Dad.”
“Nonsense,” he grumbled.
“Maybe I need to make some adjustments to the handle.” She picked up a glass of water and sipped it slowly.
“What is it?” he asked.
Taking the time to put the glass down, Rosie sat back on the chair and fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “I’ve been trying to put this off…”
“Put what off?”
“I’m managing to pay the workers their wages but we should have paid them the extra they’re owed by now.” Recalling the last conversation with Sefa, she said, “There have been rumblings—”
“We don’t have the money.” Her father looked down at his crippled hand and shook his head. “I may be asset rich but I am cash poor. Bloody Bartel took a sizeable chunk.” Her father rubbed his chin. She wondered if he had realized he’d sworn.
“What are we going to do, then?”
“I don’t know.” With his good hand, he reached for the glass of water but he lost his grip and it fell and smashed to the floor. “Damn it!”
“It’s all right.” She knelt on the floor and used a towel to clean it up. “I’ll get you another one.”
“I don’t want another one. I want to be out of this damn chair and running this damn farm!” He slammed his left fist against the armrest. A moment later his face scrunched and he covered it with his hand.
Rosie went to him. “I’m sorry, Dad. I wish I could change things.”
He looked up, his eyes glassy but no tears had been shed. Not that she expected to see them as she’d never seen her father cry, not even at Geoffrey’s funeral.
“You can’t change things, Rosie, but you have made them easier. What you have done…running this place and making sure the workers do their job, and trying to find ways for me to do everyday things…I’m ashamed to say I have not given you enough credit.”
Tears welled up and she tried to force them back, but a solitary one slid down her cheek.
Her father looked at the offending droplet and said, “You are still way too emotional.”
“It’s who I am,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “So, is this a thank you?”
He nodded, then closed his eyes, and that was the end of the conversation.
* * * *
Rosie adjusted the basket on her elbow as she walked swiftly down the main street. Once again, she had to squeeze in a trip to town to collect essential supplies because her mother wasn’t fit enough to drive. Her mother’s not-so-secret boozing concerned Rosie immensely, but between looking after her father, running Tulpil, and trying to figure out how to bring in more money, she barely had a moment to scratch herself. Add the continual cycle of kicking herself over Tomas, and Rosie’s days were chock full.
Tomas’s words had hurt. And as much as she wanted to erase their last conversation from memory, she couldn’t let it go. His easy manner and familiarity had led her to believe that she could be honest, though apparently honesty was not something Tomas could handle. She didn’t know his countrymen well enough to gauge whether this was a cultural difference or just one of Tomas’s idiosyncrasies. Either way, it had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Rosie opened the car door, placed the basket on the passenger seat, and was walking around to the driver’s side when she stopped, having spotted Luka Abrami. His cheeks were rosier, his back straighter, and his eyes held a cheeky glint when he approached her and tipped his hat.
“Rosie!” Luka clasped his rough hands around hers, his large eyes saying more than his limited English could.
“I’m glad to see you out and about and looking healthy. I’m sorry those brutes were so horrendous in their behavior.”
He may not have grasped her every word but he seemed to get the gist. “Famiglia di Conti very nice.”
“Famiglia? Family?”
He nodded and smiled.
“Festa, yes? Satiday?”
“Sorry?”
“Festa casa di Conti. Satiday. You come? For grazie help me? Two time?” His broad smile made her want to accept the invitation instantly, but she couldn’t now that she’d managed to offend Tomas. Her heart sank. She needed to make things right between them. If only she knew how.
“I would love to go with you, Luka”—and she meant every word—“but I just can’t. It’s a very kind invitation, though. And please, you can stop thanking me. I’m glad I was able to help when you’ve needed it.”
Luka nodded, but she had no idea if he fully understood even though she’d spoken slowly and enunciated properly. It would be so nice to have a few Italian words up her sleeve.
“Grazie help.” He grinned, tipped his hat and took off at a pace much quicker than most men his age could handle.
A laugh escaped her lips at Luka getting the last word in. Rosie adjusted the basket on her arm. A shiver ran up her spine, as if an unwelcome presence was in her midst. She turned around.
Bloody hell.
“You can’t babysit that dago forever.” Ken towered above her. She resisted the urge to step away.
“Leave him alone.” Her calm voice didn’t reflect the turmoil surging within.
“I don’t like you talking to those I-tai’s.”
“And I don’t like you talking to me in this manner.” She glanced around for Ken’s cronies but it was only him. Clutching the keys to the ute, she said, “I have to go.”
“What’s the hurry?” He moved in front, blocking her path. She stepped to the side and he did the same.
“For god’s sake, Ken! Let me pass!”
“Or?” His breath reeked of rum. He’d already been drinking? The pub had only opened an hour ago.
“Or I won’t get my work finished.” Ken moved in on her and she pushed him in the chest with her one free hand. “Stop!”
A loud, throaty laugh tumbled through the air. “Your work?”
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