Page 30 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

I might have believed he’d only done it for himself, but he’d betrayed himself to me, not just from our night together, but from the way he’d glance over at me, analyzing me as I sat there in silence.

I was exhausted by the time we got off the plane in Sicily. A black car picked us up and drove us to the beachside villa in Syracuse. Giacomo brought me inside and locked me in my room before heading out to check out his new bike. I gazed out the window. I was sulky that he still didn’t trust me enough to let me that far out of his sight.

I wouldn’t have trusted me either.

He worked on his bike for hours, sullying the white t-shirts he’d just bought. I fell asleep and woke up again at dusk, my body confused about the change in time zones and exhausted. He didn’t come upstairs again until supper.

“Come. Time to eat.”

I followed him downstairs while he cooked quietly, allowing me water to drink and again, offering me wine.

“What are you making?”

He grunted as he chopped onions, trying to push back the inevitable tears that formed in the corner of his eye as a result of his chopping.

“You’ll see,” he growled.

I stifled a laugh as he failed at subtly wiping away his tears from the onions. Italy had set him calmer, more at ease.

“Is this where you grew up?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “Southern shore.”

“Oh.”

“I summered here with my father when I was sixteen. This was his private place.”

“Was?”

“He died, last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

Giacomo smirked, “He died doing what he loved best, trust me.”

The less I knew, the better, so I didn’t press him for more details. He continued cooking in silence again, thinking probably, about what we were doing here, about what we’d do next, about whether or not I was lying about knowing where the diamond was.

I wasn’t.

He served me dinner and as I ate, I could feel him watching me, curiously.

“Where are we going tomorrow?” He asked.

“Tomorrow?”

“I want to get this over with and get back to America.”

“You seem agitated.”

“People showed up at your warehouse within a few hours looking for you. They know what they’re after. We’ll be lucky if they aren’t here already.

“You think it’s Franco?”

“Or another Sicilian.”

“One of yours? Don’t you all have a code of loyalty or something?”

“You’d be surprised at how people change when a little bit of money enters the picture.”

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