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The Family Secret

Page 18

by Daniele Botti


  The moment she was deemed fit to walk, Megan was allowed to take her outside the halls in a wheelchair, and let Paula walk two to three times per day within her comfort level, to prevent any blood clots from being stationary for too long.

  “What hospital are we in?” Paula asked, looking at the green plants lining the corridors at regular intervals, with windows that looked outwards to Rome.

  “It had a long Italian name, but it’s a university hospital. I’m guessing it’s one of the top ones, considering it’s near a couple of embassies,” Megan shrugged.

  “You are Italian,” Paula deadpanned. “Long Italian name shouldn’t be an excuse for you.”

  “Well, it is. I do mean it was long, like a whole sentence.”

  The young millionaire stopped walking, taking support from a nearby window and stared outside. As the midday sun shone down on the city, she tried to parse just how absurd her life had become.

  Was it due to having a near-death experience? Usually, Paula would be on the warpath, demanding information on when, where, and why she was at a place at that particular moment in time if she did not know. Now here she was, on vacation went horribly wrong, ignoring all emails from work while rereading a letter from the man she admired almost daily without working up the nerves to reply to him.

  “Is something wrong?” Megan asked.

  “Nothing aunty, just trying to figure out how weird my life is,” Paula mused. “While I remember, did you get that journal from the hotel?”

  Much of their things had slowly found their way from the hotel to the hospital room, where Megan had gradually turned to sleep again. The VIP room had two sofas and a couch, along with a fridge and a TV and an attached bathroom. It was designed to have no trouble for a patient and a family member to cohabiting it.

  “Yep,” said Megan. “Do you want to go back and read it again?”

  “Yeah,” Paula said. Since being shot by Gianluca, she had not wanted to reread the journal. The man was bitter to the core, maybe even a heartless monster. But Paula knew, people did not just become that way so quickly. What sort of man was her grandfather to have raised someone like that? “I want to know what happens next.”

  “Okay,” Megan said, bringing her wheelchair up to her, but Paula shook her head.

  “I’ll be fine. It will take a little longer to get there, but I can get there on my own.” Paula pushed off the ledge, putting her right foot forward, pausing, and then her left, minding her upper body. If she exerted herself too much, she would have to breathe deeply, and that pain was a bitch to deal with when her painkillers were starting to wear off.

  Back in her bed twenty minutes later, Paula held the black journal again, running her hand over the blank cover. She slowly opened it, flicking through the pages, before coming back to where she had left off.

  Paula Lindsay began to read about the downfall of Leonardo Bianchi.

  9.

  Wolf (II)

  From that day Gianluca decided to become the next head of the Bianchi family, he would have dreams, strange dreams. At first, he chalked it up to stress.

  His dreams with nothing good happening in them. It was one death after another, and he was always there, standing out like a sore thumb against the colored backgrounds in his monochrome existence.

  Gianluca couldn’t figure out why, until the event, he saw in his dreams began to translate into reality, the deaths he saw in sleeping dreams turned in to waking reality.

  It was unreal.

  The people in his dreams were often his opponents, and Gianluca staked out his main rival once, a man whose he did not know, but did know was a notorious accountant, getting people into impossible debts, and turning those debts into slavery.

  Gianluca wanted him dead. He dreamed of killing the man. One nice shot right between his eyes as he turned around, squinting to see who was holding a gun to his face in the middle of the night.

  The upcoming mafia boss saw the man die in his dream, and the moment he awoke, he left the house in a craze, trying to track down whoever would kill the man and shake his or her hand.

  A small difference was present this time. The man was still alive once Gianluca reached the area, a small collection of offices in square buildings, one of the few places where legitimate business was conducted. The paved streets and substantial greenery combined with the cleanliness of the whole area screamed high profile.

  The sky was overcast, and the man he could not name waited, checking his Rolex – the youth couldn’t tell which model - every so often. He was dressed in a black overcoat, the looks of which made it seem like a single brass button costed more than another man’s entire suit.

  Gianluca watched, anticipating the moment, slowly taking out his own gun. He had no doubt that the accountant was armed as well; with the kind of lifestyle he led, he couldn’t afford to be. If he caught sight of Gianluca at this hour, he would shoot first and ask later. It was better to be prepared.

  But the killer was not showing up.

  He was growing impatient. Had his dream been wrong? Usually, the death had occurred by the time he reached the place of incidents, although its timing did suggest that the events had begun to transpire after he dreamed of them, not while he dreamed, or before. Gianluca had checked, of course.

  The overcast sky rumbled with pregnant storm clouds. Gianluca jumped at the sudden sound, having been focused on nothing but his target. This stirred the accountant, who turned sharply towards him, eyes squinting on his broad face to see who it was, his hand reaching inside his coat to withdraw his weapon.

  Gianluca gave him no chance, aiming his own gun and firing. The bullet lodged right between the target’s eyes, the shell clattering to the ground, following by a dull thud as the accountant’s body slid to the ground.

  He lowered his gun, amazed and shocked at what he had done, before getting the hell out from the place. The man kept walking through the streets, silently, making no commotion and raising no suspicion.

