by Mia Caldwell
“I know what you mean. I think she’s sad about something,” Ryland agreed.
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I tell you,” Hunter said, looking philosophically up at the coffered ceiling. “Even though she ran away from the guy and acted like she didn’t want to see him, I think she was glad to see him.”
“What makes you say that?” Ryland asked.
“Because I saw her smiling to herself, a lot, right after she ran into him.”
“Ooooh,” Ryland and Marco said at once.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Ryland asked Marco.
“I certainly am,” Marco replied.
“What?” Hunter asked. “What are you two going on about?”
Marco looked to Ryland, then explained. “We think Auntie Joan will be happy if she has what mama and papa have. Each other.”
Ryland stepped in, “Exactly. If Auntie Joan had a husband, then she could have triplets too.”
Marco’s face lit up. “That’s brilliant. I hadn’t thought about that. If Auntie Joan had three babies, then we’d have three cousins. We could play all sorts of sports. It would be awesome.”
“Don’t get too excited, you two,” Hunter said. He was often the voice of reason for the trio.
“And why not?” Ryland and Marco both wanted to know.
“Because Auntie Joan might have triplet girls. Did you think of that?”
“Oh,” Ryland and Marco said, looking more than a little perplexed at that bit of news.
But Hunter was looking up at the ceiling, a thoughtful look on his face. “You know, brothers, I think that wouldn’t matter to me, girl cousins or boy cousins. What matters is that Auntie Joan stops being sad.” The three triplets spent a few moments each reflecting pensively on that thought, and finally, Hunter broke the silence. “I almost forgot. Something else happened too.”
“What?” Ryand asked. Marco was too busy trying to bite his toe.
“I’m not sure, but our mama had some sort of fit. I mean, she got super upset and was crying a lot. It scared me, and it had happened before Auntie Joan met that guy, so I forgot about it. Sorry.”
“Oh, no,” Ryland said, “Mama was crying?” His eyes teared up and he stuffed his fist into his mouth, then hiccupped and spit it out.
Marco also looked sad. “I don’t like to hear that. It makes me want to cry as well. Why was our Mama sad?” He asked.
“I don’t know. But, Auntie Joan made Mama feel better, and I think whatever it was she’s gonna be okay,” Hunter said, trying to reassure himself as well as his brothers. “But, let’s agree to keep an eye on her, okay?”
“Okay,” both of his brothers agreed.
Done communicating, they all took a moment to stretch out in their cribs, roll around and drool. Having been together since they were alive, the triplets were comfortable with long silences.
Except for Marco. Marco always needed to be doing something.
“I’m bored,” he complained.
“Tell me about it,” Hunter agreed. “How long do they expect us to stay trapped in these dumb cages? We should do something about this. Hey, Ryland!”
“What?” Ryland said as his mouth opened into a deep yawn.
“You’ve got the loudest voice, would you like the honors?” Hunter asked.
Ryland felt his spirits lifting at the attention, even though it took him a moment to understand what Hunter was driving at. Then he nodded with pride. He wasn’t the biggest and the smartest in the group, but there was no doubt he was the loudest. “I’d love to.”
With his brothers watching on with great admiration and excitement, Ryland screwed up his face, took a tremendous deep breath, tensed every muscle in his body and bawled loud enough to bring everyone in the house running. Their mother was the first to come in, and as she tried to comfort Ryland, but Marco and Hunter took over and started crying as loud as they could until Auntie Sophia and Mamacita were brought in as comfort reinforcements and they made the decision to let the boys out of their cages.
In the kitchen, Ryland was given the first watch eavesdropping on the adults as they passed through. They hoped to get more intel for their plot to help Auntie Joan get happy, and to make sure their mother’s crying fit from earlier was just due to diaper rash or something and nothing permanent.
Chapter Four
ANTONIO FERRARO CURSED his luck as Joan Edwards walked out the café in the same moment as the man he was supposed to meet stepped into the café.
