Leonardo Bianchi wrote in a neat, precise manner. He always used the same black pen, his writing filling every line on the notebook. Instead of making paragraphs, he would make a vertical dash between sentences, Paula felt, feeling the flow of writing. She tried to return the book to Megan, who waved her off. “You read it first. If there’s anything about me, let me know.”
Paula frowned, but let her aunt be. The day had been stressful. Snapping the journal shut, she said, “Let’s order some room service.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Megan chimed, “After you book tickets to home.”
Paula huffed, “Yes, we will go back ASAP.” She picked up the phone, and from the list of pasted numbers dialed the kitchen. Instead of looking at the menu, she asked the staff member what the chef was recommended for that day. Soon, two servings of slow-braised beef steaks with pappardelle were brought up with premium red wine, followed by a coffee ice-cream for dessert.
Once the meal was done, and the dishes taken away, Paula plugged in her earphones and meditated while sitting on her bed for half an hour, focusing on her breathing and clearing her mind of any irrelevant thoughts, destressing herself. Megan, meanwhile, copied her for around ten minutes, before deciding to switch on the 40-inch LED smart TV and began to browse the stations.
Meditation was something Paula did daily to declutter her life. Sometimes she used guided audio, sometimes she just listened to subliminal music. From ten minutes to a full hour, she had been meditating for a better part of her life to stay functional, as she would rarely get a good night’s sleep.
When she was finished, she took a warm shower, brushed her teeth with her electric toothbrush, and followed it up with floss. Nothing was more important than taking care of health to her; Paula knew that somethings could never be bought or regained if lost. Emerging from the bathroom in a comfortable bathrobe, courtesy of the hotel, steam wafting off her skin, Paula dried her hair off and lied down on her bed, her grandfather’s journal in hand, and turned on the bedside the lamp.
Opening the pages, Paula began to read the first one she found in English, which greeted the descendants of the Bianchi family in a language Leonardo wrote he knew they would understand if his hope of them understanding Italian was not met.
Although not entirely fluent, Paula was captivated by the writing, knowing who wrote it; her grandfather, a connection she had never imagined she would have, regained through one man’s brilliant foresight.
Greetings to the rightful new owner of this journal. It is a pleasure to introduce myself to you. I am Leonardo Bianchi, the fifth head of the Bianchi family.
The future of my family is uncertain, so now I write about its legacy, without censoring myself. What I had once envisioned my family can never be any more, except a minority of individuals who I hold dear in my heart, and some I keep only in my heart because never have I seen them. I have never been a part of their life, for their protection as much as my own. Nevertheless, I am proud of who they are if they are proud of themselves. Heresy though it might be, I have little care for how religious they are, or what way they lead their lives in so long as their actions are honorable in the eye of their own conscience.
Paula’s breath hitched. Her first reaction had to been to think of her ancestors as nothing but mobsters when Megan had first informed her about them, but now, feeling the tenderness of the words, she couldn’t help but feel the desire to return her grandfathers’ affection. With trembling hands and eyes that were slowly becoming misty, she continued reading.
Leonardo Bianchi was a man that believed that no action in the world was neutral and that for everything saved, it was another thing ruined. His worldview came across strongly from his words.
‘So long as there are victims of the law, there is justice to be dealt to the law.’
Paula was entranced, reading the origins of the Bianchi family as her grandfather narrated the inadequacy of courts and police in the judicial system, as well as the threat of mafias of neighboring regions, each acting as an independent gang with its own territory.
Leonardo Bianchi stood up where others wouldn’t, protecting the people he would call his own. It was a catch 22: to maintain law and order on the streets, his men and women would break it. While Paula was reading an astonishing account of him fighting against drug lords trying to invade his territory by giving free samples to the orphans and the homeless, Megan had drifted off to sleep, snoring slightly.
Unable to ignore her aunt as Paula paused her reading to do some stretches, she tucked her aunt in, switched off the TV and then returned to reading the journal, deciding to read the entry about Gianluca, an orphan Leonardo had rescued and decided to take under his own wing. While her own father had yet to be mentioned, Paula was now introduced to a boy who Bianchi wrote about as if he was writing about a son.
He looked starved but well dressed. Blond hair like fields of wheat, and tenacious, hazel eyes. What attracted me was that during the disagreement between mine and Lorenzo’s men, he had been caught stealing from a nearby bakery. His theft turned into my purchase when I discovered he had taken the cheapest loaf possible, and only taken what he needed. I will call a thief a thief, but this young man had honor.
Paula hungrily read through the pages, enchanted by the young man’s tale. Her mind whirled at the genius that was Gianluca, growing up from a destitute child to a teenager that was Leonardo’s right-hand man, handling his legitimate businesses, keeping his enemies at bay, while making contacts within the police and other organizations.
Was the journal fact or fiction? Paula opened her phone, typing in Gianluca Bianchi in the search bar. To her shock, the man was slightly famous, although notorious for his privacy among the gossip rags just like Paula Lindsay was. Nonetheless, she found a rare picture of him.
