Chapter 8 – THE TICKET TO TOMORROW
I stood frozen in the middle of the café, the diamond necklace resting in the wooden box in my hand.
Marco Bellini, the man who controlled half the city, was looking at me with a vulnerability I had never seen before.
“Marco…” I stammered, my heart racing. “I… I don’t know what to say. We come from entirely different worlds.”
“My father started with a borrowed truck and a crate of tomatoes,” Marco smiled gently. “Our worlds aren’t as different as you think.”
Before I could answer, the café door swung open.
My mother walked in, leaning lightly on a brand-new, silver cane Marco had purchased for her. She looked healthier and happier than she had in a decade.
“Mom!” I smiled, walking over to help her.
“I’m fine, Emma, I’m fine,” she laughed, waving me off. She looked around the beautiful café, her eyes tearing up when she saw Frank behind the counter.
Frank walked around and took her hand, kissing her knuckles like an old-world gentleman. “Rosa would have loved this place. And she would have loved you for trying to save her.”
My mother blushed, wiping a tear. “Thank you, Frank.”
Marco stepped up beside me. “I actually have something else for you, Emma. And your mother.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek leather envelope. He handed it to me.
I opened it. Inside were two first-class plane tickets to Rome, Italy, and a deed to a small villa in the Tuscan countryside.
“Marco, this is insane,” I gasped, looking at the papers. “We can’t accept a house!”
“It’s not a gift. It’s a prescription,” Marco said, completely serious. “Your mother’s hip doctor said the cold New York winters are aggravating her joints. She needs a warm, dry climate to fully recover. The villa has a full-time medical staff. You and she are going to Italy for six months.”
“Six months?” I repeated, stunned.
“I want you to see the world, Emma,” Marco said softly. “You’ve spent your entire life taking care of everyone else. Your mother. My father. It’s time someone took care of you.”
He reached out and gently closed the wooden box containing the heirloom necklace.
“Keep the necklace safe,” Marco smiled. “Go to Italy. Drink wine. Learn the language. And when you come back in the spring… if you still want to return this necklace to me, I’ll take it back. But I’m hoping you’ll decide to wear it instead.”
Tears spilled over my eyelashes. He wasn’t pressuring me. He was giving me the freedom I had never had, and the time to figure out who I was outside of survival mode.
“Thank you,” I whispered, throwing my good arm around his neck.
Marco hugged me tight, burying his face in my hair. “Safe travels, Emma.”
The next six months felt like a beautiful, impossible dream.
My mother and I lived in a sun-drenched villa in Tuscany. Her pain vanished in the warm Mediterranean heat. We learned to cook authentic pasta, walked through ancient vineyards, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t worry about how I was going to pay the rent.
Marco called every Sunday. We didn’t talk about the mafia, or the empire, or the trauma of the past. We talked about books, and food, and how Frank was teaching little Matteo how to bake bread in the café.
With every phone call, the walls between our “worlds” crumbled a little more. I stopped seeing the feared boss, and started seeing the man who loved his family fiercely.
When May finally arrived, the hills of Italy were blooming with wildflowers.
But I was ready to go home.
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