The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “Giacomo! Giacomo, are you all right?”

  “What?” His eyes focused on the blurred face.

  His wife’s soft hands stroked his cheeks.

  “Yeah—a weird dream.”

  “You were dreaming?”

  “Yeah—why?”

  “Your eyes were open.”

  “No?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “I’m fine—only a dream.”

  “Want to tell me?”

  “Strange—so real.” Giacomo described the dream as he stared into Emily’s eyes.

  “It’s a dream, Giacomo. Come on, let’s get up.” Emily kissed him on the forehead. “We’ll go have breakfast with Dad. I’m starving.”

  “I’m not that hungry. Why don’t you go? I have to make a couple of phone calls.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah—go bond with your father.”

  “Bond?”

  “Yes, bond—be together.”

  Emily rolled over on her back, and using her arms as leverage, she stood. The bare skin of her puffed belly as she unbuttoned the pajama top caused the father-to-be to smile. He’d soon be a dad.

  After Emily left, Giacomo showered and dressed. He sat at a small desk and grabbed the cell phone while he pulled back the curtain and opened the window. A fresh breeze rustled the loose papers on the writing table. He leaned back, placing his left leg on the piece of furniture. Giacomo called his mother and left a message; he tried Rio as well but got no answer.

  He looked out of the third-floor window at the café across the street. Sounds of the locals as they drank their espressos drifted into the room. Scenarios whizzed through his mind. It was clear that he had inherited his father’s paranormal abilities. For what purpose? Why not a regular life? Why is it so hard? Being transformed into a God-serving prophet . . . Can’t you just leave me alone . . .

  A voice broke his train of thought. “Why do you question?”

  Giacomo leaped from the chair and turned around. No one was there. The room was empty. The silence was eerie. He no longer heard the morning patrons of the cafe.

  “Why do you question?” The voice repeated, setting off an alarm within his soul. He turned again—no one.

  The door of the room opened. Giacomo was baffled as he watched Emily place her pocketbook on the table. The Italian chatter across the cobblestone street drifted back into the room.

  “Did I scare you?”

  “No, you startled me.” Giacomo collected himself. “How’s Dad?”

  “Exhausted. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, no ghost here.” What the hell is happening? “These last couple of days.” He shook his head.

  “Dad said the same. I think he’s happy he’s here, protected.”

  “You—are you happy?”

  “I’m glad we’re here. Am I happy? I wish we were home.”

  “Your words to God’s ears. At least we got the guy responsible for the killings.” He didn’t add that he suspected there were others involved and that Trivette might be just a scapegoat. Giacomo’s eyes fixed on an unknown point in the distance.

  “You got Trivette?”

  “No, we got his right-hand man, Dean Essex—and it’s only a matter of time before we get Trivette.” He questioned himself. Should I tell her there were others involved? He tried to hold it together. He sat on the bed. Emily placed her hand on her husband’s forehead.

  “You don’t have a fever, but you look terrible.”

  He put his hand on her thigh. “I’m fine.”

  “At least the color came back to your face.”

  He smiled.

  “Dean Essex? Is that the same person . . .”

  “Yep, it sure is.”

  “Rio is in love with him. She’ll be crushed. How much more can she go through?” A tear left a streak on Emily’s makeup.

  “My sister will be fine—please don’t cry.” Giacomo leaned over, kissing Emily on the cheek.

  “I can’t take this anymore—the attempts on your life, my dad living in exile—can’t even go home. This paranormal . . .”

  Giacomo gently held her face in his hands. “Honey, it will be all right. I told you, when this is over, I’m going to retire.” He wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “It’ll never be over, Giacomo.”

  He gazed into her brown eyes. Giacomo feared she was right but said nothing. Emily composed herself, grabbed his hands. He kissed her lips.

  In a quiet voice, she said, “I need to go pee—the boys are pressing on my bladder.”

  Ten minutes passed, and Emily reemerged. Her face was clear, the redness gone from her eyes.

  “Emily, when did Rio decide to go to Ottati?”

  “A couple of days ago. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry—I was tied up in a firestorm and couldn’t call you back.”

  “Anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “It was her idea. She said we needed alone time.”

  “Isn’t that nice of her?” Giacomo’s voice filled with sarcasm.

  “Don’t be angry. When she finds out about Dean, she’ll be crushed. Rio’s gone through an awful lot.”

  “Yeah, and the rest of us?”

  “Don’t be angry now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Your ears are turning red.”

  “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

  “Nope. By the way, where are the security people?”

  “They’re hidden—secretly watching the three of us.”

  “Rio and Mom?”

  “Sergio arranged for the security teams.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re together for a couple of days—right?”

  “Yep.”

  She came close to him, her voice seductive. “What do you say we enjoy ourselves for once?”

  “Yes, about time.”

  Emily held her stomach. “The boys are jumping. They missed their daddy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come, put your hand here. Now talk.”