  Reaching his residence, an old villa being remodeled, he walked straight into his home office and collapsed on a mesh, office chair, not turning on any lights. The man was still for a moment, before he got up again, walked to the bookshelf and removed a bottle of brandy hidden behind an unusually thick record book, before returning to his chair.

  The blond uncorked the bottle with his teeth, and unceremoniously took a gulp of the rare alcohol like it was water, a little voice in the back of his mind trying to remember how old the bottle was. The adrenaline fading, he realized just how out of breath he was.

  Gianluca had killed the man he despised, even considered his rival perhaps. Up until now, in his dreams, not everyone who died was an object of his hate. Some of them were entirely coincidental deaths as well, such as car accidents, the targets of random thugs, revenge at the hands of the family of the people whose lives they had ruined; dead in ways they could have generally avoided except for tiny coincidences.

  What did it add up to? He wondered, finishing half the bottle of brandy that night and waking up with a mild hangover.

  “I’ve heard great things about you, my boy,” Leonardo said the next time they met. “It seems you are ready at last. I have a mission for you.”

  Who was Gianluca to refuse, when his hands had already been dyed with blood? For the first time in his life, Leonardo gave him an assassination assignment. The target was a sex-trafficker this time. She was an unrelenting woman who had once been a victim of the trade but had now turned into an oppressor herself.

  The picture he was shown was of an attractive middle-aged woman, her kind face giving a warm, motherly aura, smiling and wearing no makeup. The shine of her hair and texture of her skin of the unfiltered photo clued Gianluca to a high-end healthy diet and access to quality beauty products.

  Gianluca went to bed that night with a heavy feeling in his heart and dreamt of her, the woman
sitting by her dressing mirror, dressed in a beautiful violet gown. Her tanned skin was glowing, and her hair was done up in an intricate bun held together by ornamental chopsticks.

  Next to her was a glass of champagne, within her grasp. If only the drink were poisoned, he wouldn’t have to go out and kill her and cover his tracks.

  “If only she would die here,” Gianluca thought. Looking into the mirror; however, he was startled. He could see his own reflection, dressed fashionably instead of his sleepwear, void of any colors.

  “What the hell...?” Gianluca said out loud, before clapping his hand to his mouth. There was no need to be quiet, it seemed. The lady appeared to have not heard him. He looked into the mirror, testing his movements. Once again, he turned to his target, and said, “Hello,” but she gave no response.

  The woman was oblivious to him, adjusting her bra beneath her dress like she was totally alone. Once done, she gave her appearance one last glance and reached for her glass of bubbling champagne.

  If only the glass were poisoned, Gianluca remembered thinking only a few moments ago.

  The woman put her lips on the glass and titled it, half the liquor spilling on her chest, the little she had managed to drink falling down from her foaming lips. She slumped to the floor, thrashing and convulsing until she went listless.

  Gianluca recognized the signs of cyanide poisoning at once; he had acquired the chemical himself for the very purposes of assassinating this woman. Was this just another coincidence? Or did he have some sort of control over what he dreamed? His heart rate was elevated, and he felt no better than if he had killed the woman himself, despite it being a dream.

  It was night. If he didn’t leave his house to complete the mission, would that woman still be dead? He didn’t even know her name. Should he try to interfere? In the end, he did not leave until the first rays of sunlight peeked through his window, heading straight towards Leonardo’s house. He need not have bothered, as his cellphone rang midway.

  “Congratulations my boy, you’ve done well,” the old man said, and Gianluca knew the woman was dead. “My observer tells me it was a spotless job.”

  “So it was.” He was distracted, mind whirring in a thousand different directions. “I’m glad I was able to live up to your expectations.”

  After a month, he was given his next assignment. Inside, he felt sick the first few times, then slowly but surely, he got better at killing, like he had at everything else.

  Inside, he told himself that old man Leonardo had no one else, just like the young man called Gianluca had no one else. Leonardo relied on him to carry out his legacy, while Gianluca relied on the old man to guide him for the future, incorporating his ideals in his dealings.

  The people the Bianchi family protected even started to view him as a hero, standing against the corrupt system, which made life heaven for the rich and hell for the poor.

  It was on a late-night when Gianluca was out drinking with Aleando, one of Leonardo’s close friends that everything he had worked hard for became undone. Alcohol had pried their lips loose, and Gianluca was in a talkative mood. He was in a casual sweater and jeans, the whole day dedicated to rest and socializing. Aleando was in a black, three-piece suit as usual.

  “I never thought I’d do all this, you know. I mean, I was always willing to. Fancy words don’t get through to a man with a knife whose been hungry for three days, and you’re just an orphan no one would miss,” he said, seated at a private bar that was owned by Aleando. “Who’d have thought I’d be here now, doing everything I can for his sake.” For the sake of a man who he had come to consider as a surrogate father, he did not say. He was not drunk, just tipsy, unlike Aleando.

  “Leonardo’s specialty,” said Aleando with surprising coherence, sliding his glass of scotch back and forth on the counter. “Is that he knows what he can of who, and when. Good, he found you when he did, his own son was a disappointment.”

