Page 1 of Lost Prince

1

DIANA

Tension crackles through the D'Amato mansion like static electricity. It's been this way ever since Lazaro returned, his presence both a blessing and a curse depending on who you ask.

When I first started working here several months back, I'd catch snippets of hushed conversations among the staff about him. Lazaro D'Amato, the missing prodigal son, presumed dead. Many of the staff hinted at relief that he was gone. Others felt sad for his twin sister, Lana, inconsolable yet determined to find him.

When he walked into the house days ago, I didn’t see a volatile man ready to wreak havoc. No, he looked uncertain, lost. My heart went out to him. What would it be like to lose your memory? To be honest, I have some memories I wouldn’t mind forgetting. But it must be discombobulating to have your history erased. I mean, part of who we are is made up from our experiences, right? If you can’t remember your past, how do you know who you are?

I’m chopping vegetables as the kitchen staff move around like they’re on eggshells. Breakfast was already served and now I’m on to dinner prep.

"Did you see him this morning?" Maria, one of the housemaids, whispers to me as she grabs a tray of tea things for Mrs. D’Amato, Elio’s wife, who’s pregnant and switched from coffee to tea. "He always looks like he’s on edge of exploding.”

That’s not how I see it. He looks alert, but in a skittish animal sort of way. “I haven’t seen him this morning.”

“You’d think time away and memory loss would temper that boy’s behavior,” Anna, the head of the kitchen, says, though under her breath. She fears her boss, and I suppose for good reason. Although I’d heard rumors about the D’Amato family when I moved to Chicago, I wasn’t aware of the nature of their “business”. Even now, if I were interrogated, I wouldn’t be able to tell the cops about anything. They’re discreet.

I suppose their Mafia connection should bother me, but it doesn’t. I’ve blown around this world enough in my twenty years to know there really isn’t a line between good and bad. There’s just a lot of gray. For example, the foster family I had when I was ten, opening their home to care for kids like me who didn’t have families. Good people, right? Except when my foster father would get drunk and use me as his personal ashtray to put out his cigarettes or beat me when the mood struck him. That was bad.

“He seems less crazy than before,” Janey, the other housemaid, says.

“Yeah, well it’s just a matter of time,” Anna says, grabbing the saltshaker and jerking salt over her left shoulder as if her words might jinx things and she’s warding off the evil spirit of Lazaro D’Amato.

“His sister is happy to have him home,” I say, wanting to put a positive spin on the situation. What’s the point of focusing on the glass half empty if you have half a glass of something?

“Maybe she’ll get rid of that cop-boyfriend of hers now that Laz is back and clearly needs help,” Janey says.

I don’t know. Lana seems pretty smitten with the guy, much to her older brother’s consternation. It is odd that she’d fall for a law-and-order guy considering the family business, but looking at Henry, he seems equally enthralled with Lana.

“He’s a P.I. now,” Maria says.

“I give it six months, tops,” Janey adds.

“Before what?” Anna looks at her with narrowed brows.

Janey shrugs. “Lana sends him packing… or Elio makes him disappear.”

Anna shakes her head, tossing more salt over her shoulder. “Get to work.”

Janey takes the tray Maria was preparing and exits the kitchen. I focus on my work, prepping veggies for tonight’s dinner. My mind wonders to the first time I saw Lazaro. He followed an excited Lana into the house. She was beaming with happiness at having found him.

Lazaro didn’t have the same enthusiasm. He was gracious being introduced to his older brother and his family, but he looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to turn around and run back to the life he’d built over the last three years.

Lana had asked me to bring him some food, and I was eager to get an upfront and personal look at the fearsome Lazaro D’Amato. I took him a BLT and milk as I was told it was his favorite. Yes, he was fearsome. He was built like a freight train, large and hard, with a simmering energy. A scar ran down the side of his face that added to the fierce image of him but didn’t take away from his handsomeness.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know if I should be remembering you,” he’d said when I brought him his sandwich. The vulnerability in his voice made my heart ache. This wasn't the volatile man the staff whispered about. This was someone adrift, struggling to find his way back to shore.

Our exchange was short, although I would have liked to have stayed and talked with him. To help him settle in. But I work for the family. I have to remember my place.

"You can't keep hiding away like this, Lazaro," Lana’s voice carries into the kitchen. Immediately, we all quiet down, focusing on our work.

"I'm not hiding," Lazaro growls back. "I just don't know how to be who you all want me to be."

“Dr. Hernandez says these exercises might help trigger something."

“Maybe I don’t want to be triggered, have you thought about that?”

They seem to be lingering outside the kitchen as if they don’t want us to hear them squabble.

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