Giacomo opened the sealed envelope and pulled out the white sheet of paper.
I’m sure you’re perplexed by the recent events and have plenty of questions. Giacomo, you will endure hard choices and sacrifices as a time of discontent infects humanity. Every decision will open a door and lead you on a different path. The outcome will be the same. Trust your instincts; they will not fail you. Just as there is good in the world, there is also evil—seen and unseen. The good can be bad, and the bad can become good. The misdirected will try to break you and steer you in a direction that would thwart the good. Be careful of whom you trust.
I have hidden a second journal in my study under the fourth floorboard from the window. The writings are significant. The coming Passover holiday will have a new meaning for the entire world. The governments will shake with fright.
Time continues, not like a clock that can stop—time will reveal the prophecy. When the key finds its rightful place, the third trumpet will protect the angels born of man.
Giacomo handed the note to Sergio, who read the words penned by his late friend.
“Sergio, why the riddle? Why couldn’t he just tell me?”
“I’m sure he had a reason.”
Giacomo reached forward, grabbed his sports jacket from the empty seat, and tucked the letter into the inside pocket.
Chapter 14
A dark blue Fiat Panda waited as the helicopter touched down in the field by the Church of the Madonna del Cardoneto. Giacomo shook hands with Sergio. He picked up his coat and gave it to the pilot who held the door.
“I will bring your suitcase,” the captain said.
“I can take it.”
“No, no, senor. Go to your wife.”
Giacomo shrugged in acceptance.
He trotted the three hundred feet to Emily, who leaned against their four-door compact car. Polizia guarded the perimeter, scanning the surroundings for anything out of the ordinary. Above the valley, nestled into the mountainside, was the village of Ottati.
“Mon ami.”
“Mi amore!” Giacomo gave Emily a hug followed by a kiss as he rubbed her belly.
The pilot opened the trunk and stowed the suitcases. He handed Giacomo his jacket.
“Grazie.” Giacomo tipped him a hundred-euro note.
“Grazie, senor.”
The captain turned toward the helicopter and signaled for the copilot to start the engines. The blast from the rotor wash hurried the couple into the car.
“How are the boys?” Giacomo asked, patting her belly again.
“Fine. How’s Rio?”
“The same. At least she’s breathing on her own.”
Giacomo shoved the leather-wrapped stick shift into first gear. The vehicle hugged the right side of the narrow road. As he sped past a farmer riding a tractor, he reached for Emily’s hand. They traversed the ancient streets of the mountain village of Ottati. Giacomo downshifted, stepped on the brake, and turned into the Piazza Umberto. They parked and strolled to their three-story, white stucco, red-orange-roofed house.
Giacomo and Rio had inherited the property from Paolo. They spent half of the year in the town he adored. Giacomo, although he loved his country, welcomed the time when he would retire to this village.
When they entered the floral-tiled foyer, Emily said, “I’ll be right back. Meet you on the patio.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll only be a few.”
Giacomo’s eyes scanned the valley of colors. He had put his concern about Rio out of his mind for the moment, his worry consumed by the knowledge of a second journal.
“Nice to be here again,” Emily said. She wrapped her arms around her husband and leaned her head on his back.
“Yes, seventeen wonderful years.”
“I’ll never forget your father’s face when he saw Sydney.”
“Yeah, a beautiful moment,” Giacomo said.
“If it wasn’t for your father, I might not be here.”
“But you are, mi amore, you are.” He turned to face Emily and kissed her passionately. They walked back into the house. “Sergio gave me the envelope from Dad.”
“What did your father say?”
“Why don’t we go to Maria’s for dinner? I’ll let you read the letter there.”
“Sounds good. I’m starving. The boys are sapping all my energy.”
“Then we’d better hurry. Do you mind if we stop by the cemetery tomorrow? The caretaker repaired my father’s headstone. I need to pay him.”
“You amaze me. With all the money we have, why didn’t you mail a check?”
“Because it’s my dad, and I want to thank Giovanni personally. Money has nothing to do with . . .” Giacomo spotted the mischievous grin on his wife’s face. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Sometimes, Giacomo . . .”
“What?”
“Why would I mind?”
“Thanks, honey.”
The sun began to set as the two made their way to Maria’s restaurant in the Piazza Umberto. A slight breeze swirled a piece of paper as they entered. Inside, a couple sat chatting with Maria’s daughter, Claudia.
“Giacomo, I’m so sorry. Rio was such a beautiful woman.” He noticed the tears in Maria’s eyes as she took them to their table.
“Thank you, Maria.”
“How long will you be here?”
“About a week. Then we head back to the States for the memorial.”
Maria hugged him before she left to welcome another guest.
“I feel bad lying to her.”
“Why can’t you tell the truth?”
“I don’t know who I can trust.”
“Really?” Emily said with a tone of skepticism.
“What would you like to eat, Giacomo?”