  Giacomo placed his hand on the side of her stomach. “Hello, boys. Wow, did you feel that?” Emily nodded. “Of course you did. I love you guys.” A broad smile crossed his face. He leaned over and spoke to her distended belly. “Paolo, Arnaud, you behave in there.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “Well, you never know.”

  “Stop. Want to explore before we eat?”

  “Sure. You’re already hungry?”

  “No, but I will be.”

  Giacomo shook his head. “Did I ever mention to you Dad used to come here?”

  “No.”

  “He mediated a merger with a company headquartered here. He came a couple of times. After he died, we discovered he’d donated a lot of money to the church in the piazza here to help restore it.”

  “Wow, can we go see it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we walk the fortress walls too?”

  “Yep. The concierge gave me a map of the city. There’s a park, and tomorrow we can go on a picnic.”

  “You’re so romantic, honey.”

  “Oh, yeah, just me.”

  Chapter 104

  The couple exited the Bastiani and took a left on Via Daniele Manin. They walked the short distance hand in hand to the Piazza Dante Alighieri. The day was warm for late December—fifty-eight degrees. It was twenty degrees above the seasonal average, the air still, and the early morning breeze absent.

  “Is that the church?”

  Giacomo didn’t hear his wife ask the question. His mind was still engrossed by the voice that had spoken to him earlier. Am I going crazy? What does it mean, ‘Why do you question?’ />
  “Giacomo, are you listening? Giacomo?”

  “I’m sorry, honey . . . what?”

  “Is that the church your father donated the money to?”

  “Yes—the Cathedral of San Lorenzo.”

  “Why are the stones black and white?”

  “Ah yes, the Romanesque style—those marble blocks . . .”

  “How do you know that?” Her tone was skeptical.

  “I read the brochure. I had you fooled, didn’t I?”

  “No . . . well, maybe a little.”

  They climbed the ten stone steps. Giacomo held open one of the four oak doors for Emily. They entered the centuries-old church. Several people sat in the wooden pews, while others roamed the aisles of the cathedral, taking pictures.

  “Do you mind if I sit down and pray?”

  “No, I’m going to walk around. The boys and I can use the exercise.”

  Giacomo genuflected, blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and sat. Emily went to the statue of St. Lawrence. A kneeler with red-glassed votive candles cast its light on the mother-to-be. The sculpture enclosed by a small black iron fence. Blue-and-red stained glass windows filtered the sun’s rays into the church. The colors danced and flickered in the quiet house of God, the silence broken only by the occasional sound of a camera’s shutter.

  The day is cold—a light snow appears. Tens of thousands of people are gathered. The Capitol before me—Tom Maro gives me a smile. President Richardson shakes my hand. Fighter jets fly overhead in tight formation as the orange of the afterburners glows bright. The engines crackle in the crisp air. A commotion begins. I can’t reach Tom—screams erupt from the crowd. The scenery changes. There are two men. I don’t know who they are. One dressed in white, the other in a blue silk suit. Again, the backdrop changes, and the sun glares. Then a brilliant flash of light followed by an enormous explosion. Suddenly, I am in Paris. Chaos rules the streets, darkness envelops the City of Lights. I’m swept away to a field. Two young boys run in the distance . . .

  “Giacomo . . . Giacomo . . .” Emily rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “What, what—hi, honey. Sorry, I dozed off.”

  “With your eyes open again? I think you need a doctor.”

  “No, I’m fine.” He tried to shrug off the vision. Why do the images change? What does it mean?

  “Come look at this.”

  “At what?” Giacomo felt distracted.

  “You’ll see.”

  She grabbed his hand. He followed her to the statue of a saint.

  “The plaque.” Emily pointed.

  “I can’t read the words.” He squinted.

  “I’ll read it.”

  “No, I can. I’ll climb over the fence.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can. Watch.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  He jumped the fence, nearly falling over. He dusted off the bronze plate.

  “‘Donated by Paulo DeLaurentis. St. Lawrence, the patron saint of fire, keeper of the treasures of the church.’ My father! Wow.”

  “Buongiorno.” A soft voice came from behind them.

  Giacomo turned. Embarrassed, he spoke in Italian to the thin, bearded priest with a crooked nose. “Excuse me, Father.” He climbed back over the barrier, wiped his dusty hands on his jeans.

  The priest glared at Giacomo with curiosity, his gray eyebrows raised.

  “I’m so sorry. That’s my father.”

  “San Lorenzo is your father?”

  “No, no, I mean the man who donated . . .”

  “Ah, Paolo—nice man. Oh my . . . oh my.”

  “You knew him?”

  “A friend of mine did.”

  “I’m his son, Giacomo. This is my wife, Emily.”

  “Buongiorno, senora.” The priest nodded. “I was told you would visit one day. Please, come with me. We’ll discuss your papa in my office.”

  The couple’s eyes met. Giacomo shrugged. In French, he said, “I hope it’s not one of his notes.”