“Joan, wait up!” he called out, hoping the man wouldn’t recognize him. But the man did, holding up his hand in greeting. Antonio wanted to ignore him, walk past him, catch up to Joan and at least get her telephone number, but the man had reached him and he was pumping his hand. Antonio sighed. He needed this man’s help, he couldn’t afford to offend him.
“Señor Gracile, I assume?” he asked in his limited Spanish, as he tried to put Joan Edwards out of his mind.
“Si, Si, that’s-a me,” he said, grinning. Then his face changed and there was an unpleasant rumbling sound coming from the man’s lower half. He doubled over, his face taking on a chartreuse tint.
“Are you okay?
“Just a touch of the stomach flu, excusa me.”
Antonio stood aside and watched as the man hurried to the bathroom.
Antonio wanted to have sympathy for the man but he instinctively didn’t like him because he knew the man’s type. Another hard money lender, a man who would keep his Maserati as collateral to lend him money at absurdly high rates.
Señor Gracile had already told him that even after handing over the car he’d still have to wait two whole days for his money. Unfortunately, Antonio needed the money even with horrible terms, provided he got it before his next payment was due to a far more unsavory character – his bookie.
It was the whole reason he’d come to Barcelona. The reason he’d not chased after Joan.
Joan!
Antonio gave himself a mental head slap. Couldn’t he go look for her while the man was busy in the bathroom? He rushed to the exit and scanned in both directions, hoping to spot her, but he saw no sign. He considered picking a direction and trying to find her in the crowd, but he didn’t want to run the risk of pissing off his last hope of making his next payment to his bookie. He’d heard about the things that man and his thugs did when their clients were delinquent on their payments. He didn’t want to find out, which was why he’d arranged for this stop-gap loan.
Besides, why should he chase after Joan? She wanted nothing to do with him. She’d gotten her life together. That spark he thought he felt was just his mind, playing tricks on him. Joan didn’t need him in her life, and she’d said how she felt when she took off.
He thought about how well she looked.
She appeared to be sober and off drugs, and so healthy. She had meat on her bones for a change, which only made her more beautiful. And she had a baby.
His stomach twisted into knots, at the idea that there was another man in her life, a man that had given her a child, a man that obviously was taking care of her, making her happy. He recalled the time when he’d wanted to marry her, the time when he’d come home with an engagement ring. Then he recalled what happened after that, and he gave up on the idea of tracking Joan down at all.
He’d misjudged her, and she would probably never forgive him for that. If he truly cared about her, he would let her go and stay far away from her. She’d found someone. She was married, had a family and was happy.
As much as he wanted her, as much as his body was clamoring for her, he had to consider that he wouldn’t be doing her any favors by messing with her life. He’d screwed up a lot of things in his life, but, one thing he’d never been to his knowledge was a home wrecker. It wasn’t his style to mess around with a married woman.
Stepping back into the café, Antonio looked around for Señor Gracile, thinking that he’d probably come out of the bathroom by that point and was waiting for him at one of the op
en tables. But, he wasn’t there. Antonio wondered if the man was sicker than he’d made out. Perhaps he was still sick in the toilets.
Antonio started to head back when a group of new fans approached him. They wanted to do a selfie with him. He obliged them, keeping an eye on the bathroom door.
He was just about to excuse himself from the excited fans, when the door opened. But, instead of his money lender, two men came out of the bathroom, breathing hard.
They looked like rugby players, thick-necked and tough, and their faces were flushed.
Antonio had a wild and brief thought that the two men might have just had sex. He wasn’t judging them, he’d had plenty of sex in bathroom stalls, but with females only of course.
As the two men approached, Antonio decided to go check on his money source. Before he could take two steps, he was grabbed, and one of the men shoved something cold and metallic into his ribs. “Camminare,” said the man, and Antonio’s pulse quickened. was Italian.
Sweat broke out on his brow and he allowed the men to steer him out of the café, and then onto the street. These men had to work for his bookie, the notorious Dante Bissacco.
They guided him to a side street, then into a limousine. He got inside, expecting to see his bookie, but instead he saw one of Biassacco’s lieutenants. Carlo Minetti was a weasel-faced man who sneered at Antonio with distaste as he was pushed roughly into the car.
