Chapter 8

LORENZO

Y ears ago, Carlo Abrazzio, Don Ricco's younger brother, emerged as a tyrant in a violent conflict between the Napoli's Abrazzio and Santini crime syndicates.

He rose to power as Capo Mandamento, in charge of his clan's assassinations through ruthless tactics.

The killings of rival leader Vincenzo Santini and his pregnant partner Raphaela Bessi were at his behest, and he was convicted in absentia for the kidnapping, torture, and murder of several Santini family friends.

To intimidate the judges, prosecutors and naysayers who came after him, Carlo commissioned a series of bombings that cemented his feared reputation. He declared war against the state, leading to the deaths of a slew of Neapolitan magistrates, barristers, and innocent civilians.

For many years, my relatives, including my aunt, had believed Carlo was responsible for bombing my parents and Uncle Costa for opposing his brutal murders of the innocent.

Despite our suspicions but with no proof, the Calibrese clan had kept to our Alliance oath and continued to provide our Omertà services to the Abrazzios.

However, five years ago, when the heat on him ratcheted, Carlo disappeared, went into hiding, and left control to his brother Ricco.

We'd been tasked with concealing him in multiple safe houses using secret bank accounts.

Now, it seemed that the rumours that we were walking away from the Omertà Alliance had sent fear coursing through Ricco and Carlo.

Terrified we'd reveal Carlo's location or, worse still, hand him over to the authorities, the family was waging a war against us.

I was done with concealing the man and with his family's unceasing paranoia.

However, I was no naive leader. The repercussions of withdrawing our services meant war with the Abrazzios.

I was playing the long game, waiting to see who'd sneeze next. It was a dangerous gambit, but I had my possible pawn in my pocket, my ultimate play, within reach.

If Ricco and Carlo Abrazzio dared to come after us or mine again, they'd get what was coming.

It'd been five weeks since I returned to Sydney, and my body was healing well.

My chest and flank discolouration was faded, but my shoulder was still in a brace to control pain while strengthening the muscles the bullet had ripped apart.

My doctors had ordered a slowdown, which meant I couldn't work out as much as I had in the past, leaving me with an abundance of free time.

The days bled into each other, a monotonous routine of doctor's checks and meetings with my lawyers.

Idle evenings were spent either dining with Mauri or alone, lost in my thoughts, in my hotel room, until the home I'd purchased settled.

After a spell of boredom, I had Mauri drive me to the northern beaches. We spent time acquainting ourselves with our unfamiliar surroundings in Manly, walking its stunning golden sands and luxuriating in its tranquil peace.

I discovered its charming cafes and sourced the best coffee in the area.

Mauri was loathe to let me out of his sight. Soon enough, however, I convinced him we were living in a new country that was one of the safest in the world.

With great reluctance, he allowed me several solo hall passes even though I was his boss, but not without a stern, short lecture on the importance of always conducting a threat assessment and the dangers of wandering the streets by myself.

Damn, the man had balls, I conceded. But he was worth every freakin' penny and more I paid him.

I found a tiny wine and jazz bar and spent a few nights nursing a cheroot and whisky in its shadows, enjoying a series of sultry singers.

For the rest of my time, however, I mulled on Mia.

No matter how much I tried, I couldn't banish the woman from my thoughts.

Her alluring presence lingered, haunting my mind at unexpected moments.

It consumed me, especially in the evenings when the city lights flickered to life, casting an ethereal glow over the harbour.

One night, I stood on the expansive balcony of my lavish hotel living room with a crystal tumbler of whisky. I stared out at the glittering skyline as I replayed our brief encounter.

I retraced my conversation with her that day at the wake.

Her letter stayed with me always, tucked into a shirt, trousers or jacket, depending on what I wore.

I longed to find her, unravel the mystery surrounding her, hunt her down, and claim her as mine.

However, many years ago, when I was deprived of my parents, I lost hope in making close connections other than those I'd already forged with my brothers and aunt.

I loathed the sinking sensation of longing for someone, the tightness in my chest, and the roller coaster of euphoria and pain.

I abhorred being under the thrall of a woman's lure, unwilling to let anyone control my soul.

So, I yearned for Mia while hating how much I longed for her because a woman like her had the potential to destroy me.