  “No.” The priest smiled as he limped ahead of them.

  Chapter 105

  An hour later, Emily and Giacomo exited the church through the back entrance.

  “What do you think the key is for?”

  “Got me. What did Dad say in the letter? ‘When the key finds its rightful place.’ Who knows. Did you catch the priest’s name?”

  “No—I called him ‘Father.’”

  “Me too. I wanted to ask him if he boxed.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you see the shape of his nose? Crooked to one side. I wonder how he breathes.”

  “Yeah, what about how he mumbled to himself?”

  “What did he say? Wait, I remember. It was ‘Oh my, oh my.’ Strange, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, but he’s a very nice man.”

  “True. We’ll come back and ask. If not, when we get home, I’ll go through Dad’s records. I’m sure his name is on a document. Dad donated $700,000. There’s got to be a record.”

  “He said he never met Dad.”

  “Oh, right.” Giacomo put the envelope in his pants pocket.

  “When did you say that your father was here?”

  “I think it was in the late eighties . . .”

  * * *

  October 27, 1989

  Paolo read the Wall Street Journal. He placed the paper on the seat opposite him. The billionaire glimpsed at the monitor on the bulkhead of the Gulfstream V. The screen showed the aircraft’s position as they flew across the Atlantic Ocean to Rome. He was scheduled to meet the Italian prime minister—his friend Sergio—that afternoon.

  “Paolo, Pepsi?” his flight attendant Jayne asked.

  He loved her Australian accent. “Sure, Jayne.” Paolo reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Please give this to Pat and Danny. I want to go to Grosseto after Rome and spend a couple of days there.”

  “Grosseto. We’ve been there—last year, we took Mike Quinn.”

  “Yes, you did, Miss Jayne. I remember the pictures of the walled city, and since I don’t want to drive to Ottati, I figured why not? Victoria and I are not getting along. She can use a break.”

  “She?”

  “All right, me too. Where’s that Pepsi?”

  “Coming right up, Mr. DeLaurentis.”

  Paolo chuckled, picked up the paper, and continued to read.

  Three days later, Paolo sauntered through the entrance of the Medicean walled village of Grosseto. The Hotel Bastiani to his left, he strode further toward the piazza. The Cathedral of San Lorenzo was outfitted with scaffolding as men restored the marble.

  “Buongiorno,” Paolo said to the heavyset priest with a slight hint of gray across his temples.

  “Buongiorno.”

  The men stood next to each other and watched the workers fifty feet above the ground on a platform.

  “Father Luccati?”

  “Yes.” The priest continued to gaze skyward. “Vincenzo! To the left, to the left!” the priest yelled and gestured. Still not looking at Paolo, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Paolo DeLaurentis. I understand you need help?”

  “Help—basta, basta—enough, enough, Vincenzo.”

  The worker squinted at the priest and shrugged.

  “Ugh!” The priest shook his head. He turned toward Paolo. “If only I had the funds to hire good employees. My nephew Vincenzo—ugh! You are American?”

  Paolo chuckled. “Yes.”

  “Your name again?”

  “Paolo DeLaurentis.”

  “Yes—what can I do for you, Paolo?”

  “I understand you need help. Can I buy you lunch?”

  Father Luccati’s eyes met Paolo’s. He couldn’t s
ay no.

  The two men walked away from the church into the neighboring Piazza Dante Alighieri, where they sat at an outdoor café.

  “Father Luccati, as I said, I understand you need help.”

  The priest picked up the white espresso cup and took a sip. “I need more than help—I need a miracle. The cathedral is falling to pieces, and there is not enough money to pay for experienced workers. I have no staff except for my secretary, who happens to be Vincenzo’s mother—my sister. You’re not a priest, are you?”

  Paolo laughed. “I’m sorry, Father. I can’t help you there.”

  “Oh.” He rolled his eyes.

  “I can help with a donation.”

  Father Luccati’s eyes brightened.

  “But I need a favor in return.”

  The priest pushed back his chair to leave. Paolo handed him an envelope.

  “My son, Giacomo, will be visiting here. When he arrives, I need the priest in charge to give this envelope to him.” Paolo recognized the suspicion in the priest’s eyes. Paolo smiled. “No need for concern, Father. You can open it if you like.”

  Father Luccati peeked inside the small manila envelope.

  Paolo reached into his left jacket pocket and withdrew his checkbook. “How much do you need, Father?”

  The priest eyed Paolo with suspicion as his pen wavered over the checkbook.

  Paolo’s forehead creased as their eyes met. “Father?”

  “Whatever you wish to give.”

  Paolo gazed at the cathedral. He filled in an amount and gave the check to the priest. “That should cover your costs and give you a little extra to hire a staff.”

  Father Luccati held the bluish-green paper with both hands in shock. “I . . . I . . . thank you! Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Gennaro.”

  The priest’s eyes opened wide. “How do you know my first name?”