  “His own son?” Gianluca asked, feeling quite satisfied with the failure of Leonardo’s spawn. If he couldn’t fulfill his fathers’ wishes, what kind of son was he? “Whatever became of the bastard?”

  “Oh, he lives in America. Quite successful, Leonardo gave him some money to start up a business, and now he’s a millionaire.”

  Gianluca’s hand spasmed, but he clamped down on the visible display of anger. Aleando, face blushed and not keeping any tally of his drinks, didn’t notice. “Really? You’re shitting me. He had a son like that, and he didn’t make sure he stayed in Rome?”

  “No. Bianchi had a daughter too. Decided they weren’t cut out for the life when they were a couple of years old, left them in an orphanage in New York. Kids lived okay, went to public schools, worked jobs, had normal lives. Has his own company, Lidia or Lindsay corporation or something...” Aleando broke off, downing another shot and calling it a night. “Anyway, think I’ve had enough.”

  “Yeah,” said Gianluca, a storm brewing inside of him. “You have.” He got up, knowing that a patron would lead him away to his VIP room upstairs, and walked outside.

  “Sir, it’s snowing. We can prepare a room for you.” One of the bar’s workers, dressed in a standard black and white bartender outfit offered. She was a pretty little thing, blond hair, pale skin. Ukrainian perhaps, Aleando had a habit of picking up illegal immigrants.

  “No thanks,” he said, voice sounding hollow even to his own ears, “Bring me my coat instead. Can you drive?”

  “Yes, I can drive you home.” A member of the Bianchi family like him had certain privileges he used every now and then. Getting chauffeured home was one of them.

  The girl obeyed, fetching his coat she had taken upon entry into the VIP lounge of the bar. Gianluca couldn’t even recall its name and muttered no word of thanks to the worker as she brought his dark blue winter coat.

  Stepping outside, he lit a cigarette, puffing it to keep it going, but not really smoking it. Pinching the filter between this thumb and finger, he kept the lit end shielded in his palm against the cold, winter wind.

  He had better clothes now, and fat on his body. The wind did not cut so deeply, but the young man still hated winter. More than a decade ago he was an orphan on the street, no one looking his way, sleeping on cardboard boxes in abandoned buildings.

  The door opened behind him, and the girl who had brought him his coat was now dressed as well, wearing a brown jacket with a fur-lined hoodie and matching boots at the end of her black jeans. “Are you ready to go, sir?”

  He reached into his pocket and dropped his car keys in her hand. She did not ask which car he owned; you know these little things about the family. Moments later, she drove up in a black Maserati Quattroporte, formerly Leonardo’s, 2015 model. Gianluca dropped his cigarette, puffed only once, and dragged his heel over it, before laying down in the back seat of his car.

  “Home, sir?” The girl asked.

  He nearly laughed. What was home?

  “Yes. Home.”

  When the morning came, he found himself still sleeping in the backseat of his car. Memories came rushing back to his head, followed by a pounding headache. Somehow, he had gotten into an argument with the girl who drove him home, despite her best attempts to get him into a proper bed.

  “Shit!” He got up, still feeling sleepy, and made his way from the garage to his bedroom, pausing in the kitchen to gulp down some water. He washed his face using the hot water in the sink, feeling empty inside.

  So old man Bianchi had a son, a son who got to live the high life, while here Gianluca struggled each day to prove his worth. Was all of Leonardo’s pride an act? Was he some replacement, an orphan picked off the street and molded into his ideal heir? All this time, he had been led by the nose, while he had burned the night oil, killed and buried evidence for the Bianchi family’s activities outside the law.

  Dragging his feet to the bed, Gianluca swore at himself, cursing the worl
d and his existence. He had been played big time. He should have questioned Leonardo’s gifts more. No one just picked up a nobody and showered them with investments beyond their wildest dreams. He thought the old man had no one who could have met his expectations, but it turns out he did, only his real son got to live his dreams, while Gianluca, the replacement, was stuck carrying Leonardo’s ideas.

  “I will get you all,” Gianluca promised, feeling drained of all energy as he laid in bed. His phone would start ringing soon, but he was in no mood to work today. How could he, the sky had come crashing down on him? Let it all go to hell, he decided.

  “All this time, I thought I was sacrificing for the honor. The only thing I did end up sacrificing was my honor. Old man,” the word left a bitter taste in his mouth, “Just you wait. I will show you.”

  10.

  Relapse

  She put the journal down, closing her eyes and sinking into the pillow at her back. She tried to process how her grandfather could have made such an obvious, clueless, stupid mistake.

  The way he wrote about Gianluca was like he was writing about another son, there was no doubt about that. He may have even considered him one, which caused Paula to shudder. That would mean she had been shot by someone who could have been her uncle, had her own immediate family stayed as a part of the mafia.

  Leonardo noted that a while after slating Gianluca to be the leader, the young man had gone off, not even flinching when sent to negotiate (Paula was sure torture was involved) rivals or hesitating to kill, whereas before he would be distraught for a day every time he was forced to.

  His young protégé had grown apathetic, and that worried Bianchi, going by his writings. Not just his words, but the script as well. In some places, the sentences became illegible, the strokes of the pen becoming rigid and exaggerated.

 

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