Page 52 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

My father took too many risks, even back then.

During the summers of my childhood, I’d had no concept of his work, but I knew we were well off and better off than any of the Romans we knew living in Illinois.

Riding felt good. The wind whipping around us as we sped down the highway at 80 mph and the rush of going so fast, gripping the handlebars as we led our powerful bikes down the road couldn’t be beaten.

As we raced to the house, I couldn’t help but think of Dahlia. She’d been on my mind since the accident and not knowing whether she was alive or dead grated on my mind more than it should have.

It’s the diamond, I told myself. She’s my best chance of getting the diamond.

Yes, that must be it.

But those flashes of her in my mind remained and for a moment, I allowed my desire to find her to not only be about the diamond. It was her soft coils of beautifully textured hair. It was her smooth skin, with its dark sepia color and honey undertones. It was the way she stared at me with her intense brown eyes that widened with dismay when she’d betrayed some coldness within me, or with desire when she’d tapped into some secret part of me that I kept buried from any Sicilian that I’d known.

I signaled to the men where we were to exit and we did, weaving down the small town roads until we came to the house which had been painted an olive green color since the last time I’d been out to the Midwest.

So many years had passed that I wasn’t sure if the person opening the door would be recognizable to me. Ten years is enough time for everything to change, including loyalties.

I gripped my gun in the holster, the steel cold from being exposed to the fresh highway air.

I knocked on 773 [REDACTED] and the door swung open. She was just as beautiful as I’d remembered her, and as Santo had. Her long hair had been dyed a reddish brown color. The freckles on her face from when we were kids were still there.

“Ciao, Angelica.”

“Ciao, Giacomo.”

She kissed each one of my cheeks, a broad smile on her face. I stepped aside and exposed my company. She smiled when she noticed Pietro and welcomed him into an embrace with wide, open arms. Again, she pecked him on each of his cheeks. When it was time to greet Santo, Pietro and I shifted to the side, uncomfortable.

“Angelica.”

“Santo.”

She glanced away bashfully, but before she could beckon her ex-boyfriend into a hug, her husband rounded the corner.

“Ay! Giacomo!” He boomed, his loud voice echoing my name across the neighborhood.

The fat, balding man, twenty years Angelica’s senior stepped in front of her and bestowed hugs and kisses upon all of us, even Santo.

“Giuseppe, long time no see.”

“Si, si, si…”

He took us inside and offered us espresso and biscotti. Angelica served us real Italian coffee and then bustled away to work on preparing a large dinner. An Italian woman would never allow us to leave her house without ensuring our stomachs were stuffed to the point of bursting.

We spoke over coffee.

“I need help tracking down Franco Beronicensi.”

Giuseppe laughed, “What has that Sardinian bastard gotten himself into, eh?”

“I’m serious, G. He has someone that I care about, at least the Sardinians do.”

Giuseppe scowled.

“Is she… black?”

“Yes.”

I ignored his tone as he said the word ‘black’ as if the word itself was a slur. I wasn’t in the habit of changing older Italians’ minds.

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