Page 2 of Giovanna

I raise my eyebrows at Paul and he just shakes his head slightly, unfazed.

“That’s enough, Francesca. You will get on that plane or Sandy will have Massimo put you on it.”

“Massimo doesn’t want to come home either! We have a life here. What do you want from me?! What could I possibly have that you need after all this time? I know you don’t miss me because that would require you to be capable of human emotions!”

Massimo may have told her that he doesn’t want to come home, but he will do exactly as he is told. Just like he did when I sent him over there to babysit her and break up her relationship with that posh idiot two years ago.

His deep voice mumbles placating nonsense in the background as he tries to soothe her. My soft-hearted son will hate seeing her so distressed. They love each other more than anyone else in the world. It’s a pity he’s gay, it would have been easy to marry them off to each other otherwise.

“I’m very busy. You are coming home; whether that is with your dignity intact or not is entirely up to you. Your mother is looking forward to seeing you.” Paul hovers his finger above the ‘end call’ button long enough to hear one last scream of frustration from Francesca before cutting her off.

“If your boy can get her on the plane without sustaining any injuries I’ll buy him a beer,” Paul rolls his eyes.

Chapter One

Giovanna

Rich tomatoey smells tempt me as I jog past the kitchen calling “hey” to Peta’s bent-over form. She is on her hands and knees, her head deep in a maple wood cupboard, but I make out her muffled “Hiya, love” in response.

I’ll be down later to sample whatever it is she is cooking.

The woman cooks like an Italian nonna, but she hasn’t got a drop of Italian blood in her. She’s a true blue Aussie. Being married to my father for 26 years should count for something though. A fuckin’ medal for having the patience of a saint for a start.

I head upstairs and down the wide central hallway that acts as a spine for our private living quarters. The first floor of our home can be like Sydney Central Railway Station with all of my father’s men coming and going, but the second floor is for our family.

Only a select few get to set foot in Dad’s home office. Those important enough to be part of discussions and those who won’t live long enough to share their experience with anyone.

Calling it a ‘home office’ doesn’t do the room justice. In the middle of the second floor, it takes pride of place. We have corporate offices in town, but this office is where the real decisions get made. It is the symbolic centre of the MarinoFamiglia.Cosa Nostra.

Like the rest of the house, the ceilings in the office are high. Shelves line most of the walls, from floor to ceiling, full of books that Dad collects but never reads. He likes to appear well-read, but he isn't.

There is a big central fireplace at the back of the room which, again, is there only for aesthetics given we live in Australia and 20 degrees celsius is considered chilly.

His desk is huge and ostentatiously carved and the chairs for those who come to see him are heavy antiques. A whisky bar with crystal decanters and glasses stands next to a plush leather sofa in the corner. Everything screams prestige and power. Even the ever-changing rug in front of his desk that everyone knows obscures more than one dark stain.

My footsteps are hurried and I’m hoping that this meeting will be a quick one. Today has been a bloody nightmare and fitting in a catch-up with Dad and two of my brothers has fucked up my plans.

“Dad,” I acknowledge him and sit down in one of the three antique chairs in front of his desk.

Naturally, I’m the first one here. Matteo will be here next, almost exactly on time, and then we will all sit waiting for his royal highness Elio to grace us with his presence.

Dad looks up from his computer and I’m struck by how much he has aged in the past few years. He’s 70 and his once impressive thick black hair, always combed back, is now almost entirely grey. His big nose, broken several times over the years, seems to have grown larger and ruddier, while the rest of him has shrunk. Once he had a few inches on my tall 5’10 frame, but now we look about the same height. All three of my brothers tower above us both.

“Giovanna,” he states plainly. “Ah, and Matteo right on time,” he adds.

Matteo squeezes my shoulder before taking the chair to my left. He drops into it heavily with a sigh, the world appearing to rest on his shoulders. I observe him carefully, wishing (not for the first time) that I could shoulder some of the load he’s had to bear in his 33 years of life.

“What are the odds onSportsBetthat Elio will be late?” Matty drawls, needling our father. We all hate lateness, but Dad is infamous for his intolerance of it. Dad just grunts in response and goes back to reading his computer screen.

Ten minutes later, Elio breezes in with all the confidence of a man who knows he need not hurry because people will wait for him. With a wide smile that is well known to make panties drop in any room, and dressed the part in an Armani suit, my brother looks every bit the heir to an enormous fortune and the throne of Sydney’s mafia.

“Dad, how’s it going?” he sticks on the charm offensive immediately, winking at Matty and me.

“Sit.” Dad is not in the mood. “Right, kids. Shit is about to change.”

The three of us shoot glances at each other. I don’t know about them, but I thought this was going to be a pretty casual discussion. Apparently not. I can’t help but sit up straighter in my chair.

“You might have noticed, I’m old and not getting any younger. Anyway, the doc reckons I’m going to have a heart attack or stroke if I don’t get my blood pressure down. I’ve got Atrial Fibrillation - whatever the fuck that is…Oh, don’t look at me like that I’m not fuckin’ dying!”

---