Hankering to be near her had taken me hostage. Just thinking of her caused my entire body to throb.

I tried to logic my way out of the agony.

Why would a woman like her be interested in a jaded, hardened man like me?

I huffed, taking a sip of my whisky.

I was no ideal catch. I carried darkness within me. I was not a man to be trifled with; my reputation as a cold and ruthless man was well-deserved.

But something about her stirred a flicker of warmth that threatened to thaw the icy walls I'd built around myself.

With a touch of old-world conviction, I sent a little prayer into the universe.

If she were meant to be mine, the fates would align our paths again.

Until then, I had to bide my time, resist the urge to seek her out and let destiny take its course.

MIA

With little purpose and no loved ones to keep me in the Blue Mountains, I took a leap of faith.

I attempted the one thing I'd wished for in years.

More than anything, I'd always wanted to study finance.

I hoped it would help me run my business more efficiently and provide a fallback plan in case my hustle went bust.

Some months before Bianca's demise, I'd enrolled in a commerce program at Sydney University.

My acceptance letter arrived two weeks after the wake.

I confirmed my enrolment with bittersweet joy and began packing my world in the Blue Mountains.

I searched online and placed a wanted ad on a popular flat share platform. Two hours later, I received an enthusiastic message from a renter in Surry Hills.

I was won over by the online video, which showcased its classic features and generous windows, bathing the interior in natural light.

The two-bedroom flat wasn't modern and had an older kitchen, but it was neat. It had a leafy outlook and an elevated position, just footsteps from the area's vibrant bars, cafes, and transport.

Following a few chats on the phone with my potentially new housemate and a quick Zoom inspection, I signed on the dotted line of the share contract.

After purging and moving out of my cottage, I motored down to Sydney with everything I owned in the back of my van.

Arriving at my new home, I was welcomed by my housemate Linda. She was a fun, bubbly girl of Italian heritage from the country town of Tamworth.

We chatted as she helped me lug my belongings inside.

I found out Linda loved rustic folk music and cowboy boots. She claimed she kept to herself and her busy life, juggling her creative arts degree and serving at a local pub.

‘Sounds fun and busy,' I said as I threw the last of my bags on my bed in the apartment's smaller bedroom, which had a desk, closet, and tiny bathroom.

I took advantage of every inch of storage space to pack away my monochrome clothes, shoes and knickknacks.

When I was done, I retreated with a glass of wine to my small Romeo & Juliet balcony, which soon became my favourite place to hang out in the early mornings with coffee and a drink in the evenings.

Linda was almost too perfect to live with. Our schedules rarely crossed over. She waitressed most nights, while I worked days.

I'd decided to maintain my cleaning hustle, Queen Clean, to keep the cash flowing.

I established it in Sydney with the same efficiency and focus as in the Blue Mountains.

First, I researched the opportunities in the area and the best places to advertise my offerings.

Having found a popular online services hub, I put up my offering, rave reviews from my previous clients and a competitive price list.

I ensured my promotions—from website to brochures—were slick. I also worked on a new business calling plan, roping in another mature-age student, Sadie, from my accounting class.

I invested a sum of my savings into updating my branding, uniforms, and a small repaint job on my van.

I only used the most well-rated eco-friendly solutions and featured the add-on throughout my marketing.

My strategy worked, and my client list and reputation grew like wildfire.

Life settled into a routine of early morning classes, extended study sessions, and late nights spent cleaning for clients. Somehow, the mundane tasks distracted me from my lingering grief of losing Bianca.

I delved into my studies, absorbing every bit of knowledge like a sponge, drawn to the intricacies of business management and entrepreneurship.

On weekends, when I wasn't buried under textbooks or scrubbing floors, I wandered through the bustling streets of Sydney, taking in the sights and sounds of the city I now called home.

I lost myself for hours in the symphony of life around me—the beaches nearby, the salty breeze from the ocean, the laughter of children playing in parks, and the aroma of street food wafting through the air.

From a work perspective, things kept looking up. I'd left my business cards with several acquaintances of Bianca's at the funeral.

One morning, I received a call from Mr Reed Jones of Jones & Jones, her law firm.

‘I'm calling to book your cleaning services,' he boomed over the speakerphone. ‘We have a client from overseas who purchased a property we'd like you to clean for, perhaps even provide light housekeeping duties for.'

