“What?” I asked.
“Alex,” he said—and the name cut right through me—“my father met with Giovanni LoPresti today. Giovanni told him that your family is trying to buy our factory and start distribution in the U.S. That it is your family behind the low offers and now the damage to the machines with the bacteria.”
“But, Carlo—” I pleaded. My mind was numb and I felt as if I were underwater, trying desperately to reach the surface, to survive, to breathe. Stunned, I could only stare at his cold, implacable face. How could this be happening?
“You betrayed me, Alex,” Carlo said, almost spitting out the words. “I became vulnerable to you. I let down my guard. And this is how you repaid me. You were here in Positano for a reason and you lied to me.”
Chills swept over me. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I burst into tears. “No, Carlo! It isn’t true! My family…no one is involved in the limoncello factory! I swear it! And, honestly, I was going to tell you that my father is really trying to—”
In shock, I saw Carlo’s face harden. He held up his hand, palm facing me. “Don’t say any more. Giovanni told my father you would deny it. Your family lived too many years in Italy to not know how things work here, in the businesses. First the threats and intimidation and then the organized crime moves in. And your father and the knowing of the Italian language and working with the winery. My father was already questioning why you wanted the tour of our factory and then you take the pictures for your father as his spy. It is too perfect.”
What could I say to him? Gulping for air, I clenched my hands into fists, trying to think clearly. What if I told him what I’d overheard today? Would he even listen?
“Carlo, I swear to you. I heard the scugnizzi talking about Giovanni wanting to move to the next level and they said he wanted to be an important man,” I said, my words coming in bursts between sobs. “He’s a criminal! He’s going to be a capo! He’s Sacra Lista!” I protested. “That’s why he told you those things. They’re not true!”
“How convenient you overheard that conversation,” Carlo said, his voice cold as ice, his eyes frigid and his face impassive. “You remember how important my business is. I want to believe you”—and here, his voice broke, and he looked down at the ground. When he looked back up at me, I saw unshed tears glistening in his eyes—“but, too many things have fallen into place. My father warned me that we cannot trust anyone about our factory business, but I did not want to listen.”
Carlo turned again to look out to sea. I wanted desperately to put my arms around him. In shock, I realized now why Giovanni and Signor LoPresti had been so interested in my father’s work. It had nothing to do with Dad investigating the Camorra; it was because they were using me as a set-up, a smokescreen for the Sacra Lista’s bid to take over Bertolucci Limoncello. What was I going to do? Would Carlo ever believe me?
“Carlo, please, I have to tell you—“ I began.
Carlo folded his arms and shook his head. “I will not listen to your lies any more. I will take you home now, Alex,” he said coldly. “I hope your family’s winery is a success. But you will not buy us out. We will fix this.”
It was agony to put my arms around him again, but I had to, just to hang on while we rode on the Vespa. My life was over. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
His back felt as hard and as unyielding as the conversation that had just passed between us. I had had a brief glimpse of tears in his eyes but now those tears, too, seemed unreal.
I tried desperately to keep some semblance of distance between us, but every time the Vespa zoomed around a corner, I was flung against Carlo’s back, and I had to fight the impulse to cling to him. He didn’t want to have anything to do with me now, and feeling my tears on his shirt would only make him even more furious.
We finally arrived at the apartment. Carlo didn’t even turn off the engine. Without a word, he held out his hand for the helmet. He looked at me with those eyes again. “Goodbye, Alex,” he said in English.
Then, before I could answer, he revved the Vespa and zoomed off, without a backwards glance.
I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. To gather some kind of calm before I had to face the Cowans, I leaned against the sun-warmed plaster wall. Carlo, Carlo, Carlo, I moaned silently. I’d let my guard down and I had let Italy become part of my heart again. Now I was accused of betrayal, even though it was I who had been betrayed—betrayed by Italy and its network of organized crime, but most of all, betrayed by my own self for not being honest. How I wished with all my heart that I had told Carlo about Dad earlier. This disaster would have been avoided. Tears filled my eyes, and I tried to hide my face from people walking by, fumbling in my bag in an attempt to find my keys.
