“And why would he do that?” Marco asks. His hair is slicked back and he always wears way too much cologne. It’s like he watchedThe Godfatherone too many times and decided he had to emulate everything about it.
“Thirty-odd years ago, Lorenzo had an affair with a woman called Maria. She was intended to marry Giani. Maria became pregnant, and for her safety and that of the baby’s, Lorenzo had them hidden. In short, Giani has never gotten over it.”
“I’m surprised Fenza allowed Lorenzo to keep his balls,” Nico laughs.
“She didn’t know. No one knew. Well, that is until Giani threatened Lorenzo’s long-lost daughter’s life. Somehow, he found out. We’ve dealt with his attempts on our shipments. But coming after a family member is crossing the line. She’s an innocent bystander. Because of Giani, she’s had her life ripped away and is in hiding.”
Marco shakes his head. “We can’t get involved, Allegra, you know that.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just wanted to fill you in, so if something were to happen, Giani can’t paint a picture that favours him. I have no intention of fighting him.”
“And what does Lorenzo want? He’s still the Don, isn’t he?” Nico asks. It’s a barb that’s meant to prick me, but it doesn’t. Nothing these men say has that kind of power.
“Lorenzo is Don in name only. You know that, so cut the shit. I make the decisions.” As much as I’ve run the family from the shadows, the three other Dons have known for some time.
“She is fiery, isn’t she?” Francesco grins. “You make a fine Donna, Allegra.”
I bow my head in recognition of his compliment. He doesn’t give them out often.
“If what you say is true, and Giani is messing with your shipments, you already have cause to—”
“It’s what he wants,” I say impatiently. Why am I having to explain this? “Giani thinks I’m stupid enough to let his silly little attempts on our cargo sway my decision. He wants a war, and it’s even better if I look to be the one starting it. I couldn’t give a fuck about his three-decade-old grudge. We’re better than that. However, if he makes an attempt on Bonnie, that’s a different matter. You would all be obliged to step in.”
Nico taps the table with his lighter. “If the Arellos cross that line, we will assist you. Our pact remains strong. Our businesses are thriving because we’ve looked out for each other. None of us can afford petty jealousy to unravel our hard work.”
I refrain from telling them that our pact means little to me, not in the way they think. Yes, it served as a security blanket when Lorenzo took over from his father. It allowed him to train me and start changing the way our family operated, but since I’ve taken the helm, we don’t need the pact as much as the others. They still run most of their businesses from underground. Nico is the drug kingpin of Italy. Francesco trafficks weapons, and Marco dabbles in everything.
The pact states that no family in the Mafiosi can willingly harm another member’s family or business. The pact forbids wars over land and business territories. We keep each other’s secrets, therefore ensuring our survival. And it’s worked.
“Nico is right. If Giani takes this further, we’ll have no choice but to get involved. Keep us updated, Allegra,” Francesco replies, “and tell Lorenzo to call. It’s been too long.”
“Of course, and thank you. Until the next time.” We shake hands and part ways. As far as meetings go, it was short but effective. I’ve cut Giani off at the knees and he doesn’t even know it yet. One wrong move from him and he’ll effectively wipe his own family name off the map. Once the Mafiosi are involved, it’s as good as a signed death warrant.
That’s not what I want. I’ve seen far too much death to last a lifetime. I would never wish that on anyone. Giani is a bastard, but he has children and grandchildren. The only thing that would come of his death, is more violence. We left that behind a long time ago, so I need this to end peacefully.
The sun is setting as Mia drives us back to the villa. “Mia, can we make a pit stop, please?” I’m suddenly craving Mamma Picollo’s famous pasta. She’s a legend in these parts and I’m ashamed to say it’s been far too long since I’ve seen her.
Mia doesn’t need me to give her instructions. She knows what I mean when I say “pit stop”. My stomach rumbles as we approach the small restaurant nestled in between houses. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it entirely. Mamma Picollo has been running the restaurant for nearly sixty years. Her family has always been in the food industry, one way or another.
Thanking Mia, I hop out of the car and push through the door. The comforting embrace of heavenly smelling food calms me instantly. I chuckle when I hear Mamma Picollo shouting at someone in the back. She might be in her eighties, but she’s as prickly as a cactus and takes shit from no one.
A few bangs and clangs of pots filter through the dining area. No one bats an eyelash. Everyone here is a local and knows Mamma Picollo. She’s like everyone’s grandmother. I sit at my favourite table at the back. It has a permanentreservedsign just for me.
“Well, look who decided to pop up her head and say hello!” Mamma Picollo barks. My smile is a mile long as I stand and take the tiny woman in my arms. She smells like Parmesan and love.
“Ciao, Mamma,” I whisper into her hair.
She pushes me away and assesses me like usual. “You need to eat more,Bella. You’re skin and bones.”
She’s said the same thing to me every time I’ve seen her for the past twenty-five years.
“I eat plenty,” I say. Although recently, my stomach has revolted at the thought of food. There’s just too much stress.
“Sit, sit. I’ll bring you food,” she babbles, pushing me down to the chair. I gave up trying to order a dish many years ago. Mamma Picollo knows best, according to her, so she chooses what I’ll eat. No doubt it will be enough to feed the entire family, so I’ll have most of it put in doggy bags to take home.
Sitting here in low candlelight, as I listen to the chaos of the kitchen reminds me of simpler times. Mamma Picollo’s was the place to find me when I was a kid and needed space. She doted on me like I was her own grandchild, and I needed that at times, especially if Lorenzo pissed me off. I’d go running to Mamma Picollo and she’d make everything better with pasta and a hug.
As predicted, I’m served several dishes. I get a scornful look when I barely finish one, even though it was huge. I ask to have the rest bagged up and I promise to visit again soon.