Giacomo diverted his eyes from his wife. “Claudia, how are you?”
“Bene—good. I’m sorry, Giacomo. Rio . . . she was always very kind to me.”
“Thank you.” He changed the subject to avoid the lie. “What specials do you have tonight?”
“Dad made a pork roast with roasted potatoes.”
“Sounds good to me. And you, honey?”
“The same—with pasta, please?”
“Pasta for me too. I love your mother’s sauce.”
“Two Pepsis?”
“How about water with lemons on the side, please. Thanks, Claudia.”
“Can I read the letter?”
“Of course.”
Giacomo reached inside his jacket, then checked his other pockets. “Shit . . . shit . . .”
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t find Dad’s note. I put the damn thing in my inside pocket.”
“Did you leave it in the helicopter?”
“I hope not—damn.”
“Maybe you left the note at the house, honey?”
“No.” He checked every pocket of his jacket.
“Did you give it to Sergio?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you give him a call?”
“Yeah, you’re right—these last couple of days have been kind of crazy. Besides, if anybody found the message, they wouldn’t understand it.”
They ate as Giacomo summarized his father’s words for his wife.
Chapter 15
Carrying a computer tablet and a wooden box, the bearded physician entered the operating room. Greeted by two nurses, he walked to the gurney. He plucked his suspenders as he studied his patient. For the second straight night, he would practice his skills.
“Any problems getting her here?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Is the MRI ready?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Any problems with the arterial catheterization?”
“No, Doctor. The catheter is stable and positioned in the internal carotid artery.”
“Good. This procedure will provide us with better results. The cranial insertions are too risky.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The patient’s head was secured in a three-point apparatus that prevented involuntary movement. He lowered the volume to the heart monitor. Rio stirred. Her eyes opened. She tried to speak as the doctor placed his forefinger on her lips. “Don’t try to talk. Go back to sleep, my dear. Too bad we don’t have your father’s second journal. Oh well—at least you won’t die.”
He unlatched the six-by-nine-inch brown wooden box. In the purple, velvet-lined container were two vials, labeled DNA and Stem Cells. He felt Rio’s hand on his sleeve. “Everything will be all right, young lady. This will make you sleep.” The doctor looked to the ceiling, then nodded to the nurse and said, “Let’s begin.”
Through an IV port in Rio’s hand, the nurse injected a cloudy mixture that would place Rio in a medically induced coma. The doctor pushed a button on the side of the machine, and the patient table slid into the cylinder.
“Bring up the MRI photos.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
An image of Rio’s skull overlaid with dashed lines showed the neural activity in different areas of her brain.
He grabbed the empty syringe and inserted the tip into each vial, withdrawing four cc’s of liquid. He placed a sound-suppressing headset on and instructed the other nurse to start the MRI. Rapid pinging and banging filled the room.
“This will not hurt you, my dear.” He attached the syringe to the femoral arterial line and pressed the plunger. The genetically engineered concoction made its way to the brain. On the monitor, the temporal lobe that controlled memory, understanding, and language glowed a vibrant yellow. Rio’s body temperature increased by two degrees.
He continued to watch the monitor. The frontal lobe—the center that regulated emotions, personality, behavioral, thinking, and planning—radiated a bright red. “This is excellent,” he said. Three minutes passed as a cascading aura of blue hues highlighted the parietal lobe, the part of the brain responsible for perception and making sense.
Rio’s temperature soared to 104 degrees. Her heart rate was 173 beats per minute. The nurse placed a cold compress on her brow.
Two hours passed, and she stabilized. The doctor leaned over Rio, kissed her forehead, and said, “The prophecy—Et Tu Spiritu Sanctus.”
The sun rose as he left the Vatican palace with a Swiss Guard.
Chapter 16
First Week in September
Giacomo and Emily arrived back in Connecticut on Monday. Giacomo had purchased his childhood home from his mother—an English Tudor built in the 1920s that had been renovated many times. Once settled, Giacomo went to his father’s old study. He removed the floorboard. Damn—nothing. Dad must have meant his study at the Brewster Estate. He turned on the TV and clicked the remote to a news channel.
The newscasters sat next to one another, handsome and pretty. The broadcasting corporations made every effort to win the ratings war by hiring the beautiful. At least these two were competent. Within the last four years, the media had come under attack for false, misleading news. Boosted by social media, the facts became distorted. The reality was no one knew what the truth was or wasn’t. People relied on their own perceptions and ideologies.
“With three months until the presidential elections, the country faces an economic collapse as it looks to the European Union for help, but first the story of the recent deaths of . . .”
Giacomo turned up the volume.
