The Italian Read online T.L. Swan

Categories Genre: Angst, Romance Tags Authors: T.L. Swan Advertisement1

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My eyes hold his. “My father is dead. If he wasn’t, I would kill him myself today. I’m in charge now.”

I get into the car and slam my door. He bangs on the window.

I exhale heavily as I try to control my anger. I roll down the window. “What?” I growl.

“Go see her.”

I frown.

“Her address is 347 Lakeview Road. Go there, Rico. Please. Go now.”

I clench my jaw and speed off. My anger escalates as I change the gears with a crunch. I fucking hate them all. Tomorrow everyone goes, and I start with new staff.

An hour later, I pull the car up and peer across the road. The impressive house is gated, and I can see a security guard inside. I drove around and around as I tried to resist coming here. In the end, I couldn’t.

I needed to see this for myself.

Pain tightens my chest. His other son is guarded. His other life is guarded.

Was it so well known that even our enemies know?

Or are they guarded from me?

As I sit and watch, I see a woman and a boy walk down the street toward the house. They’re deep in conversation. She punches in the code to the gate and it opens.

That’s them.

She blonde… blonde.

She’s wearing tight denim jeans and a navy puffer jacket. She’s in runners, and has on a New York Yankees cap, with her long, blonde, thick ponytail hanging down her back. She’s laughing. She seems carefree.

She takes the football from the boy and kicks it over the fence to annoy him. He says something, and she laughs out loud.

I stop breathing all together as I watch her. She’s the exact opposite of my mother.

My mother is Italian, with long dark hair. She’s always in designer clothes and high heels. She’s always made up to look exotic—gorgeous. A Ferrara to the bone.

I frown as I watch the enigma across the street. I can’t even imagine my father with someone like her.

My eyes roam to the boy. He would be late teens. He has dark hair with a curl to it, and he looks exactly like I did at that age.

He had a football in his hand before she kicked it away. Maybe he just came from training or something.

I watch them walk in and talk to the man on the gate.

I frown as pain sears my chest. I know him. He’s one of my father’s men.

He works for me.

I drop my head, unable to watch on any longer.

I start the car, and with a million vile visions of my father with her and him, I drive to Milan.

This can’t be happening.

There must be something. I’ve missed something. How didn’t I notice this in the will?

When I arrive at my offices, I head straight in.

“Good morning.” Rosalie smiles.

“Morning,” I say. “No visitors today, please.”

“Yes, Mr. Ferrara.”

I walk into my office, move the light switch and hit the button. The bookcase slides to the side, and I put the code into the safe. The will. I want to look at the will.

The large metal door clicks open, and I walk inside the room-sized safe. It’s filled with transactions, money, and paperwork.

I know where the will is. I saw it in here last week when I was retrieving something else. I look over the shelving until I see a large, dark brown, leather box way up high.

It’s in there, I remember it from back when they were going through everything with me. I stand on the stepladder, take it down, and go back to my desk to open it. It’s a large leather-bound book. I flick through the handwritten pages, and I frown. Title deeds, ownership papers, the properties I own… businesses…

What the fuck am I looking for here?

At the bottom of the box are loose papers. I take them out, and that’s when I see a large yellow envelope.

FOR ENRICO FERRARA TO OPEN

WHEN HE FINDS THIS.

My heart stutters.

I stare at it for a moment.

How haven’t I seen this before?

I tear open the large envelope to find three smaller envelopes in side, titled in my father’s handwriting. Each one has a name on it.

Enrico

Andrea

Matteo

I put my hand over my mouth, hesitant to open it—Frightened that every memory of my father is about to be crushed.

I open the letter addressed to me.

My darling Enrico,

If you are reading this my son, I have left this world.

I want to start this letter by telling you how proud I am of the man you have become.

Emotion overwhelms me and I blink through my tears.

I miss him.

God, how I miss him.

Hopefully, you will never read this and we will have had this conversation face to face. But, in the tragic event that both my father and I go together, I needed to leave this letter for you.

I’m guessing that you are reading this letter in the days after my death…perhaps weeks.


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