Chapter 20: Chapter 20

◇ KEL ◇

"Maxim."

It was his mom's voice. Did she need something? I turned and put on a smile for Mrs. Falco, who smiled back at me. Cute how she still called her son by his childhood nickname.

"Sorry to hear about your father being ill, Mykaela. I hope he feels better soon." Mrs. Falco walked towards us, a small black box sitting on her palms, her white dress and shiny hair just showing off elegance and poise.

"I just checked on Cloe and Charr again. We called for paramedics again but she's doing much better. Thanks to you, dear."

"Glad I could help, Signora." I flicked Miles' forearm and gestured for him to acknowledge his mother.

"Maxim."

"What, Mamma?"  Miles kept focusing on his phone screen and didn't even look at his mother.

His bored sigh and rude tone made me slap his arm discreetly. "Everything okay, Mrs. Falco?" I asked the matriarch.

Ofelia lagged behind Mrs. Falco, now carrying a tray of food. The maid served plates of colorful biscuits, fruits, bread, and juice on the coffee table in front of me and Miles.

"Grazie." I acknowledged the older woman smiling faintly at us. Ms. Ofelia seemed less anxious and troubled now, maybe because Cloe no longer seemed to be in life-threatening danger.

"Snacks, dear? Biscuits or bread?" Mrs. Falco sat on the smaller couch.

"Sure." I smiled and sat closer to Miles.

He remained still and quiet beside me, his tan hand covering half of his face.

"Sorry. I forgot you're not fond of processed foods. Some fruits instead, Mykaela?"  his mother asked when we didn't touch the biscuits. Mrs. Falco's accent wasn't obvious, probably because she and Miles lived in the US when he was younger.  "I also prefer organic over anything with loads of processed sugar and artificial additives."

"Just upsets my appetite most of the time, Signora," I declined politely with a smile.

"I noticed you only eat vegetables and fruits, or freshly prepared meat, but in small portions. Very healthy diet."

"My job needs me to keep my weight in check."

"Hardworking, focused on her career. I like that in a young woman."

"What now, Mamma?" Miles sounded irritated and just painfully bored by the small talk. He stared at his mother while holding back a scowl.

Her son's sullen behavior didn't surprise Mrs. Falco. She even chuckled. "Apologies for the inconvenience. Just want to show you something, bambino."

"What?" Miles glanced down at the black box on his mother's lap.

Somewhat intrigued, I watched Mrs. Falco unlock the old and rusty lock. The well-dressed matriarch opened the mysterious black box. What could be inside?

"Found this in one of Ricchar's shelves." Mrs. Falco's smile curved her full lips and deep-set hazel eyes. Obviously, Miles inherited his slightly feminine features from her. "Most of the antiques in the study are from our old house in Venezia, so, I recognized the box immediately."

"Are those photos?" I leaned forward to get a better look at the wrinkly, dated sheets of paper Mrs. Falco took out of the box.

"Drawn and painted portraits were more common than photography at that time." Mrs. Falco smiled at me again. "These are portraits of his grandparents, Stefano's madre and padre. Managed to salvage some before our old house burned down."

"Wow. They're still intact," I muttered. I left Miles on the couch to check out the spate of yellowish papers his mother held.

"Surprisingly." Mrs. Falco handed me the beautiful portrait sketches, with artist signatures and dates on the bottom of the pages.

In the first illustration, a man with long, dark wavy hair that reached his shoulders had a profile astoundingly identical to Miles' features.

"Oh my g—   Miles, he looks just like you." I glanced to the guy acting like he couldn't give two shits.

Miles even kept texting as he reclined on the bigger couch.

"We also noticed, even when you were little, Maxim.  Still can't believe you're almost 30 now." Mrs. Falco handed me another old but detailed sketch. This one had two people posing for the artist.

Miles' grandfather and...his grandmother? The two stood so close to each other. The man in the sketch loosely held the young woman's lean shoulders. I stared at the artwork.  The lack of picture-perfect smiles on the subjects' pale faces was not what stunned me, though. It was the striking resemblance.

Miles clearly took after his grandfather—dark hair, tall and straight stance, sharp jawline, and pronounced cheekbones. Everything about the man in the sketch looked exactly like Miles, except for a long, thin scar on the man's cheek.

"Maxim," someone called out from the hall.

It was Ricchar.

"Yeah?" Miles got up from the couch and eyed his cousin.

"Got a minute?"

◇

◆ MILES ◆

Russian gangsters wanted to take our family out of the trade. Pappa didn't share the other details but I had enough ideas now as to who tried to kill Cloe and Lorenzio.

Well, maybe most of it was factual enough to merit our consideration.

