Day 17 – Gang/Mafia
He watched her surreptitiously during the lecture, as he did every week. It wasn't that he lacked interest in European history, but the low, droning voice of Professor McCarthy held considerably less fascination than the sight of that red-golden head, bent down over her notebook as she was frantically scribbling notes. She must have sensed his gaze, because she paused for a moment to glance over at him and flashed him a quick, radiant smile.
It was precisely at this moment that Carver Hawke realized he was in love with Margherita Collesano.
She was so different from the other girls. She'd laugh and giggle just like them but, when she spoke to the professors, she was quietly polite and respectful. Unlike the others, she didn't live in campus accommodation. Every afternoon, a discreetly luxurious black car would pull up and a liveried chauffeur would open the door for her, whisking her away to her home. She was dressed better than the rest of them, too, yet he'd never noticed her bragging or showing off her wealth.
When the lecture ended and everyone had gathered their belongings, he plucked up his courage and walked over to her desk.
"Carver." Another dazzling smile. "How are you?"
"Fine, thanks." Tentatively, he smiled back. "Say, Margherita… I was wondering. Would you like to go out with me some time? To the movies maybe?"
She gave him a long, thoughtful look. Almost appraising, he thought nervously. "I would like that, yes. But-" She fiddled with the zipper of her bag for a moment, then looked up at him. "My father is very conservative, you know. He'll want to meet you first."
He had a hard time hiding his surprise. "Meet me? But why-"
Margherita shrugged apologetically. "He worries about me. As I said, he's conservative."
"And yet he lets you attend college." She was majoring in the History of Art, she'd told him and, more than once, he'd seen her totally immersed in a book about the Italian Renaissance or some obscure French painter.
Margherita rolled her eyes at him. "He's a bit old-fashioned, but he's not a caveman."
Her words made him smile. "All right. If it's important to you, I don't mind getting to know your family first."
He'd have jumped through a lot more hoops to get her to go out with him, to be honest. Besides, he was actually curious to see how she lived.
"I'll talk to Papa and ask when it will suit him." Margherita glanced at her watch. "Ooops, I'm late for my next lecture. See you tomorrow." But she was smiling again as she left.
A week later, he was sitting next to her in the back seat of the big black car, watching in awe as they approached the Collesano compound. The grounds were surrounded on all sides by a high whitewashed wall, but he caught glimpses of majestic old beech trees behind it. When the car stopped in front of a beautifully wrought cast-iron gate, two men in black suits with impassive faces briefly glanced inside, then waved them past, nodding respectfully at Margherita.
The whole thing made him a little nervous but, when he glanced at her, she gave him a reassuring smile. "It's fine. I know they look intimidating, but they've been with my family for years. Security is important for a man in Papa's position, you know."
Carver swallowed, trying to recall what he knew about Bruno Collesano. The owner and chairman of Collesano Imports and Exports, a hugely successful business built by his late father who had emigrated from Sicily at the beginning of the century, he was a notoriously private man. Now and then, he'd donate lavishly to various charities and, occasionally, he showed up in the news, shaking hands with some senator or other; but, apart from that, little was known about him.
Two more guys in black suits were guarding the front door of the charming Italian-style villa at the end of the driveway. Carver got out of the car first and looked around. It was hard to believe they were in the middle of the city. The faint drone of traffic in the background was barely audible among the noise of the birds singing in the shrubs and the soft crunch of gravel under his feet. The sun was shining down on a park-like garden stretching in all directions, with a small vegetable patch near the house adding an oddly domestic note.
"Thanks, Gilly." With a friendly wave at the chauffeur, Margherita turned to face him. "Come on. They'll be out in the garden in this lovely weather."
As she led him around the house, they passed an enclosure housing a herd of shaggy little goats. A boy who looked to be about six years old was playing with them, and he gave them a cheery wave.
"My nephew, Oren." Margherita explained as she waved back.
Carver shook his head in wonder. "How did your father get his hands on this property? And aren't there regulations against keeping farm animals in the city?"
She laughed. "The house and grounds have been in my family for a very long time. As for the goats… Papa knows a lot of influential people. I guess someone owed him a favour."
At the back of the house there was a well-kept lawn, with several chairs and tables set out in the shade. A little to the side, a small pavilion overlooked the rose gardens. A group of men in dark pants and white shirts was assembled there, apparently involved in a serious discussion.
He was about to ask Margherita about them when a woman walked up to them with outstretched hands and a friendly smile. "Rita! I see you've brought your friend."
This had to be her mother. Eleonora Collesano was an imposing lady, tall and slim, her grey hair pulled back in an elaborate bun. Her face was proud, almost haughty, but the expression on it was cordial and welcoming, making him relax a little.
"This is Carver, Mamma." Margherita introduced them dutifully. "Carver Hawke. I want him to meet Papa too."
