Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

Angelo

My mother comes downstairs as I exit the dining room after breakfast. She's wearing a camel-colored Dior coat, a Hermes scarf, and a Louis Vuitton handbag over her arm. Since we made our money, my father has turned her into a walking luxury brand. It's an overkill. He's trying to make up for those days none of us can forget but will never mention.

"Morning," I say, the nagging guilt and questions from yesterday still burrowing like splinters under my skin.

She pulls on a pair of gloves and stops at the bottom of the staircase with a soft smile on her face. Her words are equally soft, as if she's scared to speak up, scared she'll be heard. "Good morning."

I stop in front of her. "Where are you going?" It's early. My father is still sleeping.

"To the store. We're out of rice. I'll get some oranges while I'm there. I know how much you like those ones from Morocco. They're sweeter than the local varieties. Has Adeline left?"

"Five minutes ago."

She frowns. "I was going to say goodbye. I lost track of time while getting ready. Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"I'll drive you," I say on impulse.

She looks taken aback. "That's very kind of you, but I know how busy you are."

She says it as if I never have time for her, because I don't. I don't give her the attention she deserves. I'm taking her too much for granted. We all are.

"I don't have anything planned for the morning." I take my key from my pocket. "The sun is out. A drive will be nice."

She blinks.

She doesn't believe me. She knows better than anyone the paper stack on the desk in the study is higher than the Tower of Pisa. There's much to be dealt with, too much, and the pile is only getting bigger while there's never enough time.

"All right," she says, her smile uncertain, but she goes ahead and picks up the basket next to the door.

As I escort her outside, she shoots me a sidelong glance. She's questioning my motives for driving her. I can't blame her, seeing how seldom I go anywhere with her. I rarely make time for anything or anyone outside of business.

The man who takes care of the cars is new. He's polishing my father's Mercedes in the driveway.

I throw him the key. "Get my car. Is the tank full?"

"Yes, sir," he says, catching the key and running to take the basket.

When he brings the car around, I seat my mother and take the road over the mountain to the village in the valley.

My mother looks at me as I park in a lot on the outskirts of the town. "We're not going to Bastia?"

"There's a good market here. It's quieter. Less pollution."

She says nothing as I get out of the car. I go around and get her door. She pushes oversized sunglasses over her face while I get the basket from the back.

The market is set up on the square under the canopy of Corsican pine trees. The morning is fresh. Our breaths make white puffs in the air. I pull my coat tighter and flick up the collar. The cobblestone street is wet, already scrubbed clean by the bar and café owners who've put their chairs out on the pavement. Despite the cold, a few elderly people sip espresso at the tables. They look up as we pass, avert their eyes, and turn their faces away.

"We should go straight to the supermarket," my mother says. "We can get everything there. It'll save time."

I watch her closely, trying to read her. She's nervous.

"I'm not in a hurry," I say, the muscles around my eyes tightening in an involuntary reflex. "Let's go through the market. I'd like to see it."

My mother walks a step ahead of me with her head held high and the basket swinging from her arm. She looks small and thin against the backdrop of the sturdy villagers, more like a malnourished child than a grown adult.

A bustle of activity greets us on the square. Local farmers are offloading crates of parsnips and leeks from vans, and women are filling baskets with olives, tomatoes, goat's cheese, and bunches of dried thyme that they display on the tables.

We walk through the rows, my mother inspecting the goods, and at each table, we're met with the same reaction. The men turn their backs, and the women look away.

I witness the behavior with a nasty suspicion growing in the pit of my stomach. Anger pushes up inside me as we're given the same disrespect stall after stall that we pass. My mother doesn't stop anywhere, not at the rice seller from Camargue or at the fruit vendor from Morocco. Instead, she heads for the supermarket on the other side of the square where a teenager with a nose ring sits behind the cash register.

The guy doesn't look up from his phone when we enter. He rings up the oranges and rice that my mother puts on the counter without as much as glancing at us.

