Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

Angelo

The improvement in my father is remarkable. In the sunlight filtering through the big windows in the dining room, his countenance is radiant. His cheeks have a healthy color, and his eyes are clear. They've lost their cloudiness of the last few months. The surgeon did, however, tell him he wasn't operating if my father didn't quit smoking. My father gave up his cigarillos, which makes him cranky.

He regards the fruit salad and yoghurt that Heidi puts in front of him with a downturned mouth. "What happened to having a croissant for breakfast like all normal people do?"

"Spreading an inch of butter on a croissant that already contains a pound in the dough and adding fifty grams of jam on top are what happened to it," I say with a smile. "And not everyone has croissants for breakfast."

"This diet will kill me," he says, glaring at Heidi.

"Quite the opposite." I motion for Heidi to remove the basket of pastries from the table. "You know what the doctor said about your cholesterol."

He scoffs. "I'm going to die anyway. Why can't I at least enjoy the food I like?"

Heidi leaves quickly. She's taken more than enough verbal abuse from my father since the cardiologist changed his diet.

I'm not fond of fruit and yoghurt for breakfast either, but I serve a helping of each in a bowl as a way of showing empathic support. "The older you get, the more you complain like a child." I add with good humor, "It's a wonder Maman still puts up with you."

Stabbing a grape with his fork, he shoots me a look from across the length of the table. "Talking about your mother, how do you think she's going to feel about having her family on the property when she finds out?"

I contemplate that as I dribble honey over my yoghurt. I should've considered it before I made statements and decisions. Like always, I feel that I'm failing my mother, that we're all failing her for not asking her opinion. It's too late now. The ball has already been set rolling.

My tone is blasé, masking the mistake I may have made. "She'll be happy."

"Don't be so sure." He shoves the grape into his mouth and chews. "Why do you think they don't have contact? That bastard was never a father to her. He sure as hell won't be a grandfather to anyone."

"I'm not expecting him to be. He can do whatever he wants, but those kids need to be fed, clothed, and sent to school."

"Those mongrels?" He waves his fork in a general direction. "They won't hesitate to bite the hand that feeds them."

"Then they can do it with a proper roof over their heads."

He abandons the fork and grabs a spoon. "Does it have to be on our property?"

"On the edge of our property. You don't have to see them if you don't want to. None of us has to."

Digging the spoon into his bowl, he stirs the content. "You had to take up the reins early. Managing the company and taking responsibility for everyone are tough." He brings a spoonful of fruit and yoghurt to his mouth. Pulling up his nose at the runny, low-fat yoghurt coating dices of apple and kiwi, he sighs and drops the spoon back in his bowl. "You're doing a good job. I admire you for that. Not everyone can pull that off at your age. Just remember, I'm not dead yet. You should've consulted me."

"You're right." I add muesli to my bowl. I won't admit it to my father, but I'd choose a croissant ten times over the watery yoghurt. "I made an impulsive decision on the spur of the moment."

He pats the space next to his place setting, a habitual reaction in groping a packet of cigarillos that's no longer there. Instead, he takes his mug of herbal tea. "I wish you hadn't gone there to start with."

I get up and fetch orange juice on the buffet table to fill his glass because the green mint tea will be criticized next. My mother is following the doctor's orders to the tee, cutting down on caffeine too.

"I was curious," I say, omitting the part about taking my mother to the village and witnessing the inhabitants' disrespect. If he finds out, the village will be a bloodbath by noon.

He mumbles a thank you but ignores the juice I place at his elbow.

"Any news from Edwards?" he asks.

"Not yet."

I pour juice for myself and walk to the windows. The garden was transformed in preparation for the wedding. A space was cleared on the front lawn for the gazebo. Plants were removed from their beds in the soil and temporarily transplanted into pots. A wrought-iron pergola was constructed at the farthest point to benefit from the view of the sea. Pots with creeper roses were placed at the pillars and the roses twisted over the frame of the structure. In a month's time, the blooms and leaves will form a canopy, providing not only shade but also the roof that the law requires for a bride and groom to say their vows.

"He won't comply," my father says. "He'll do nothing to make anything easy for you. You saw his reaction, saw for yourself how he treated us. He despises our name."

My temper flares at the memory. I turn to my father. "It doesn't matter. I'll be flying to South Africa to fetch Sabella myself."

He studies me with a sly expression. "Why haven't you told her about the deal or our business? If she's going to be your wife, she needs to know."

For her to despise me more than she already does? I've been living with judgment and the curse of a bad name my whole life. I'm used to people's scorn. What difference does hers make? The problem is that I got used to her kindness, love, and admiration. I always knew I was going to destroy those sentiments—had to destroy them if I were to take my promised cut of the business and make her mine—but I never could've guessed how much I'd like all that sweetness she lavished on me.

