Not quite so confident, I replied, “Hello, I am Angelo.” I looked to my father, not feeling nearly as proud as Sal of the name I carried. “Bianchi.”
Sal kept smiling. “Welcome, Dark Angel, finding his roots.” He spoke with a ‘knowing’ expected from an elder in a family. Since he was so young, I felt his claim to be wrong until I looked at my attire—which was what he was apparently judging.
I winced, seeing he was right. I was dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans… It was late spring. I should have been in lighter colors to avoid the sun baking me while working in my uncle’s fields. Now, peering at my father in a dark suit, it was hard to deny my subconscious may have been trying to imitate the parent I had, apparently, been longing for.
Instantly, a little guilt pelted my heart. Would my mother be disappointed in me since she did not have many kind words to share about the man who had destroyed her future? According to her, their marriage had not been of love, but of responsibility, because he impregnated the young naïve Italian girl. When I was four, my father’s priority with the Giordanos outweighed his responsibility to us, and he left my mother and me for good, only to return on a few holidays.
Reminders of my resentment had me daring to ask, “Father, why am I here? My uncle was willing to provide for me.”
“Your loyalty no longer lies with him.”
That was it. I had been claimed and would now follow my father’s footsteps, whether I wished to or not.
Now, all I felt I could offer was gratitude for the one thing he had given me. “Thank you for allowing me the time to finish mourning.” Even though I was positive mourning and grieving for my mother would never end.
My father only dipped his chin, not mentioning my mother’s name, which was common practice for us superstitious ones.
I gestured to the security guards. “What is being hidden here?”
My father lifted a brow. “Hidden?” He shook his head. “No. We are protecting.”
“Protecting what?”
“What belongs to the Giordanos.”
What belongs to the Giordanos, was complicated yet simple. The simple definition was one dark trade for another. The complicated part was how many innocents would be caught up in the illegal dealings, and how all involved, including myself, would pay.
“Mamma!” practically cheered Sal as we entered a massive kitchen through a side door of the castle-like home.
A light-haired woman in her mid-thirties turned from the stove, her apron showing spatters of flour. After eyeing me, she smirked at Sal. “What is it, my son? Have you found a stray?”
“No!” Sal laughed. “This here is my new best friend, Angelo Bianchi.”
Since I had only arrived moments earlier, and Sal and I had barely shared ten words, the title ‘best friend’ was a stretch, but there is a time to accept any gift, in any form. Since Sal was the only one I had received, to my knowledge, I assented.
His mother’s expression showed no surprise at her son’s claim. In fact, I am positive she was actually expecting me. “Angelo, is it?” She held my chin still and examined me as if able to read far beyond what her physical eyes could see.
Uncertain of my future, or anything else, I replied, “Yes, Mrs. Rossi.”
She studied me a little longer, then her golden eyes widened. “Oh, you have a very deep connection to the Giordanos.”
At the time, I assumed she was referring to my father working for them. “I do not wish to.”
A gentle smile appeared. “Ah, then maybe you will need to learn to ‘wish’ upon stars.” Her eyes sparkled. “You will belong to one, one day.” Then, as if finished with reading me and divulging priceless information, she released me, turning back to the big pot on the stove. Picking up a spoon, she claimed, “Sal, you have made a wise choice. He will be a loyal friend.” She stirred her pot. “Show him his new room.” As we left the kitchen, she yelled, “And be back in time for lunch!”
I jumped at her tone, so unlike what she had just shared with me, but Sal didn’t even react. He was over by a large table near the back door, dipping his finger in a bowl of oil, herbs, and dark olives. After he licked his finger, he claimed, “Needs more salt.” Then he faced me, a mysterious smile plastered on his face. With his mother now behind me, I watched Sal, confused when he suddenly warned me, “Duck!”
As he squatted to the ground in a hurry, I followed suit, clueless to what was happening, until a wooden spoon soared over our heads and banged into the wall behind Sal.
Still squatting, he wiggled his eyebrows at me. “She loves me.”
Since we had just been under attack, I was baffled as to why he thought his mother loved him.
As a string of cursing left his mother’s mouth, “I should have never taught you my mother’s recipes. You love the kitchen so much, you come cook!” Sal and I quickly left the kitchen.
Walking across the side yard, which was bigger than the whole property where I used to live, we headed toward a small cottage where healthy green flowering vines grew on the outer walls.
Sal explained, “After we get you settled, I have a surprise.” He opened the front door of the homey cottage and walked right inside what I presumed to be my father’s house. “Welcome!”
The modest living room was not what I expected. There was a stone fireplace with handmade blankets folded neatly on the floral couch and two chairs. Magazines were neatly arranged on a coffee table that also had a vase with fresh roses. The connected kitchen had freshly baked bread on the counter, a plate of cheese covered with a lace napkin, and a wooden bowl full of fruit. From the ceiling hung drying herbs, just like my mother and aunt had.
“Do you not like your new home?” asked Sal, disappointment in his voice.
“I just didn’t know my father had remarried.”
“He has not.”
“But,” I gestured about, “a woman lives here.”
His brows pinched. “Yes, my mother.”
My chest sank. “I am not to live with my father?”
“Oh…” Awareness crossed Sal’s face. “No. But I promise to be a great roommate.”
That sounded fine, but the man I had hoped would now be present in my world was still not. “Do you know why he doesn’t want me to live with him?”
Waving me to follow, Sal walked toward the other side of the house. “He doesn’t want you to be alone.”
Confused, I followed. “But he is here, is he not?”
Sal stopped and faced me with an expression of regret that caught me off guard, since he had been nothing but happy this whole time. “He is only here to greet you. He will be on a plane after dinner.”
“What? To where?”
Sal shook his head, once again walking toward something. “We are kids. Not until we join the team will we be told such things.”
“The team? What team?”
“Giordano’s team. The one we will be trained for.”
“Doing what?”
“Ummm, I do not really know.” He shrugged. “I am not yet part of the team.”
Even at twelve, I could recognize the idiocy of that logic. “Sal, do you not think you should ask?”