Yeah. That's not going to work for me.

Grabbing the basket, I take my mother's arm and drag her to the door.

"Hey," the guy says, finally lifting his head. "What about this stuff? Are you buying it or not?"

I don't bother to answer.

"Angelo," my mother exclaims. "What are you doing?"

I cross the road and push open the door of the general store. The chime of a bell announces our entry.

"I'll be right there," a man calls from a room at the back. "Help yourselves in the meantime."

The place is a far cry from the supermarket with its wilted vegetables and soggy lettuce that are crammed into rows of refrigerators. Here, the fresh produce are presented in crates and neatly arranged on trestle tables. The tomatoes are fat and red and not half-frozen. Local and organic products are displayed on wooden shelves. Dried sausages hang from the beam over the counter. A whole salted ham stands on a slicing block. The space smells of paprika and cloves. It's warm inside, cozy, not freezing like in the generic supermarket.

My mother looks at me like she did in the car.

Ignoring the quiet plea in her eyes, I push the basket into her arms. "The quality looks better here."

Her voice is soft. "Angelo."

"You wanted rice. Get it. And the oranges too. Take some extra. Papa likes his orange juice freshly squeezed."

Her manner is quietly accepting like when my father gives her an order. She's never said no—neither to him, nor to us—but she has that way about her that says, Don't say I didn't tell you so. It's the same look she wore when she warned us not to go too high on the swing, but we did it anyway and came home with scraped knees and bleeding shins.

She takes wild rice, my father's favorite, and a few oranges.

A man, who I presume to be the owner, comes out of the backroom just as she carries the basket to the counter. Dusting his hands on the striped apron tied around his waist, he slides his gaze from my mother to me. His expression becomes shuttered. He's in his fifties, old enough to know who we are.

My mother unclips her handbag and takes out her wallet.

Pursing his lips, he pushes the basket back toward my mother.

The fury that's been building since we set foot in the village explodes. In two long steps, I'm in front of him, curling my fingers around his nape. His eyes bulge as I squeeze.

"Ring it up," I grit out.

He shakes his head as much as he can in my hold.

I push, knocking his head three times on the counter. "Ring. It. Up."

He braces himself with his hands on the wood, not fighting my grip, but he shakes his head again.

I'll crack his fucking skull open.

My mother leans her back against the counter. She looks away, yet she doesn't tell me to stop. She knows I won't listen. Whatever she says won't matter. She's not a stranger to the violence running in our veins. My father has been careless at times, letting her witness things she shouldn't have seen.

I bang the shop owner's head on the counter again. "Why won't you take our money?"

He grunts at the impact.

My voice is mocking, my smile thin. "Do you think it's dirty?"

"I didn't mean to disrespect you," he stutters. "I can't charge you. It's on the house."

I don't think so. Holding him down while digging my fingers into his neck, I take a few bills from my pocket and slam them down in front of him. "Look at the money."

He lifts his gaze to me.

I apply enough pressure to make him shuffle his weight. "I said look at the fucking money." A little more, and I can make him pass out. I know exactly where and how hard to press, but I want him lucid.

Slobbering, he squints at the bills.

"Good," I purr. "Does it look dirty?"

"No." He sniffs. "No, sir."

Shifting my hold, I grab a fistful of his hair and rub his nose in the money. "Does it smell bad?"

He mumbles something unintelligible.

I push harder, flattening his nose. "I can't hear you."

"No," he cries out in a nasal voice.

I let him go with a shove, slamming his nose down hard. He bounces to his feet, cradling his nose between his palms. A drop of blood drips from his nostril and splashes on the hundred-euro-bill on top of the stash of money. It paints a big splatter in the middle with a few red dots around.

"Keep the change," I say, taking the basket and handing it to my mother before leading her out by her arm.

We say nothing on the way home.

I only speak when I stop in front of the house. "How long has it been like that?"

