Chapter 9 - The Wooden Toy Chest On The Coast
The air in Sicily tasted like salt, lemon, and freedom.
We arrived at the coastal villa three days later. It sat on a cliff overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. White stucco walls, terracotta roof, and acres of wild grapevines rolling down to the water.
Leo was running through the grass, chasing a stray orange cat, laughing louder than I had ever heard him laugh.
I stood on the stone terrace, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders against the ocean breeze.
Luca walked out from the kitchen, handing me a glass of red wine.
He looked entirely different. The rigid, cold mafia boss was gone. In his place was a man at peace, wearing a simple linen shirt, his dark hair tousled by the wind.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, looking out at the water.
“It’s yours,” Luca said.
I turned to him, startled. “What?”
“The deed to this property,” Luca said, stepping closer. “My father didn’t leave it to me. He left it to Enzo Rossi’s family. It belongs to you, Claire.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “Luca, I can’t take this.”
“You already have,” he smiled.
Suddenly, Leo came running onto the terrace, holding a dusty, wooden toy chest.
“Mommy, Luca! Look what I found in the cellar!”
He popped the lid open. Inside were wooden blocks, old tin cars, and faded coloring books.
But sitting on top was a piece of yellowed parchment.
Leo handed it to me.
It was a child’s drawing of a green Mustang.
But it wasn’t drawn by Leo.
It was signed at the bottom in messy crayon:
To my best friend David, from Luca. 1993.
My breath stopped in my throat.
I looked at Luca.
He stared at the paper, his face pale. Memories he had repressed for decades suddenly flooded his eyes.
“David,” Luca whispered. “David Dawson... he was the groundskeeper’s son. We played together when we were kids. He loved the Mustang.”
I covered my mouth with my hand.
David didn’t just work for the Bellinis. He had taken the job to spy on them. He had sacrificed his life to protect his childhood best friend.
“He never told me,” I cried. “He never told me he knew you.”
“He was protecting you,” Luca said, his voice breaking. “If the Bellinis knew you were connected to me, they would have killed you immediately.”
We stood there, the weight of a lifetime of sacrifice settling over us.
An old man with a cane hobbled onto the terrace from the garden. It was Giuseppe, the estate caretaker.
He looked at Luca, then at me.
He smiled, a toothy, weathered grin.
“Mr. Moretti,” Giuseppe said in thick Italian. “You finally read the letter.”
“I did, Giuseppe,” Luca said softly.
The old man reached into his woven pocket. He pulled out a small, faded velvet box.
He walked over and pressed it into Luca’s palm.
“Your father left this with me twenty years ago,” Giuseppe said. “He told me to give it to you the day you finally brought the Rossi girl home.”
Giuseppe bowed his head and walked back into the garden.
Luca stared at the small box in his hand.
May you like
He slowly opened it.
TITLE: The Vintage Emerald And The Setting Sun