Get it together, I scolded myself. I had to put on a brave face for the Cowans. I didn’t want them to think that their super-nanny had gotten herself involved in something ugly. We had only two weeks left. I wondered if I could leave Italy early. I felt dismally that I didn’t belong anywhere, that I didn’t fit in with anyone, and that I was on a long and lonely path, all by myself. Truly, now I had no place to call my home. The U.S. had never been my home, and I saw that Italy truly had been—that is, until now.
Then, as I thought of what Giovanni had told the Bertoluccis—the accusation that I had deliberately and coldly betrayed Carlo, and the lies about my father’s sabotage—I was filled with fury. I wanted nothing more than to confront Giovanni. Imagining myself storming into the restaurant, confronting him in anger, watching him try to recover quickly and backpedal with his oh-so-charming manner gave me a small lift of hope. But then I shuddered a little, thinking of what the Sacra Lista did to people. I wondered if I had the courage to actually face Giovanni and tell him what I thought of him. The Sacra Lista and The System were formidable enemies. They routinely killed people without remorse, without compunction. Carlo’s words echoed in my mind, “Remember, in Italy, some people think of the truth as that which gets you something.”
A deep anger at Giovanni simmered within me, threatening to come to a boil. After I had decided to be completely honest with Carlo, I wasn’t going to let Giovanni get away with telling lies about me. After a few minutes, I managed to calm my breathing, stop my tears, and take a ragged breath. Even if I managed to confront Giovanni successfully, I didn’t know if Carlo would agree to see me again, and if he did, whether I could make him believe me. I remembered his cold and distant face, and knew the answer. Unless I could prove, somehow, that Dad and Ralf were not behind the sabotage and the low-priced offers, Carlo wouldn’t believe anything I had to say to him. Giovanni and his father had been very clever, and I had been very stupid.
Now, though, I had to get off the street before any more people walked by me, saw my distraught condition and murmured, “Poverina,”— poor little girl, with an expression of genuine sympathy that you would never see on an American street; Americans would just avert their eyes. That didn’t happen in Italy. I was dreading having to face the Cowans. If you ever wanted to put on a show, Alex, I told myself, this was the time.
Slowly, I walked up the stairs, making up a story that would forestall any questions they might have about Carlo. Carlo—his name caught in my throat along with the tears. This was the inevitable result of allowing myself to become Italian again, to merge, blend, and relax into the Italian landscape. I had been lulled by the beauty of Positano and tempted into a relationship with a gorgeous guy. Italia, for me, was nothing but hurt and heartbreak. I was so stupid, I scolded myself. If only I had known better than to let my heart rule my head.
Standing in front of the apartment door, I lifted my chin, put my shoulders back, and pasted a smile on my face. Hopefully, it wouldn’t look too fake.
“Hi!” I said cheerfully, stepping into the living room. Nicole and Phil looked up from their reading, and Carrie looked up from the computer.
“Hi,” Nicol
e said, looking surprised. “We thought you’d be gone through dinner.”
“Well,” I said, trying to sound positive, which was the very last thing I felt, “Carlo’s business is in a bit of trouble right now and he has to work on that.”
“So you won’t be seeing him for a while?” Carrie asked. Even she looked concerned. Her twelve-year-old emotions had been tweaked by the romance of the story, the dinner dates, and the roses. I held back a sigh. So had my emotions. More than tweaked—overcome.
“No, I guess not,” I said. “You know how Carlo is so focused on business.” In fact, so focused on business that it took precedence over anything else, including the truth.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Phil said. “He was a nice young man.”
“Yes, he was,” Nicole affirmed.
They used the past tense, I noticed, which seemed only to cement my agony about what had just happened.
