Three days later, the throbbing in my head had disappeared. I had taken it easy, lying in bed most of the day, watching TV and ordering room service for food and toiletries. The luxury hotel was ostentatious. The bathroom alone was nearly as big as my entire Tenderloin apartment.
I thought such a lazy lifestyle would’ve driven me crazy, but my body told me otherwise.
But this morning I woke up ready to go.
All my clothes had been in my backpack, so, dressed in the only clothes I had, which were smelly, dirty and ripped, I headed down to the fancy hotel’s lobby. There, at a few of the expensive designer shops, I bought pink lacy lingerie, a black bikini, a burnt orange sundress, a cashmere wrap, black linen pants, four short-sleeve white T-shirts and four long-sleeve black T-shirts.
After a shower, I headed back downstairs to one of the hotel’s restaurants. I gulped down eggs, bacon, and coffee and left the waiter a tip double the price of my meal. The waiter, who was in a tuxedo and very prim and proper, swooped up my euro without blinking. I took a chance and put my hand on his arm.
“Scusi,” I said and asked him how to find the villa that belonged to my mother.
He said, sure, no problem, did I have the address?
I showed him the address on a piece of paper. I’d scribbled Turricci’s name beside it. The waiter’s eyes widened as he read it. Without answering, he walked away, jerking his arm out of my grasp.
I got the same response from the three cabbies I asked to take me to the address. The first one started sputtering in Italian, leaped out of his cab and closed the door I had opened. The second one just kept shaking his head and repeating “no.” The third one sped away when I showed him the address.
Now I was really curious.
I found a rental car agency and paid cash to rent a small Fiat. It took me less than twenty minutes to find the villa. It stood alone on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The driveway led to a giant iron gate flanked by a huge stone wall that hugged the curves of the hills as far as the eye could see, all the way to what must have been the cliff overlooking the sea.
There was no buzzer at the gate. It was fortified like a castle. There was one way in – through that gate and I wasn’t getting in unless I scaled it myself. For a half second I considered it. After all, it was my property now, right?
With all the windows of the Fiat down, I drove away, trying to come up with a plan, inhaling the peculiar combination of scents that made up Sicily — some intoxicating mix of salty air, lemons, and Jasmine.
Soon I came upon the nearest town, if it could be called that — basically a blip on a lonely stretch of rural road. The café was a tiny room at the front of a cottage with iron café tables and chairs outside. Two older men sat drinking espressos and playing some board game I didn’t recognize.
One winked at me when I walked past. Inside, a small bar stretched across one side of the room. An ancient but sturdy espresso machine took up most of the bar. There was no menu. An older man with a generous head of silver hair and equally generous belly smiled when I walked in.
I ordered an espresso before I brought up the villa. The man stepped back and squinted at me.
“Bonadonna?”
My mother’s maiden name. I knew I didn’t look anything like my mother, who had blonde hair and brown eyes.
“Si. La mia madre.”
The man made the sign of the cross. He knew she was dead.
“How do you know?”
“We know what happens to the people from our village.”
Then he came out from behind the bar and with a heavy sigh, sat down at a table and patted the chair beside him.
I carried my espresso over and sat down, wondering why he looked so sad.
I explained in Italian that I was trying to find someone who could let me into the villa.
The man shook his head.
I took the deeds out of my bag and handed them to the man. He barely glanced at them, as if he knew what they said. He waved his hand. And told me in Italian to go home and keep the past buried from the light. I was confused. Wasn’t that what Mrs. Gutmann had said?
“I need to speak to Mr. Turricci. Where can I find him? I need to talk to him. I came all the way from America to tell him some news about my mother.”
This time there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. He didn’t answer. He put the broom in a corner and walked out, into another room without saying a word. After about ten minutes when it was clear he wasn’t going to return, I made myself comfortable. I could outwait him. An hour later, the door opened. The man handed me a slip of paper. It said: “Boat. Lucia-Grazia. Messina Harbor.” A boat with my mother’s name?
“You no get this from me. I want to live a nice old age.” His English was rusty, but he made his point.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.” I said, and gave him a long, slow wink. He didn’t smile. He shook his head sadly and walked me to the door. I heard the lock turn behind me.