He was a lithe man with blond hair, photographed as he was entering a restaurant, dressed in an aqua-blue three-piece suit with brown shoes. His face not nothing special but he was properly groomed. What stood out were his piercing, apathetic eyes. Paula felt that the man would not have batted an eye had the person photographing him had dropped dead at that very moment.
Was this what had become of the boy Leonardo wrote about? Paula switched between the journal and photo, unable to reconcile that person she was seeing was the same one she had been reading about. Deciding that she had read enough of the journal for the day, Paula put it away.
Getting up, she slid out of the hotel’s bathrobe and put on a plain white t-shirt with matching pajamas, highly simple and highly comfortable. Paula put on her sleeping mask, turned off the lamp, and went to sleep.
• • •
She was dreaming, in a different location than ever before, the young woman mused. Paula always had this question, of how she seemed to dream of real places without ever having truly visited them. Usually, she had only seen them in passing, or on the news, but no place she had no idea of before. The atmosphere made it seem like she was in Europe; was she in Italy, perhaps? She had no clue.
This time she was on top of the roof a house, overlooking a narrow, cobblestoned street. The sky was blue, nearing dawn, with lamps providing the only illumination. To her left was an outline of a vast city, lights flickering like stars within its urban architecture. To her right was darkness, the street leading into a village that gave a feeling of abandonment, before the row of lamps ended, faded into nothing.
It was a beautiful night within her dream realm, with a cool breeze that ran its fingers through her hair. But it was suspiciously void of people, or of any impending incidents that could be happening.
What was she supposed to do, lucid in her peaceful dream? Should Paula walk to the city, or explore the village she was in? Paula willed her imagination, and took a step towards the street, and then another, her foot hanging off the edge. Taking a deep breath, before taking a literal leap of faith.
Instead of fallin
g, the young woman commanded the dream, ridding herself of gravity and floated down to the ground ten feet below, light as a feather.
“Oh yeah,” Paula pumped her fist, smiling to herself. “I can use this chance to practice my power more.” Before she could continue, however, the sound of footsteps sounded from the darkness. She whirled her head, looking to her right, as a well-polished leather shoe came into the light, followed by the silhouette of a man.
Paula’s watched with goggled eyes as he fully stepped into the light, looking at her with a chilling, apathetic gaze.
“Ms. Lindsay!” Gianluca greeted in a light voice. “What a surprise to see you here.”
6.
Wolf (I)
He was never fond of winter. Growing up, he had heard a tale of a little girl who tried to keep herself warm with the matchsticks she used to sell, until one night, she caught fire by her wares.
Winter was unforgiving. He couldn’t sleep on the floors or on benches, the wind would cut through his bones and the clean water which he could get his small hands on would parch his throat, and settle like ice in his stomach, sapping his internal warmth.
Rome hustled and bustled, and no one spared a glance to the ugliness wrought by roadside orphans of immigrants and the poor.
The Bianchi Familia was famous among his types, for putting a roof over your head and clothes on your back if you became a part of their family and swore their oaths. To him, it was no different than being a servant of any other organization. Mold your morals to theirs, and the world is yours.
Walking down the street with only a stone he was kicking along for company, he glanced through a baker’s window. Beyond his malnourished face framed with grimy blond hair, his blue eyes fixed onto a burnt, stale loaf of bread. Useless for the customers, surely going to be discarded at the end of the day.
But the shopkeepers were extra vigilant nowadays, due to an increase in theft. Some people were hooked on some poorly thought reprieve from their inherently depressing station in life, which left them a craving that could only be satisfied by having more. More money to buy more of the stuff to stuff themselves with.
Money was all the world about. A priest had once told him that if he was good, and did good unto others, he will get into Heaven, where there is no pain, no tragedy. He asked if there would be food in heaven; he was always starving. The priest smiled, his teeth filled with gold, and said yes.
Now, he made the simple choice of stealing the bread and asking forgiveness later. All he had to do was ask, and God would forgive him. He sneaked into the shop as another customer walked in, knowing he had no way to enter if the pudgy man behind the counter took one look at the state he was in: an orphan in rags and no money.
The pudgy man was catering to the only customer in the story, while another old lady was using a broom to clean up near the loaves of bread. It took a small distraction of flinging a little rock at the doorbell, jingling as if another customer had come in to distract her, snatch the soon to be disposed of loaf, and upon hearing the male owner shout, get the hell out of dodge.
He didn’t know he would run into a superbly dressed mafia head, ramming into the man that appeared out of nowhere with the grace of an assassin. The man gazed down at him with hawk-like, black eyes.
“Thief!” shouted the baker, running after him, his white uniform hindering his already slow gait. The gentleman he had run into, suited up in black with a grey muffler unwrapped it from his neck, throwing it over the boy.
“Thief? Is it thievery if he makes a purchase?”
“What purchase?” spluttered the baker.
“How much for it?” the man gestured towards the loaf, which was visibly burnt on one side. It was incapable of being sold to anyone. The baker spluttered for a moment, before quoting the full price.
The boy thought it was unfair and was going to give the baker a few choice words, but the gentleman paid without questioning. The unscrupulous baker left, leaving just the two of them.