We took a shuttle up to the top of Positano for dinner, above the Nastro Azzurro, to another restaurant that our landlord had recommended. We zipped right past the turnout where Carlo had taken me earlier, and, unbidden, tears filled my eyes again.
Dinner was filled with talk of Saracens and Greeks and Normans, so, fortunately, all I was required to do was nod and agree and, every now and then, say, “Really?” Carrie was plugged into her iPhone. Honestly, I didn’t know why Phil and Nicole let her get away with it so often, but then, conversation was much more pleasant for them when she was occupied and not complaining about everything; although, I had noticed her complaint level had dropped in the last couple of weeks. The magic of Italy had worked, even on Carrie, the unrepentant tweenager.
The lights of Positano winked up at me, the moon’s glow shimmered across the flat expanse of the bay. It was a beautifully romantic night, which brought to mind my enchanted evening with Carlo. Tears came to my eyes again. Somewhere down there Carlo was thinking badly of me, thinking I had betrayed him. I could hardly bear the pain that stabbed through me at the thought. Devastated, I clenched my hands into fists in my lap and tried to control my emotions.
That evening, as soon as I turned out the light and slipped between the sheets, tears again began to roll down my cheeks and onto the pillow. Biting my tongue, I fought the sobs back, knowing Carrie would be all over me with questions, if she heard anything. My pain was private, my agony was real, and I didn’t know what I could do about it. Hours seemed to drag by until I finally fell asleep just before dawn, tormented by dreams of Carlo. Even sleep offered no rest from my deep sadness.
It was early morning when I woke, and Carrie was still deeply asleep. In the mirror, I saw red, puffy eyes and quickly went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face before anyone else woke up. Now, I would be counting the days down to my departure from Italy for a very different reason. It was time to turn my attention to America, to regroup and arm myself, so to speak, for the battle ahead—Sonoma. I’d email Morgan again, mentioning how much I missed all of them and the good old U.S. I shut my eyes for a moment. Then, I’d get back into my journal, writing as Alex, of course; although, I choked back a sob, I did not feel like Alex, not in the least. My emotions that tugged and pulled at me were telling me I was Alessandra.
Getting dressed quietly, I went into the living room. Phil was already up, drinking a cafe latte on the balcony.
“Well, good morning, Alessandra,” he said, smiling.
I forced a smile. “Hi,” I said.
“You’re up early,” Phil remarked. “Getting a little more rest without a boyfriend and all the late nights that go along with that?” he said. Then, as if he remembered what had happened, he quickly said, “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
I smiled, certain that I must look like a death’s mask. “No problem. Things happen,” I said. Grabbing the Bialetti, I poured myself a coffee and added a little milk. “Do you mind if I use the computer?”
“No, go right ahead,” Phil said.
Mom, Dad, and Sarah, another friend from Sonoma, had sent emails; none, however, from Morgan and none from Carlo. Clearing my throat, I answered them all.
Then, taking a deep breath, I wrote a cheery email to Morgan: Hi from Italy! It’s fun here, but I can’t wait to get back and see you and everyone. I hope you had a great time in Tahoe and I’m sure sorry I missed it. I’ll text you when I get back in two weeks. Heart, Alex. I stared at the words and thought how false they were. False—just like Carlo thought I was. Clicking send, I turned off the computer with a sigh.
After everyone else woke up and we discussed the day’s activities—a possible walk for Carrie and me, and work for Nicole and Phil—I sat on the balcony, reading and writing in my journal, trying not to listen to the Italian on the street below me. What was Giovanni going to do in the Sacra Lista? How could he have suggested that my father was involved in the Bertolucci factory buy-out, and that I was part of the conspiracy? Anger filled me once again at the injustice of his lies. I felt a growing rage at the betrayal and the ugliness of it all. I balled my hands involuntarily into fists. It just wasn’t fair—and I didn’t know what I could do about it. As I tried to take a deep breath and relax into my chair, I realized my teeth were clenched, my muscles tight. I realized that I would have to handle this problem with Giovanni or it would haunt me forever.