She stares straight ahead. "You know how it is in small villages."

Just about forever then.

I turn to face her. "From now on, you take a man with you when you go shopping."

She lets that sink in before reaching for the door handle.

"And you go to the village." I clench my jaw. "You will shop at the market and anywhere else you damn well please."

My mother gets out. So do I, but I hang back, leaning in the open door as I watch her walk to the house with her shoulders squared and her expression hidden behind those glasses that obscure half of her face.

Heidi exits and comes down the steps to take the basket.

At the front door, my mother turns around. "Aren't you coming?"

"I have business to take care of. I'll be home for lunch."

She nods and disappears into the house.

My grip on the roof of the car is hard. I feel like punching something. Someone. I loosen my fingers one by one and get back into the car.

The new man runs up. He takes off his cap and clutches it in his hands. "Do you want me to park the car, sir?"

"No." I study him through the window, lowering it a crack. "It's Cusso, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"It'll probably need a wash when I get back."

"Yes, sir."

He steps back when I pull off. I don't close the window. I open it all the way, letting the cold air clear my head. Anger has a way of messing with my mind. I don't see things straight when fury obscures my reason.

Even though I haven't been there, I don't need to put the location where I'm headed into the GPS. I know this island like the back of my hand. I know the roads and where they lead, even the ones I've never travelled on.

While I drive, I activate my phone via voice command. Our lawyer left a message to say he'll pick up the contract Edwards signed in the afternoon. He'll ensure that copies are made and validated with a police affidavit before the original is locked in the safe. That's good to know, but it's not the message I'm interested in. There's still nothing from Sabella. Roch sent me a text yesterday to let me know he replaced the phone Sabella threw into the sea.

If she thinks she can get rid of me that easily, she's got me figured out all wrong.

My thoughts alternate between Sabella's visit at the golf estate and what this morning's events mean until, a good two hours later, I take a dirt road that snakes into a crevice between two hills. It's only a little over a hundred kilometers from our house, but the narrow, treacherous mountain roads make driving slow.

A layer of snow covers the ground. The white is a dirty brown at the bottom of the gorge where it's been trampled to slush. A few tents and shacks stand haphazardly around a big fire pit near a frozen stream. It's neither a village, nor a farm. It can't even be called a settlement. A funnel of smoke rises from the dying embers in the pit, dispersing into the air. Even the sky looks grayer here, like a scene belonging in a black-and-white picture.

I don't dare drive all the way to the bottom. The tires will get stuck in the mush. I pull off where the road widens, not that I expect other traffic here, and get out.

A few kids come running at the sight of my car. They're black-haired and snot-nosed with weather-hardened skins.

"You want weed?" the oldest of the lot asks.

Freckles dust his nose. On closer inspection, I notice that his skin isn't as freckled as it's dirty. Their clothes are tattered. Roughly knit jerseys of mixed colors and threads hang on their frames. Their toes stick through the holes in their shoes. One kid's shoes are stuffed with crumpled newspaper to fill up those gaps.

"You want fucking weed or not?" the kid says, taking a flip knife from his pocket and showing me the blade.

My tone is emotionless. I'm still processing the sight, not sure what to make of it. "No."

He swings the knife in my direction. "Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Yeah." A younger kid wipes snot from his nose with the back of his hand. "What's your business here?"

"Where are your parents?"

The oldest who's obviously in charge shrugs. "Who knows?"

A tiny one with a musical voice says, "They haven't been home in a long time."

The voice belongs to a girl. Her hair is cropped short, and her tiny frame is wrapped in dirty rags. At first sight, I mistook her for a boy.

"Grandpa is home," she says, pointing with a dirty fingernail at one of the shacks.

I make my way down the slippery path with the oldest boy following closely on my heels and the other kids making a raucous noise.

A stooped old man exits from the shanty the girl indicated. A pipe hangs from the corner of his mouth, and in his hands, he carries a shotgun.