When he shared the rate they were willing to shell out, I clapped a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to whoop.

I listened as he outlined the job's specifics - tidying their luxurious home, stocking it with essentials, and ensuring everything was in perfect order for the client's arrival. The rate he offered was more than generous, a testament to the top-notch standards of their clientele.

I couldn't believe my luck. The opportunity to service a high-profile client through Jones & Jones was a game-changer.

It was a chance to elevate my business, showcase my skills, and delve into more well-paid gigs.

After finalising the details with Mr Jones' PA, I spent the next day planning each aspect.

I wanted everything to be perfect, from the spotless floors to the gleaming windows, ensuring the client would be impressed beyond measure because repeat business was pure profit.

I gathered my eco-supplies, checked them off my list and loaded my van in readiness.

That evening, I was chilling in the house with Linda when she invited me to our neighbourhood pub, where she worked some nights.

‘You can't study and work all day,' she chided. ‘Let your hair down, love. Let's head for a drink. It's happy-hour until 7 p.m.'

I considered it. ‘Sure,' I agreed, given I had a small win to celebrate.

‘My cousin, Tony, will meet up with us too,' she added.

We met him at the entrance to the bar.

He kissed Linda on both cheeks, pressed his lips to the back of my hand, and then, with a wink, led us inside.

Tony, a building trade contractor on a holiday visa from Italy, sported wavy, dark hair, dimples and rippled abs. He was lean, dusky and charming, if not a tad cocky.

For the most part, he was a riot, with his steady store of jokes, his lilting Italian accent and his beguiling charm.

He was not my type, but he was pub-fun material.

The bar was packed, the beer was warm, and the food was average, yet I found myself having a blast, raising my voice above the din and loud chatter in conversation with Linda and Tony.

I'd dressed in my usual monochrome head-to-toe style.

This time, I was in a pastel blue jumpsuit and a jacket over my shoulders, with Nike sneakers in the same colour.

As always, I limited my accessories to the basics. Simple makeup and natural hair were my tricks to make room for my minimalist clothes.

For some reason, men appeared to like my flair, and admirers kept coming my way, some complimenting me, others sharing bold wolf whistles and lip-lickin' smirks.

Tony, too, appreciated being by my side.

He soon made his interest apparent, whispering in my ear how hot he thought I was.

I shrugged and tugged Linda's arm to the dance floor, where we spun the night away.

It'd been years since I'd allowed myself a night out, so I let loose, hair and hips flying as the music pumped.

Tony kept us lubricated and well-fed. Between sips of beer and bites of greasy diner food, I relaxed in a way I hadn't in a long time.

Surrounded by my newfound friends and the pulsing energy of the crowd, I surrendered my recent grief and the stress of building a new life, worries that had been gnawing at me for weeks.

As the night wore on and the pub grew rowdier, I caught Tony's eye across the table. He grinned and raised his glass in a silent toast, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

Linda had found some hot Melburnian man, and they were lost in each other at the bar.

‘More?' Tony asked, raising his bottle.

I sliced my eyes to my wristwatch and gasped at the time.

‘I have to go,' I said, scrambling up.

‘No,' Tony groaned.

‘I must. I have a work gig first thing in the morning.'

‘OK,' he acknowledged. ‘But let me walk you home.

I thought about it, face flushing as another of my night's admirers swung past with a seedy grin.

I sighed, knowing I'd need an escort to exit the place without being pawed.

‘Thank you,' I conceded.

Tony's lips curved.

We gathered our things from the table and told Linda we were lighting out.

She smiled, raised a brow as she glanced between Tony and me and gave me a wave. ‘I'll come home whenever,' she murmured, returning to her hunk. ‘You two have an awesome time.'

I rolled my eyes, not quite with the program she was suggesting.

Tony led me outside, holding my hand close as he pulled me through the compact crowd. I appreciated his care, running interference for me in loud, aggrieved Italian phrases when a few eager punters leered at me.

Laughing at their outrage at Tony's brand of Euro-intervention, we escaped into the fresh air.

Drawing deep breaths after the pub's thick beer-scented ambience, we wandered up the road hand in hand, slightly tipsy, basking in our post-pub fun glow.