The two got in as well, sitting one on each side, and the one with the gun aimed it at his chest. Antonio found his words and he tried to act surprised, yes, but not afraid. “Carlo, what’s this all about? My payment’s not due until Monday.”
“Mr. Bissacco just wanted to know why you’d decided to leave Milan without telling him. He just wants to make sure that you’re not trying to weasel out of your payment, like last time.”
“I didn’t weasel out last time. I was only one day late; I explained what happened, there were extenuating circumstances.”
Minetti’s face darkened.
“Honest, you’ve got to believe me. I’ll have the money on Monday, I swear it.” Antonio hated the desperation in his voice, but he had to convince this man that he would make his next payment.
Minetti sat back in the leather seat, unbuttoning his cashmere coat as he pondered Antonio’s words. He pulled a nail file out of an inside pocket and began filing a nail.
Antonio felt sweat beading on his forehead and resisted an urge to swipe it away. He sat up and tried to look confident, brave. These men could smell fear and weakness, and they’d exploit it every time.
Finally, Minetti stopped smoothing out his fingernails and spoke, his voice calm and in control. “You weren’t thinking of borrowing the money, were you?”
Antonio’s chest tightened. That was exactly what he’d intended to do. His attempts to gamble to win the money he’d need to pay off the entire debt instead of just the next payment, hadn’t gone well, and there was no way he’d make the Monday payment unless he found someone to lend him the money, someone like Senor Gracile.
“You see, the boss, Mr. Biassacco, he doesn’t like it when his clients get overextended, see.”
“Borrow the money? No, no, of course not,” Antonio said, trying to laugh off the thought as if it were absurd, ridiculous, the last thing he’d ever do.
“So, the little weasel we just beat up in the bathroom wasn’t planning on lending you money?”
“No, no. I was thinking about selling my car, he was interested, but that wasn’t the main reason I came to Barcelona, I’m here for a family wedding.”
“Well, then, I guess we owe that man back in the café an apology for beating him up for no reason,” said Minetti. “But, maybe it’s you who should be apologizing. It’s your fault.”
Antonio dared to hope that his dressing down would soon be over. He looked at the door, willing one of the men to open it and let him out, but, instead, Minetti whispered something to the driver and the car moved out into traffic.
“Where are you taking me?” Antonio asked, as his throat tightened and his body tensed in fear.
“Back to your car,” said Minetti. Antonio didn’t like the menacing grin on his face. Antonio slumped back in his seat. He knew they weren’t taking him to his car. They were going in the opposite direction. Sweat dripped down his neck and his heart raced as the car drove further into the industrial part of the city. When the car stopped next to an empty lot, scattered with weeds and debris, between what looked to be two vacant, abandoned warehouses, Antonio’s heart hammered in his chest, and he tried to think what to do.
“Get out,” ordered the talking thug. Antonio spoke to the two men with guns, hoping to talk himself out of the situation, as he reluctantly stepped out of the car. “What are you doing? I’ll pay the man, I can get the money, I swear. You can’t kill me.”
The thug with a scar, and no verbal skills, let out a derisive snort.
The talking thug stepped forward. Antonio threw up his fists for protection.
“Relax,” he said, “We’re not going to kill you. Unless you try to resist us. Move,” he said, as he shoved Antonio into the center of the vacant lot.
Antonio’s pulse raced. “You screwed up by leaving Milan,” he said after they’d stopped. “You need to be punished. Take it. Take it like a man. Take it like the star you used to believe you were.”
The thugs roared with laughter at those words, reminding Antonio of the biggest mistake of his life. Whatever pain they would inflict on him now, couldn’t compare to that.
Antonio dropped his hands to his sides and sucked in his breath. He wasn’t sure what hurt more; the beatings, or the reminder that he’d screwed up his career, perhaps for good. These men and, more importantly, their boss had the evidence which could keep him from playing soccer for life. They had him by the short hairs.