“Why did you pay him the full price?” the boy asked, furious. There were no free things in life. This man definitely wanted something from him.
“Indeed, why did you not take a loaf worth the full price?” the gentleman questioned back.
“Because it was going to be thrown in the trash. Happens every day, what’s the harm if I took it when it was still hot?”
“What’s your name, boy?” the gentleman gave him a curious glance. The boy felt like he was in the presence of a hunter, who had looked at him and dismissed any threat he posed as trivial.
The boy had a name but never liked to be called by it. It reminded him of the orphanage, and anything was better than the orphanage, a monument to his parents abandoning him. He’d been called by many nicknames, but nothing particularly stuck. He wasn’t the type to get attached to anything.
The orphanage he had been dropped at had no idea what his parents wanted to name him, so they went randomly, and he loathed to be called by that name.
“I don’t know,” the boy said at last.
“How old are you?”
“Does it matter?”
The gentleman cracked a small smile. No, there was no need to ask the age of someone already forced to grow up. “Very well, I will answer your question. I paid the full price not because I wanted to satisfy him, but because I wanted to talk to you.”
“To me?” He knew. He just knew there was going to be a catch. Grabbing the silk muffler which he had been given, the orphan tossed it to the ground. “What the hell do you want?”
The outburst did not phase the gentleman. “I want to welcome you to my family if you are willing to come.”
The boy was not amused. “Listen here, old man, I don’t give a shit about your family or its ideals. These are all cults anyway, religion or some other crazy ideas everyone worships. You paid for the bread, I’ll return the favor someday if I can, and that’s all. I don’t want any part of the hell your lot gets into.”
The way he spoke was beyond his years, but he did not know who he was talking to. Leonardo Bianchi had not gotten to where he was by merely accepting ‘no’ as an answer. “You have honor. You could have stolen proper bread, but you only took what you needed, and that man did not need it. With this, I already consider you my family. Should you ever require help, come find me, Leonardo Bianchi, my nameless friend.”
The orphan was stunned. Was the boy being welcomed because he already had the traits this man desired in his followers, and not because he needed another lackey? “What do you mean?” he asked.
“You don’t need to change who you are to be a part of my family. I have a feeling you’ll fit right in.” Turning around, Leonardo began to walk away.
He looked at the man’s retreating back, thinking about the things he had done, and things he would do. He lived on the edge of death with each passing day. The older he grew, the less support he drew from the people around him. He did not have any means of going to school. Sooner or later, he would have to find a job, but in this place, the only way to get hired was to sign away your freedom and conscience.
“Wait!” he said, and the man stopped at once. Almost as if he had been suspecting it. “I’ll come with you.”
“Good. You will need a name, my friend,” said Leonardo. The young boy opened his mouth, but he hushed him, raising his hand. “No, no, take some time to thing. And bring that with you,” he pointed to the muffler lying on the ground, “It’s yours now.”
He had been told to think over his name, but at the end of the day, before the sun had even set, he had found one.
On that day, the boy became Gianluca Bianchi. He was welcomed with open arms into the family and began to received tutelage from Leonardo’s most trusted instructors.
“If you have been given an opportunity, use it to the fullest.” Leonardo had told him. Gianluca took the words to heart and put in extra hou
rs in everywhere. From math to English to business, he began to slowly but surely excel in all of his subjects. He would later learn that primary education was given to all members, but after seeing Gianluca’s potential Leonardo decided to save in case he wanted to go to university.
Gianluca, of course, had no such intentions. Leonardo had done a lot for him, but so had he done a lot for Leonardo. Their relationship was nothing more than symbiosis.
The people he hung around with had no idea of what ordinary people were like, and Leonardo had hellish expectations. Gianluca was young and felt the need to prove himself for all the resources and comfort his life was suddenly filled with.
He would get little sleep and spend more time with books to impress his tutors, and in turn, Leonardo. The more pressure Leonardo would put on him. Aside from a few times a month, they rarely met.
He began to develop a reputation as Leonardo’s protégé. Gianluca felt the weight of expectations on his shoulder increase, and not just due to Leonardo. He became friends with members of the family, not really connecting with them, none of them had been picked up from the street like he had been, or could relate with his background, but he tried to fit in.
Gianluca did not have anything against these people. Until the day he was given his first gun by Leonardo, that was.
“Honor demands sacrifice. I wish the world could be fixed by pretty words alone, but the reality is different.”
“Why do I even need this?” Gianluca examined the pistol. It was a Glock. “I thought I was going to be on the legitimate end, away from all the fighting.”
“You don’t want to fight, and neither do I. But the fight will come to you.”
If only he could stop picking a fight with every segment of society, he found fault with, maybe he wouldn’t have to face all these fights, Gianluca thought but kept it to himself.
Leonardo was too ambitious for his own good. Gianluca learned to deal with the law enforcement agencies and other gangs eventually to mitigate his drive. With his reputation as Leonardo’s right-hand man, people started to come after him as well, and they kept coming.
The Family Secret Page 15