"Your father is busy right now, talking to Signor Gaspari. Something… unexpected has come up." A brief shadow crossed her face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Why don't you sit down and have a cup of coffee while you wait? I'm sure he won't be long."
Carver nodded and took the chair she offered. Signora Collesano stayed for a few more minutes, making polite conversation, then she excused herself and disappeared into the house. He took a deep sip from his cup – the coffee was strong and black and delicious – and leaned back in his chair.
"Your mother is very kind." He did his best to sound sincere, but Margherita laughed softly.
"I know she can be a bit intimidating. She has to be, to impress Papa's business partners. But trust me, there's a proper Italian mamma under all the snootiness. You should have seen her dance at my brother's wedding."
He smiled. "Is that your brother, over there?" He indicated a young man who stood next to her father in the shade of the pavilion.
"Yes, that's Ferruccio. He's not so bad, though he can be a bit of a jerk. And on Papa's other side, that's my cousin, Natanaele. My cousin twice-removed, I think, or thrice? He grew up in Sicily. When he came over, he was hardly more than a boy, so we took him in. He's Papa's consigliere now."
"His what?" Carver studied the young man with interest. He was very dark, with a hawk-like nose and forbidding features, but Margherita had spoken his name with genuine warmth.
"His… lawyer, I think you'd say, though it's a bit more than that. He takes care of a number of things for Papa. Ferruccio is in the family business as well, of course, but Natanaele is Papa's right-hand man." Her face was serious. "Family is very important to Sicilians."
"So I've heard." Carver took another sip. "And the gentleman who's here to see your father?"
"Signor Gaspari." Margherita raised an eyebrow. "I don't really know him all that well. He made the cake for Ferruccio's and Oriana's wedding. He's probably here to ask his Don for help."
"His Don?" Carver's head was spinning with Italian phrases. "You mean your father."
"Yes." Margherita refilled his cup. "Don Collesano. It's what he prefers to be called. It is well-known that my father would never refuse a fellow Sicilian a favour. Well, not without good reason," she amended.
"So, what kind of favour would this Signor Gaspari ask?" Carver watched in fascination as the old gentleman got to his feet, then bowed deeply to kiss Don Collesano's hand.
"Money, maybe, or a word in the right ear." Margherita nodded at Signor Gaspari as he raised his hat at her in passing. "Or, you know, help in a difficult situation."
Carver frowned, about to ask more, but she jumped to her feet, taking him by the hand. "Come on. Time to meet Papa."
He took a deep breath and followed her over to the pavilion.
"Papi." Margherita kissed her father on both cheeks, drawing a brief smile from him. "This is Carver Hawke. The guy I told you about."
"Sir." Carver took the Don's outstretched hand and shook it. It was a pleasant handshake, firm and hearty, and the expression on Collesano's face was reserved, but not unfriendly.
"Carver Hawke." The Don had a deep, carrying voice. Despite being in his shirtsleeves, he looked very distinguished, with his thick grey hair and his aristocratic features. "I remember doing business with a Malcolm Hawke once. Any relation of yours?"
"That must have been my father, sir." Carver straightened instinctively under the austere gaze. "He was a businessman in the city before he married my mother and they moved out to the country to bring up my siblings and me. He passed away a few years ago, though."
"That is sad news." Don Collesano's expression was suitably sober, but he didn't seem surprised. With a pang, Carver realized that he had most likely had a background check run on him as soon as Margherita had mentioned his name.
"Nice to meet you." Ferruccio extended a hand toward him, smiling easily. He resembled his father closely, but seemed less severe, more affable. "So, you met my sister at college?"
Carver nodded. "I'm majoring in Political Science. We both have to take a class in European history, so we ended up in the same lecture."
"Political Science." Don Collesano raised an eyebrow. "Are you thinking of going into politics, young man?"
"I might." Carver felt on firmer ground here. "It sort of runs in the family. Governor Amell is my uncle on my mother's side."
"Ah, the governor." The Don reached for a tobacco pouch and a pipe. "We've met." Stuffing his pipe, he turned back to talk to Natanaele who had remained quiet so far. "See to this business of Signor Gaspari's, will you?" He put an affectionate hand on the younger man's arm.
"Of course." Natanaele's voice was hoarse and raspy. "Will your guest stay for dinner, Margherita?" The look in his grey eyes was intense as he met his cousin's gaze.
It occurred to Carver that the Don might well consider Natanaele an ideal match for his daughter; a man he already knew and trusted, a family member, reliable and competent. So, where does that leave me? Not that he intended to marry Margherita. It was a bit early to think about that, wasn't it?
Yet, there was no denying that the scrutiny with which Natanaele regarded him was a little… unsettling. Carver swallowed. Suddenly he wasn't sure coming here had been altogether wise.