“I’m bored,” Carrie called from the computer. “Want to go on a walk?”
“Sure,” I said. We’d been going on long walks every other day or so. Carrie loved looking at the Italian guys and, until now, I had loved soaking up the Italian atmosphere; the sights, sounds, and smells—everything that I knew would be lost to me once I went back to the U.S. Now, I simply felt tired of it all and longed for the day that the plane would whisk me away forever.
“Oh, wait!” Carrie exclaimed from the computer. “I just got an email from Ben!” She sounded excited and I had to smile, in spite of myself. “They’re leaving late today and want to meet us for lunch. Can we, Dad?”
“Sure,” Phil said.
“How about the delicatessen, down by La Spiaggia Grande?” I said. “The guy will fix us panini and we can eat them at the piazzola on the way to Il Torre Clavel.”
“Great!” Carrie said, bouncing up and down in excitement. Her fingers clicked a happy response over the keyboard.
“Ready to go?” Carrie asked me, after jumping up from the desk.
“Uh-huh,” I replied, looking up from my journal. I put my journal back in my bedroom drawer and grabbed my shoes from the wardrobe. Carrie probably had a lot of questions for me, questions about Carlo that she probably guessed I didn’t want to answer. She had kept her questions to herself, so far anyway. I wondered whether she was finally growing up a little. At least one of us was blooming in the warm Italian sun.
Shouldering my bag and grabbing a bottle of water, I opened the door for Carrie and felt the warmth of Italy wrap itself around me. The sun was bright, the pedestrians chattered on the street in their musical Italian, the purple and red bougainvillea climbed the ancient walls, and the geraniums and rosemary bloomed in window boxes. Carlo, Carlo, I thought. I drew a ragged breath and brushed tears from my eyes before Carrie could see.
We began our walk the usual way, down Via Vicolo Vito Savino toward the LoPrestis’ restaurant, where everything was closed and shuttered at this early hour.
Carrie glanced over at the restaurant and sighed a little. I snorted.
“What?” she demanded, scuffing her shoes on the pavement.
“He is just trouble,” I said, deciding to leave it there.
Actually, I wanted to kick at the metal shutters that covered the front entrance and yell at Giovanni for being so hateful. He had ruined everything for me—Carlo, Italy, my entire life. I felt that I had to do something, but didn’t know exactly what. I still could not comprehend that Giovanni, who had seemed so nice, was such a liar, and that Carlo had so readily
believed his lies.
I knew that the last months of my life in Sonoma had also been built on lies. In becoming Alex, I had shut out Alessandra. I had wanted to fit in so much with my new friends that I had completely blocked out who I really was and lied to them and to myself.
Now, Giovanni had lied about me and I was furious. I didn’t care about the price I would have to pay, not now. I’d already lost Carlo and had nothing left to lose. I felt my eyes well up with tears again and brushed my hand across them. No more lies for me. Besides, the Sacra Lista wouldn’t bother killing a stupid American teenager. The international attention brought about by such a murder would result in a bright light being shone on the Sacra Lista, which is the last thing they would want. I was going to take care of this problem once and for all. No unspoken code of omerta was going to stop me. No liar was going to stand there and call me a liar!
Carrie chattered on about everything she saw as we walked past the shops. “Alessandra, look at that really cute blue dress with the lemons on the skirt hanging in the doorway! Oh, look at these sandals,” she exclaimed, stopping in front of a store’s display tables. “These rings are beautiful!” she cried, holding up a sterling silver ring embossed with lemons.
Luckily, all she required from me was an “Uh-huh,” and “Yes,” because my thoughts were elsewhere. Now I knew why people wrote about a broken heart—it truly did feel broken. I’d never felt such a real connection with any guy before. Carlo had called me his “soul-mate,” and that was how I felt about him too. If only I’d told him the truth about Dad’s investigations.
Secrets in Translation Page 18
