Page 132 of Destino

She closed her eyes. He extended his hand. She placed hers in his palm. He was the only one she could trust. And she intended to. For the past few years she had let everyone take care of things for her. This time she would have to do what she’d done since the day she left Virginia. Find the strength to take care of herself.

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“It’s a lie! A fucking lie! She isn’t dead.” A faint thread of hysteria was in the back of his voice. Lorenzo and the others stood silent. Giovanni paced with his hands to the side of his head. “No. It’s not Mira. I would know if it was Mira. I’d fucking feel it!”

“What is it? What’s happened?” Flavio asked entering the room with a slight hesitation and surprise in his hawk like grey eyes.

Giovanni paused. He turned stiffly, almost stumbling, and gave the man he trusted above all else a blue-eyed glare. The events of the next minutes came to him in flashes. Such as him grabbing Flavio and throwing him to the ground, followed by a flash of him pounding his fist into the old man’s face viciously. Each blow bringing forth a release of more hatred and rage than he ever knew lived within him. Something broke beneath his fist, possibly the old man’s jaw or chin. Blood sprayed from Flavio’s mouth as he tried feebly to ward off the attack with his arms. Another flash hit Giovanni in strobe like frequency. This time he felt constrained. He was lifted and carried out of the room by three of his strongest men as he yelled until his voice disappeared in hoarse croaks. And the flashes kept coming. Chaos. Shouting voices. The destruction of everything in his sight when he was forced into a room, happened in slow motion, as if his madness was winding down to nothing. And soon he realized it had. He had nothing. She was gone.

Later

Lorenzo wiped his hand down his face, taking in a slow breath. He felt so bone weary he dropped a hand to the wall to keep standing. Behind him he heard footfalls and glanced back. “What the fuck happened? Why did Gio attack Flavio like a lunatic?”

“Is he in there?”

“Yeah. I got three of the boys on him. He’s fucking lost it.”

“Mira Ellison is dead. Flavio may have had a part in it. The old man is in a bad way. I’m trying to contain it. Thedottoreis with Flavio now. I need Gio’s approval to take him to theospedale.”

“Shit! Are we sure she’s dead?” Lorenzo dropped his head back on the wall. Now both of the girls were gone. And no matter how you sliced it, this was on him. His cousin had never come apart this far. Ever. Not even after the shooting of Papa Tomosino and the killing of the Russians Lorenzo pinned the hit on. “What are we going to do?”

“What we have to.” Dominic stepped past him and threw open the door.

Giovanni stared at the television. He was brought to a guest room. It was a room the boys frequented to play cards and watch television. The Italian press was now reporting on Mira’s death. The screen then flashed again to her fashion event. Mira’s lovely face came up. She was being interviewed, and Fabiana was at her side translating.

“Oh yes. I love your country, absolutely love it! Italy is a dream. This is my dream come true. That’s why I moved here. It’s the beauty of Italy that I find inspiring the most. Oh and the men are nice too!”The reporter laughed, as did Mira. Giovanni felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.My fashion line for the fall was to encompass the spirit of Italia, and I hope I did that with this showing,”she beamed happily. Her bangs covered her brow and her hair was wound curly around her face. She wore a green blouse. She looked very much like the woman he met. Not the one who could barely stand when he left her. His angel.

On the screen Fabiana leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Mira nodded and said her goodbyes. The image froze with a screenshot of her smile. The dates 1964 to 1989 were beneath her.Mira Ellison the founder and head fashion designer ofMirabella’sdied today at the age of 25. She was killed in a bombing outside of her penthouse in New York City. She will truly be missed by her peers and friends throughout the fashion world.”

Giovanni, with a shaky hand turned the television off.

“Gio. We need to talk.” Dominic said.

Giovanni kept his back to his men. He wiped his hand down his face and cleared it of tears. He cleared his throat, though it was physically painful to speak. Every fiber in his bones, tendons, muscles hurt. “Go. Go and follow my orders. But you have a new one. Flavio Pricci is dead to me. He is no longer consigliere. Bury him tonight.” Giovanni lifted his gaze. “You will be the one to put the bullet in him Domi. You will be the one sitting in his chair.”

“Are you sure? I came to tell you Flavio needs medical attention…”

Giovanni shot Dominic a glare. Nothing else was said on the matter.

“Gio, I can stay.” Lorenzo offered.

Giovanni dropped in a chair. “Go.”

Left alone, he sat in silence. The shock and disbelief had numbed all of his senses. He couldn’t see well. His hearing was off, and he smelled and tasted nothing. He purely existed. He hadn’t risked his heart on a woman ever. And if he dared do so, he was prepared for rejection. This, however, was something he couldn’t live with. Her blood was on his hands. And he swore silently to get her justice.

Giovanni sat up, and then forced his legs to hold him as he stood. A light wave of dizziness gripped him but he barely swayed. He walked to the French doors in the room and drew them open. Out on the balcony he let the bright sunrays sober him, and his gaze lowered. Flavio was being helped out of theVilla Rossoby two of his men. The old man’s arms were draped over the shoulders of the men who assisted him on both sides. They handled him with care. Out of respect for his position and authority, they afforded him the dignity that even Giovanni would have forgone.

Flavio’s head lifted as they drew closer. He looked up at Giovanni. For a moment the exchange between them softened Giovanni’s heart. The man was the closest he’d had to a father since his own father’s death. The moment passed. Then he and Flavio knew there would be no reprieve.

Giovanni turned and went back inside slamming the doors to the balcony shut behind him.

Epilogue

Eight months later

In the middle of October a blanket of snow coated the roads, fields, hills and her five-bedroom cottage. Mira had found it to be a winter paradise at times, but that feeling was fleeting. Tonight the chill of an approaching winter seeped in through the windowsills and under the doors. She rubbed heat into her hands and rose from her favorite chair. In a thick, wool lined maternity robe and furry moccasin boots that reached just above her ankles, she opened the door to the patio at the back of her cottage and stepped out into the twenty degree weather. She didn’t mind the cold. She loved the protective cover it gave her. It was after eleven and her little bambina was up standing at salute in her belly. She couldn’t sleep and during nights like this she didn’t try. Hugging herself, she smiled and looked out at the faint dark outline of the mountains.

The baby kicked. Mira put her hand under her belly where the tenderness could still be felt. “You will go to sleep tonight, honey,” she said.

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