"I'll tell her when the time is right," I say.

"You better be sure you can trust her. If she runs to the media or the authorities?—"

"I'll handle her."

"I damn well hope so." He catches my gaze with a dark look. "Because you know what you'll have to do if she becomes a threat to our family."

Kill her. I don't think so. I'd rather chain her up in the basement.

"And that will be a shame," my father continues. "Seeing that this wedding is costing a damn fortune."

My smile is grim. "It's not like we can't afford it."

He pushes the bowl away. "Having plenty doesn't mean you have to waste it."

"Don't worry." Fuck, I need a cup of coffee. "I'll make sure it's not wasted."

"Oh, Ang," Adeline exclaims, running into the room and slamming her palms over her mouth. "I just saw it." Her eyes sparkle. "The wedding dress. Oh my God. It's amazing. She's going to look so beautiful."

My mother follows on my sister's heels, wearing an off-white designer suit with black stitching on the collar and a thin black belt. Paired with a black patent leather handbag and shoes, she looks classy and wealthy, exactly the way my father likes her to dress.

"Don't give your brother any descriptions," my mother says with alarm. "He's not allowed to know anything about the dress before the big day." She frowns as she addresses me. "I wish you'd let Sabella try the dress on before. What if she doesn't like it?"

"Maman." Adeline clasps her hands together. "It's perfect. There's nothing not to like."

My mother adjusts her silk scarf. "All women have different tastes, not to mention that the dress may not fit properly."

"It'll be fine," I say. "She'll be here at least a couple of days before the wedding. If alterations are necessary, there'll be time."

"Well," my mother says, pushing the handle of the handbag over her forearm. "The dressmaker will be on standby just in case. He offered to come for the wedding and help her dress."

That last bit catches my attention. "He?"

"Don't worry." My mother pats my arm. "It's his job. It's like a doctor seeing patients."

"No." My tone leaves no room for argument. "No man will help my bride get dressed."

Adeline laughs. "You're so jealous, Ang, and you're not even married yet."

I clench my jaw. "Married or not, it makes no difference."

"We have bigger problems than Angelo's jealousy." Addressing me, my mother continues, "I have an appointment with the baker in Bastia to sample the cake, and it looks like my car has a flat tire. I'm already late as it is."

I leave my glass on the table. "I'll have a look."

"Thank you," she says, blowing out a sigh.

My father pushes to his feet. "Couldn't he bring the cake here?"

"There are so many options," my mother says, looking flustered. "It's easier to do it in the shop. There's frosting to consider, and colors, and decorations?—"

"You know what?" Adeline hooks her arm through my mother's. "Why don't I come with you? It'll be fun, no?"

"But…" My mother works her lip between her teeth. "What about your classes?"

"I can miss my classes for one day. We're closing for the holiday next week anyway."

"No," I say. "Eating cake is not a valid reason for missing your course."

"Guess what, brother?" Adeline bats her eyelashes. "The three seconds difference in our age doesn't make you my boss."

"The three-second argument is getting old, sister."

"Please, Papa?" She pouts. "I haven't been involved in any of the wedding arrangements because I always have class."

My father looks at my mother.

My mother gives him a soft smile. "A wedding is a once-in-a-lifetime event. Men may not think much of it, but it's one of the most important days in a woman's life."

My father swallows. For a second, guilt flashes across his face, but he quickly hides it with a curt reply. "Fine. Go then. But you will catch up with the work you'll be missing."

"Thank you, Papa." Adeline scoots over and kisses his cheek. "My grades are always good. Are they not? You don't have to worry."

If only my bride will be so excited about our wedding day. One thing is for sure. It won't be the happiest day of her life. Yet I have a suspicion it wasn't the best day of my mother's life either, and look how she and my father turned out. They're making it work. They respect and care for each other. My mother loves my father in her own way. As for him, he'll never say it, but he can't live without her.

"I better have a look at that tire then," I say, leading the way outside. "Why didn't Cusso pick up that the car has a flat tire?"

"I left the car in front of the house," my mother says, following on my heels. "I came home late from shopping yesterday, and I knew I needed to leave early today." She adds quickly, "I didn't ask him to park my car in the garage."

She's always covering for the staff, making sure they don't get into trouble for not doing their jobs. Cusso should've parked her car in the garage without being told to do so. That's what we pay him for. But my mother has a soft spot for the ex-mechanic who was retrenched from his previous job and who needs the money to feed his six kids.

Adeline exits with my father leaning on her arm for support.

"I would've offered to take my scooter," my sister says with humor, "but I guess you're not up for a ride on the back, Maman. Anyway, you're not exactly dressed for it."

"Another reason why you should drive a car and not a toy on wheels," my father says.