"What'll be your business?" he shouts before I reach him.

"I'm Angelo Russo."

He scrunches up his face. "Who?"

"Teresa's son."

His bushy eyebrows draw together, and then he laughs so hard the pipe falls from his mouth.

I stop in front of him, waiting until he's wiped the tears from his eyes with a grimy hand. He shoves the shotgun into the oldest boy's arms who returns the gun to the shack.

"What do you want?" the old man asks.

"You're Teresa's father?" My grandfather?

"Yeah." He hooks a thumb in the suspenders that hold up his pants. "What of it?"

I gave my question a lot of thought. It's the reason I drove here. "Why did she marry my father?"

He scratches his head. "Santino?"

"Yes."

He looks me over, taking in my clothes. "You're just as fancy as that good-for-nothing mother of yours." His upper lip curls. "Whore."

Old or not, I'm a second away from punching him. "Answer my question."

Gurgling, he spits on the ground. "War."

"What?"

"War." He squints at me through one eye. "Your father married her to stop the war between us. We stay here." He makes a circle with his finger. "He stays there."

An old vendetta. It explains why we don't see each other and why my father hasn't mentioned the war. He'll never dishonor my mother by telling us kids about the feud between him and her family. "Don't forget the money."

I know how much we pay my mother's family every month because I've been making those payments for the past two years. The accumulated value is worth a small mountain of gold.

He grins, showing two missing teeth. "You'll be bringing it now in person?"

Looking around, I say, "It's cold out here. Dirty too."

A sneer contorts his features. "Are you coming here and telling me you're better than me?"

"I'm just wondering why you haven't made a nice home for yourself somewhere, a place with heating and running water."

He points a bony finger at me. "Don't you come here and judge us for our way of living. We are what we are. Have always been. Never needed no fancy house with heat and water."

I glance at the children. "What about them?"

"They'll do as they're told if they know what's good for them."

The misery hangs thick in the air. It clings to his clothes and to the stench coming from the hole next to the shack where a swarm of flies are buzzing.

"What are you doing with all that money?" I ask.

"That'll be none of your fucking business."

"He buys gold," the girl says. "He keeps it in the?—"

The old man lifts his arm. The girl cowers. Before he can backhand her, I catch his wrist. It's brittle and skeletal under my fingers. I can snap it with little force.

The kids scatter, some of them laughing, but not the girl. She jumps over the stream and runs in the direction of the forest.

I drop his arm and wipe my hand on my trousers. "From now on, you're not getting money. You're getting a house, food, and clothes. The kids will go to school."

His face turns red. "You won't be changing our ways with your smart mouth and your big car. We do what we want."

"We do what we want," the boys yell, throwing rocks at me.

"You can have an allowance for entertainment or whatever it is you do with the money," I say. "The rest of it will cover your living expenses."

I've decided. I'll drag the old man tied up out of here if I must.

Turning back, I climb the hill. When I get to the top, I let out a curse and charge toward my car. The two in-between kids have broken open the door and are stripping my car of anything they can lay their hands on, which include the mats, a packet of wipes for the leather, and the service book in the glove compartment. The wheel caps are already gone.

They jump on broken pieces of pressed wood and use them as sleighs to slide down the hill with their loot.

I take in the state of my car, the scratch marks on the door where they forced the lock and the mud on the seats.

Fucking savages.

I start the engine and turn the car around, glancing at the sorry camp in the rearview mirror.

No wonder my father never brought us to visit. I understand why he kept us away from here. I always knew why my father was hated and feared. He comes from a bad bloodline of scavengers who poached the riches of others. However, I never knew how much my mother was despised, not only because she's married to my father but also because she comes from here.

We're the scum of the island, and the people here don't forget. Not all the money in the world can change that. Some legendary creatures like Midas turn whatever they touch into gold. Anything we lay our hands on is soiled.