Seeing Niccolo again struck me by surprise, but at least he was still alive. Not rotting in a godforsaken ditch somewhere in the outskirts.

Minding the graphic image, I distractedly stared at the dark labyrinth up ahead. The smell of earth and grass reached my nose. It provided some comfort, but not enough to get rid of my unpleasant thoughts.

Beside me sat my older cousin, also sitting next to a half-empty bottle of red wine. Rocks mossed with age covered the patio floor we were sitting on, its brick-red color desaturated by the dull lamplights.

"Why're you dealing drugs now, Charr?" I squinted. "Why the fuck would you even think of somethin' like that?"

"I know. I know." Clearly rest-deprived, Ricchar sighed out loud and rubbed his palms onto his tired face.  "It's my fault."

"Little too late for that." I shook my head. "Cloe was supposed to die out there."

"Can we not—"

"That tell you something about those psychopaths?"

"Just drink with me and stop busting my balls, would you? I already want to shoot my damn head off."

"I'm driving Mykaela to the airport." I ignored the glass of wine Ricchar handed me.

"Listen." Ricchar inched closer to me. "She's not ready, for all this. You need to try at least."

Try?  What did he exactly mean?  Perplexed, I stared at the cloudless sky signaling the approaching dusk.

"Think you can do that?" Ricchar raised questioning brows at me and drank the rest of his wine. "Should have pushed her away before it got serious."

"What?" I scowled. "How the fuck was I supposed to know we'd end up here?"

"You asked her to move in with you, just like that, despite knowing she's not gonna stay.  Now she's in this mess 'cause you brought her here."

"It wasn't like—"

"Of course. You're in denial, for now, because you didn't care to look at the whole picture."

Whole picture?

"That's what happened to me and Cloe." Ricchar shrugged. "Then I owned up to it.  But can you?"

"Why are you drinking again?" I scowled at him after momentarily pondering his poor advice about why I should sever my involvement with Mykaela now.

In just two hours, my family of mobsters had already given me the lowdown on our clan's other business connections—the Valtieris in the south, the Tomassinis in most of Europe, and our longstanding ruthless rivalry with the Serbians.

Was I having a stroke or a long, horrible dream? I definitely tried, but I just couldn't slap myself out of this nightmare.

"Where's Cloe?"

"Upstairs. She's asleep, resting," my cousin replied after a lengthy silence. His wife almost dying today clearly messed up his thoughts and concentration. His dark, baggy eyes were also clear indications of restive and sleepless nights because of the job.  "She lost too much blood, but Mykaela did a great job back there."

Of course she did.  I sighed.  If Mykaela hadn't been here with us, Cloe had probably died along with the guards and Lorenzio. Could it be pure luck that the two survived the ambush? Or did those thugs do it to taunt, terrorize, and harass our families?

If I could just call for a chopper now and get Mykaela out of here, I would. Things were getting more insane by the minute.

Then again, I still needed firsthand clarifications.  "My brain hurts like shit just from all this information, but..." I rubbed my throbbing temple and swore to myself. "Who ambushed Cloe and Lorenzio's convoy?"

"The Bôzìcs, most likely," Ricchar replied in haste. "Declined their boss' invitation to meet up and talk business. More than twice." Ricchar looked away and scowled. His bloodstained hand tilted his wine glass.

"You sure?" I ascertained.

The good old Bôzìcs...a group of Serbian immigrants who had begun to monopolize the drug trade in Eastern and Southern Europe alongside the smaller mafia groups here in the region. Or at least that's what I'd heard earlier from Alessio, my longtime bodyguard, and some nervous newbies in the estate's security team.

"We're good with the Yangs and the Valtieris. Last time I checked, even with the Massardos."

"Why the Tomassinis?" I glanced at my inebriated cousin. I'd actually learned a lot about my family's future business partners, thanks to the guards' gossiping over coffee. "You guys couldn't have picked a more incriminating mob family?"

"They're rising up the ranks faster than before. Sure you've heard," Ricchar said in his defense, plainly ignoring my glare. "Yeah. We're gaining projected profits but we're barely half the size of their clan."

"So? You're saying we need the insurance? Their connections? Or do you guys just like kissing their asses?"

"Maxim..." Ricchar sighed. "You don't get it. It's all just...senseless to you right now. But in the long run—"

"I just want a normal, crime and murder-free life ahead of me. Is that too much to ask?  Fuck's sake," I mumbled. My logic told me to get a grip or else there'd be wine glasses breaking any moment now.

"You should know by now we're way past normal, brother."

"Then what? I gotta carry a gun now?" I looked away, unsure how to go about posing another set of curious questions depleting my peace of mind.  "Shit."

"It's necessary. And cut her loose now. She can't handle all this."

◆