“By all reports, the only connection between the deaths of Winston Tarmac, Sal Nasir, and Rio DeLaurentis was their individual relationships to the government. Anonymous sources in the FBI have told us Tarmac and Nasir were more than likely assassinated by the same terrorist group. As for Rio DeLaurentis . . .” A video clip of her admonishing Boyle played in the corner of the screen. “One can only say she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Italian authorities are following up on leads and are tight-lipped with their investigation. Ms. DeLaurentis, the daughter of the late philanthropist Paolo DeLaurentis, will be buried Wednesday in a private ceremony in Connecticut.”
“Jonathan, is there any theory that could tie the deaths together?”
“Not at this time, Megan.”
“When we come back, our interview with the European Union’s Eten Trivette.”
Giacomo’s cell phone rang. He muted the TV.
“Yes. What? I’m on my way.” Shit. “Emily!” he yelled.
She ran to the doorway. “What’s the matter?”
“Rio’s house was broken into.”
“When?”
“This morning. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Em, you’re pregnant. It could be dangerous.”
“Giacomo, please. The police are there—it can’t be that dangerous.”
“All right, let’s go.”
They ran to the garage and jumped into their dark blue Range Rover. Giacomo pushed the button on the visor. The door opened, as did the gate to the driveway. He stepped on the gas pedal and took a left at the corner of Elm and Whitney.
“Slow down, Giacomo. Remember, I’m pregnant.”
“Sorry, honey.”
They turned left on Cliff Street. A squad car was parked at the gated entrance. An officer leaned against the vehicle as he talked into his two-way radio. Giacomo rolled the window down. “I’m Colonel Giacomo DeLaurentis, the brother of Rio DeLaurentis.”
“Our detective team is waiting for you at the house, sir.”
“Thanks.” Giacomo avoided using the private entrance.
The lieutenant of the robbery division met him. “Colonel DeLaurentis?”
“Yes.”
“Lieutenant May.” He saluted the colonel. “I’m sorry, sir. Your sister was a stand-up person.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. This is my wife, Emily.”
“Hello, ma’am.”
“Hello.”
“Can we go in?”
“Yes, sir. The house is in shambles.”
“Let me ask you a question, Lieutenant—”
“You can call me Bill.”
“Was a floorboard missing from the study?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it.” Giacomo felt his face contort in anger.
“Did he have a floor safe?”
“Yep. Did you examine the surveillance video?”
“No.”
“My father was a security nut, loved technology. We can access it on my sister’s computer.”
The townhouse was in shambles. Broken chairs, plates, papers, graffiti on the walls. “They did a good job.” Giacomo shook his head. “How long did it take you guys to respond?”
“By the time we got the call—fifteen minutes. We figure they were in here for a half hour.”
“Why the delay?”
“Problems at the alarm company.”
“What do you mean?”
“They lost electrical power.”
“Interesting.”
They walked into Rio’s study. Her law books were strewn on the floor, her desk toppled over, the room disheveled.
“What a mess. Any fingerprints?”
“No, sir.”
Emily leaned over and picked up one of the items.
“Giacomo, they broke your father’s clock.” She handed it to him.
“It can be fixed. Honey, leave that stuff alone for forensics. We’ll clean up later.”
“Lieutenant, is it all right for me to walk around the house?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bill, help me with the desk, will you?”
“Sure.”
&
nbsp; Giacomo picked up the computer, set it on the desk, and then pushed a button. He thought for a moment before he typed in a string of commands. The monitor came alive as the screen divided into four images. Giacomo recognized the faces of the intruders.
Chapter 17
The Next Day
The air was filled with the fading scent of summer. The afternoon sun highlighted the multicolored rose bushes bordered by Japanese maple trees. Thomas Maro stood on the steps of his redbrick house framed between two white pillars. He was tall, youthful at forty-five. He exuded a presidential quality. Abby Lamberti, his wife of ten years, stood by his side. Photographers clicked away as they recorded his every move. Television cameras whirred as they zoomed in and out.
“Mr. Maro, did you find a replacement for your chief of staff?” the correspondent from NBC asked.
“The family will take some time to grieve, and then I’ll begin reviewing résumés. I should have an announcement next week.” He pointed to another. “Yes, Elizabeth?”
“Sir, do you believe that your life is in danger after the assassination of your cousin?”
“No.”
A journalist from CNN chimed in. “Mr. Maro, if elected, you said you would not entertain Trivette’s European Union agenda on financial reform. Can you tell us why?”
Irritated, Maro replied, “We are the United States of America—we stand for freedom and democracy. For almost two hundred years, our country was an economic superpower. Our financial influence saved Europe in World War II. It was our technology, our innovation, our people who flourished—we taught the world. We’ve made mistakes. Greed and power have become the norm. Now we, the American citizens, need to come together as a people of righteousness. We are a country of peace, the land of democracy. We must lead ourselves and not rely on anyone else. In the long term, the EU policy is not helpful for the people. We as a nation have overcome adversity. We will do so again under my administration. Do you understand it now, Mr. Franklyn?” An uncomfortable silence ensued as the CNN reporter averted his eyes at the admonishment.
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