"Come on." Adeline nudges my father. "My scooter is vintage. It has style." She grins. "Plus, it's pink."

"We can always buy you a pink car if that's the tipping point of your purchase decision," I say.

My father huffs. "Over my dead body."

"Hey." Adeline props a hand on her hip. "At least my favorite color isn't black like the rest of my family's, judging by their cars. I can't help it if you're all boring." She tests my father's balance before heading for the front door. "Give me a minute to grab my bag. I'll be right back."

Cusso has already brought my father's car to the front of the house. He pauses in polishing it and takes off his cap when we approach.

The front left tire of my mother's car is flat. I crouch down to inspect the wheel. The problem is a thorn lodged in the rim. The gardeners trimmed the date palm trees because my mother wants to decorate the trunks with fairy lights for the wedding. They removed the branches and raked the driveway, but my mother must've been unlucky enough to drive over one of the thorny parts that was left behind.

"Slow puncture," I say, straightening. "Cusso, get that fixed as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," he says, keeping his head bowed.

"Next time, make sure you notice it before my mother does," I add.

He twists the cap in his hands. "Yes, sir."

My mother trains a panicked look on me. "I can't cancel the appointment. The baker is the best in the country. He's booked up for months."

"He'll move the appointment to whenever I tell him to," my father says in a heated voice.

"No, Santino," my mother replies, startled. "Don't work yourself up over this. It's not good for your heart. Besides, we don't want to arrange the wedding like that. No threats or violence. It's supposed to be a day of love."

"Ah, hell," he says with a grumble, taking his key from his pocket. "Take my car."

Relief floods her expression. "Didn't you say you were going to meet your brothers at the club?"

Adeline returns with a tote bag slung over her shoulder. The man who's on bodyguard duty today approaches from the direction of the barracks. He'll follow the women in his own car. My father always gives my mother and sister the illusion of privacy. Some will call that illusion of privacy the illusion of freedom.

"I'll drive Papa there," I say. "I haven't seen Uncle Enzo and Nico for a while. It'll be a good opportunity to catch up on some business before the wedding."

"That's a good idea," my mother says, already pressing the remote to unlock the doors. "Especially as you'll be away on honeymoon after the wedding."

I raise a brow. "Who said anything about a honeymoon?"

"Angelo Russo." My mother pulls herself to her full height. "You will take your wife on a proper honeymoon to a romantic location. It's the least you can do."

Getting into the car, she slams the door on that statement. Adeline winks as she hops into the passenger side, clearly enjoying how our mother put me back in my place.

My sister winds down the window, sticks out her arm, and waves as my mother pulls off.

"Look at them," my father says, shaking his head. "Women. You'd swear they're going to a funfair."

I don't miss the note of pride in his voice.

Staring after the car, he muses, "Arranging this wedding made your mother more certain of herself. Assertive almost."

"It's good for her," I agree, watching the car as my mother turns at the gates and follows the road that snakes along the cliff. "Maybe we should give her a job in the business, something that'll keep her busy and that she'll enjoy." Something that'll get her out of the goddamn isolation of the kitchen.

The bodyguard nods in greeting as he drives past us.

"A job?" my father asks. "Like what?"

I shrug. "Event organizer. She can make travel arrangements and plan dinner parties. She seems to be enjoying the running of the wedding, and she's good at it."

He makes a non-committal sound.

The more I think about it, the more I know it's a good idea. My mother spends some time working at charities, but that only occupies her for a few hours every month.

I follow the path of the car with my gaze as I ponder the possibility that part of my mother's low self-esteem may come from not having a purpose other than taking care of us, not that taking care of a family isn't important. Part of her insecurity comes from the fact that she feels inferior because she's uneducated. Another part stems from her roots. The wedding gave her a goal and a challenge. It makes her feel needed and useful.

The sun rays bounce off the shiny bodywork of the Mercedes sports model, reflecting back to me like from a mirror and temporarily blinding me. I squint. The sparkling turquoise sea at the bottom of the cliff makes a pretty contrast with the azure blue of the sky. The summer heat is already stifling. A trickle of sweat runs down my back.

The car is moving too fast, speeding toward the bend. My father says something and turns toward the house. My mother is a good driver. She should be braking.

But she doesn't.

I take it all in like an out-of-body experience—the warm weather, the glorious view, and the racing car. It feels like a dream. Unreal.

The tires lose traction on the tar. The car skids toward the hairpin turn. My mother overcorrects, pulling too sharply to the left.

Someone says, "No." Me.

The car hits the barrier and goes into a spin. The back wheels go over the cliff first. The car dives, flips, and falls. It falls and falls while horror rips through my chest and I grope through the air as if I can stop it. And then it slams onto the rocks on its roof with the sickening thud of crushing metal.