Night was falling in indigos and purples before me as I walked down the dock to the Lucia-Grazia. I’d changed into the black linen pants and a black T-shirt and pulled my hair back in a low ponytail. I took a roundabout way, going first to an adjacent dock to scope it out. The Lucia-Grazia was not a boat. It was a yacht.
The windows were dark. But then I noticed a tiny glow. Somebody on the deck was smoking. I crouched down. I wanted to get on that yacht. A little way down, a small walkway connected the two docks. I could make it to the yacht in ten minutes.
I waited. The only sounds were waves lapping up on the dock and the distant sounds of people having a party on another boat. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open when I finally saw the tiny glow of a cigarette moving toward the front of the yacht. I squinted my eyes a bit. Whoever it was, the person was getting off the boat. A dark beefy figure made its way down the dock toward the shore. I leaped to my feet and ran until I was in front of the yacht. It was at least three stories tall. I only hesitated for a moment before I raced up the gangplank and leaped over the small chain. I headed for the front of the yacht, the farthest away from the dock, and went up one level. Most of the second level consisted of a deck with teakwood chairs and tables. With a shaking hand, I tugged on a sliding glass door that easily slid open. It led to a circular room with curved white couches surrounding a giant round glass coffee table with a fresh flower bouquet and a Ming vase.
The circle room led to a giant dining room. Moonlight streaked in through the glass walls, illuminating the scene. A large table was set for eight underneath a Joan Miró painting. Off to one side was a white baby grand piano. Next to that, an entire small wall was set up as a bar with a mirror reflecting the colors of the bottles. I poured myself a shot of bourbon and gulped it down in two sips. Then downed another to stop my hands from shaking so much. I carefully wiped the rim of the glass and put it back on its mirrored tray.
A small circular staircase led to the master bedroom. The entire roof of the master bedroom was a domed skylight, giving a glimpse of a dark, star-spotted night and letting in moonlight bright enough for me to see. A red silk duvet covered the bed. A large dark wood dresser had an assortment of gold and diamond cufflinks resting on a gold tray and nothing else. Tucking my hands into my long sleeves to hide my fingerprints, I opened every drawer on the giant dresser. Nothing but clothes, silk pajamas, silk shirts and even silk boxers. I also rifled through the closet — designer men’s clothes reeking of cologne. I pushed the clothes to one side looking for a safe or hidden panel but didn’t see anything unusual. I peeked behind the paintings — this time a Picasso and a Monet — but only found blank wall.
Voices and a rumbling sent me scurrying. The engines on the yacht had started. Lights flickered on around the boat, including in the master bedroom. I darted toward a sliding glass door, which led to a giant enclosed deck overlooking the rest of the yacht. I stood against the edge and peered over. I didn’t see a soul.
The master bedroom held two other doors. The first was a bathroom. The second was a connecting door to an office.
Quickly, I yanked open the roll-top desk. Nothing but a quill pen with a real ink pot and some thick, expensive feeling stationary embossed in gold with the initials S.A.T.
The top drawer of the desk held a flask and more office supplies. The bottom drawer was filled with files. My fingers tripped through them. Each file folder was labeled. The names meant nothing to me—Carlton Ltd. Sardinia house. Jasmine Corp.
Then, my heart stopped. Bay View.
I grabbed it and quickly flicked it open. It was a contract for the Bay View Development. Turricci was going to pay Vito two hundred and fifty million dollars for the mixed-use center when it was developed.
San Francisco had one of the most inflated real estate markets in the country, but this seemed excessive. Turricci wasn’t even buying the land. The contract was for him to buy the developed property. Sure, it was a luxury development, but there were dozens of them in the city.
Well, if I was looking for motive, I’d found it.
Without my father standing in the way of the development, Vito could proceed and stood to make two hundred and fifty million dollars.
A noise in the hall sent my heart into my throat. When the doorknob leading to the hall turned, I shoved the file folder back in the drawer and raced back into the master bedroom just in time to see the door handle turn.