Page 48 of The Bonventi Secret
As I do, I think back to the diary. I need to find out who the hell M is and why R potentially killed him.
When it's just the two of us, I ask my first question, "In your family, who is someone you admire?"
He doesn't even hesitate. "My grandfather."
"Why?"
"Because of what he did. He came here with my grandmother, who was pregnant with my father, by the way, from Italy with nothing. He worked and worked to build our empire. People only know of the Bonventi name because of him. He's the reason I have all this, and he's the reason you will, too."
"And what about your parents?"
"My mother," he says and swallows his food, "God rest her soul. She died when I was 20. Cancer."
"Oh gosh, Enzo, I'm sorry," I say, feeling a weight in my chest. "I know it's hard. My parents are dead, too."
He nods. "Yes, I remember first meeting Gabriel when you two were in that foster home.”
"Yeah," I say and take a drink, “I don't like to think about all that."
"Don't blame you, and no need to be sorry about my mother. It was some time ago. She would have liked your fiery spirit. She had that, too."
"I would have loved to have met her. What was her name?"
"Teresa."
"Beautiful name," I say with a smile. His eyes tell me that he loved her dearly. Losing her must have been hard.
We eat for a few moments in silence as a servant comes in to clear some plates. Once they are gone, I continue. "And your father? What about him?"
Enzo stops eating and runs his tongue along his teeth.
"Not much to tell. He was difficult. Never satisfied. Power hungry," he says, and then his jaw becomes tense.
There's something there.
"You didn't have a good relationship with him?"
"Would I still be trying if I asked to move on?"
"Oh, um, yes, absolutely. Your grandparents then? Do you remember much of them?"
Enzo smiles. "Yes, they passed when I was in my late 20s, so I had a good amount of time with them, not as much as I'd want—but does anyone ever have enough time with loved ones?"
"Wow. I know that's a rhetorical question, but a powerful one nonetheless," I say and smile, pondering it.
"Well, I try," Enzo says and winks at me.
I finally feel like he's breaking down, losing the whole stiff Don persona.
I think back to the diary. It belonged to V. Bonventi.
"Your grandfather, what was his name?"
Enzo sits up, almost prideful. "Marcello Rocco Bonventi."
"Very nice. Very Italian," I say, and we laugh, but then I stop.
Wait. Who's V. Bonventi? Does the diary not belong to Enzo's grandfather?
