I accept the young man’s hand, shaking it firmly. I understand where Vitto is coming from now, but this young pup still has a lot to learn. “A piece of advice, Cesco,” I say, still pumping his hand. “Don’t pull a gun on a don no matter the circumstances. Not everyone is as understanding as me. Next time, you could find yourself six feet under.” I release his hand on one final warning look.
“I appreciate the advice, and it’s been noted.” He nods once before turning to his father. “I will see you for dinner, Father, Valentina.” His words and his expression are respectful in the extreme, but his lips curve at one side, ever so slightly, as he glances at his stepmother, and I don’t like the way his gaze quickly rakes over her.
I watch as he stalks off and disappears around the side of the house.
Valentina stares after him, wearing her usual mask, but I can feel her bristling under his unwanted attention.
It struck me earlier that Valentina is most likely a well of information. She’s around these men a lot I’m guessing if her earlier comment about the men’s loyalty being with Dominic is true. Valentina has been a silent observer for years. She’s smart, and I bet she knows her fair share of secrets. I hide a smile behind a cool façade as I realize I now have a reason to explain my deal should I need to offer one.
“You’re welcome to join us for dinner, Don Maltese,” Dominic says, still fixing me with a hateful look.
“Thank you. I accept.”
As soon as we enter the house, Valentina disappears to start cooking, and I demand a grand tour from my gnarly host. Dominic grinds his teeth and clenches his fists, but he attempts to act civil as he shows me around. I keep my distance as we walk through his home, his stale body odor tickling my nostrils and making me throw up a little in my mouth. I can’t even think about him putting his hands on Valentina without retching and wanting to impale him on a spike and watch his life force slip away.
Ferraro babbles away as we walk, explaining the origins of various pieces of furniture and the myriad of old paintings and pictures tacked to the walls. He’s very knowledgeable about his ancestral home and proud of it, but I sense his shame as he shows me around. And he should be ashamed he’s let it get into such a state of disrepair. He can’t be short of money. Florida is one of our wealthiest territories, and as Vitto’s underboss, he would enjoy his fair share of the profits. This all points to a lifelong gambling addiction unless he’s doing something else with his money. I vow to dig deeper. If he’s hiding anything else, I’ll find it.
This house dates back to the early nineteen hundreds, he tells me, but it is obvious from the wood-paneled ceilings, black-and-white-checkered floors, ornate chandeliers, worn patterned rugs, and exquisite tapestries housed in elaborate gold frames hanging on the walls.
The neglect is evident everywhere. Tiles are cracked and stained underfoot, the copious dark wood paneling, which is heavily featured on walls and ceilings, is chipped and faded and in need of obvious repair. The sweeping banisters that lead up both sides of the large lobby sway when I touch it, and the stairs creak worryingly as we ascend the steps. Scaffolding is mounted against the banisters on the other side, and the wood has been restored on the lower half. It’s literally like men downed tools midway through the job.
He ran out of money to continue.
Upstairs is dark, gloomy, and humid despite the presence of air-conditioning units. None of them are operational, and I’m understanding Ferraro’s body odor problem a little more clearly now. Though it’s nothing regular daily showers wouldn’t fix. A couple of buckets sit strategically under small holes in the roof, ready to capture rain during one of Florida’s legendary summer showers. It can be stupidly hot here with humidity as thick as syrup, and the heavens will open, dumping rain on the land below for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then it clears up as quickly as it came on, and the sun resumes baking everyone.
It's nuts and has to be seen to be believed.
My concern for Valentina only ramps up the more we explore, and my anger at Jacopo Pagano for sending a young girl into this environment is mushrooming. Pity he’s dead. I’d have enjoyed punishing him for forcing Valentina into this life.
“How did your first wife die?” I ask Dominic as we make our way back downstairs.
“Why do you want to know about Marguerite?” Suspicion threads through his tone.
“I’m just making conversation,” I lie.
“If you must know, she had a heart attack.”
That’s what I’ve heard. “She was young for that to have happened.”
“She had a heart condition since birth,” he says, taking a left when we reach the lobby.
“It must have been upsetting for your children.” I watch him carefully.
“They were devastated.”
“I imagine accepting a stepmother so soon after their mom died was hard for them, especially one so close in age.”
He slams to a halt, narrowing cold eyes on me. “I married quickly for my children. They needed a mother, and I don’t like your insinuation.”
“I’m not insinuating anything. Just stating the facts, or have I been misinformed?”
He resumes walking, his shoes clacking noisily off the tiled floor. “My children are my everything, Don Maltese. There isn’t anything I won’t do for them.”
“Yet your two daughters don’t live here with you.”
He stops walking again, slanting me a heated glare. “Not that it’s any of your business, but they live with their grandmother in Jacksonville. They were only five and three when Marguerite died, and they were too much for Valentina to manage.”
So much for needing a new mother for his kids. I’m not buying the bullshit he’s peddling for one second.