The first few punches he did take like a man, keeping his hands at his sides, but after the third vicious hit knocked him onto the ground he couldn’t help trying to protect himself. It only made the thugs madder, and they began to kick him with their steel toed boots. Antonio felt something crack. He screamed in pain.
“Enough,” shouted the spokesthug, but his quiet partner had to put in one last blow.
Antonio rolled on the ground, bracing for more, but the men had backed off. He knew they’d cracked a rib. He gingerly lifted his hand to his face. For some reason, they hadn’t touched his face.
“Clean him off before you put him back in the car,” said the talking thug to the quiet thug. Antonio was yanked up to his feet and bit back the cry of pain. The talking thug eyed him with disgust, and then he spat on the ground.
“I’ll clean off myself,” he gasped, not wanting to be touched again. He wiped the dirt off his pants and walked back carefully to the car. He let himself inside and pressed close to the window, grateful to still be alive.
The two thugs got back into the front of the car, and the thug with the vocal skills, called in to the boss. He listened, then responded in Italian, which Antonio understood since he himself was Italian. “Oh, he understands, boss. We gave him a good working over. I have no doubt, that he’ll do whatever he must, to get you your money by the deadline.”
Antonio tried to cope with the pain as they drove back towards where he’d left his car. He kept his mouth shut, hoping for the best, and felt his spirits rise when the car pulled up behind his own. One of the thugs came around and shoved him into the street. He could hear the men laughing as they drove away and when he got to his car, he understood why. He’d parked in a no parking zone, and there was a bright yellow boot on his car.
“Fanculo!” swore Antonio.
Antonio extracted his luggage from the trunk of his car and, body aching with every step and a hand pressed tight against his shattered ribs, he began the slow walk into the city. He kept an eye out for a taxi, but one never came.
When he made it to his hotel he regretted the price of the room he’d booked. He tried to downgrade into something le
ss expensive, but the hotel desk clerk insisted that the hotel was fully booked and he could give it up if he wanted to, but he couldn’t get a different room. The pain in his ribs was making his eyes water. He was exhausted, heartsick, and he just wanted to sleep.
“Fine,” he said.
A bellboy took his bag away from him, and he took the elevator to his room. He tipped the bellboy more frugally than he usually did and felt guilty about it, but he had to start cutting corners somewhere. When the door clicked shut, he used the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, then lifted his shirt. Black and blue, with some contusions and some dried splashes of blood. The bastards.
He went back into the room and pulled out his laptop. Firing it up, he accessed the hotel’s Wi-Fi and did the search he’d been meaning to do for some time. This gambling was screwing up his life; he needed to get help.
He saw that there was a gambler’s anonymous meeting at a nearby church that would start in just over an hour. He set the alarm for a thirty-minute nap, but after five minutes of trying he couldn’t sleep because he was in too much pain. He called room service and ordered two beers and a bottle of ibuprofen. By the time the beers and the pills arrived, he’d showered, shaved and changed into clean clothes. He didn’t bother tipping the bellboy this time – he was out of time and didn’t know if he had any cash left anyways. He downed four pills and both beers as fast as he could, then headed to the lobby and out to the cathedral where the meeting was to take place.
He’d put on his incognito outfit, his long curls tied up and under a hat, and a pair of large sunglasses that hid most of his face. He wore a long coat that made him look portly instead of lean and athletic, and it was just ragged enough not to be mistaken as belonging to a famous and wealthy soccer star. He’d left Milan in haste so he hadn’t packed his raggedy shoes, but thanks to the incident with the thugs in the dirt lot his Italian loafers looked worse for wear.
When he made it to the stairs of the church, his ribs ached. He leaned over and held his side for a moment, tried to catch his breath and deal with the pain. The pain pills were working, and the beer had him calmed down, but the walk reminded him that he probably had some shattered bone that would need down time to heal. He decided that he’d spring for a taxi for the trip back, then order more beer, take more pain pills and try and sleep the rest of the day. Tomorrow he’d figure out how the hell he was going to find a buyer for his car, or how he would deal with the fine to get it out of impound? His head was down as shame washed over him. Had it come to this?