The Protector 2

Chapter Two-4

I almost jumped out of my skin with joy when I heard Sandro’s voice on the phone, on an autumn morning. The reason my cousin wanted to speak to me wasn’t so joyful, though. That morning, my life took a new turn.

“Are you serious? Do you really want me to testify? Me?” I whined into the phone.

“You’re a witness. Your confession can be crucial in the case. If all goes well, the guy can even get twenty-five years.”

“But for the love of God, Sandro. This happened so long ago. I was only a child.”

“I know you remember. You told us yourself that Michèle DeVito had been to your house and had an argument with your father.”

I slid down the wall and hugged my knees to my chest. True, the face of that damn guy had burned into my retina forever. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t forget that face fuming with anger. I was only thirteen when I was peeking from the landing, and watched my father having a heated argument at the entrance with a man whose head was shaved, and whose neck was tattooed. His name was Michèle DeVito. Later he went on to murder my parents. Did I want this monster to go to jail for what he had done? Of course I did. Did I want to face him in the courtroom, tearing up my old wounds? Hmm… absolutely not.

“Dad says the decision is in your hands, Rae. You wouldn’t be the only positive evidence against him, but, according to the prosecutor, one of the most important. If you do this now, the dickhead will be given a damn hard time, you can be sure about that.”

“I don’t know. I have to think it through. I need a little time.”

“Sure. You don’t need to answer at once, but if you decide to go for it, I’ll come to get you myself, and we’ll fly back together.”

With a deep sigh, I tried to create order in the chaos of my thoughts. The witnessing issue took me by total surprise. I’d managed to push my family’s mafia activities out of my consciousness with great effect, together with all I had left behind in Philadelphia. The iron grip of reality had sobered me up at a painful speed in the past few minutes.

“What does Claire think?”

“She simply wants you to come home at last. She misses you a lot. We all do,” Sandro added with a bit of emotion. It wasn’t typical of him to go soft; I was the only one who could bring this out of him. I knew this aspect of him and loved it when it manifested itself. It was only at that point I became aware of how much I had missed my family.

“I miss you guys too. A lot,” I sniffed.

Sandro was quiet for a while, then composed himself and continued with a firm voice.

“Mum and Dad say it’s your decision, after all. They can’t force you into anything.”

Great! – I thought, rolling my eyes. Nobody takes the responsibility off my shoulder.

After we said goodbye, my thoughts remained with Michèle DeVito and the witnessing. In the evening, I took out of my purse the only photo I had brought with me from home of my parents, and stared at the wrinkled picture with a troubled heart. I spent half the night brooding over the issue, and the next day I practically slept through the lectures with my eyes open. By the time I got home late in the afternoon, exhausted, I already knew I was going to testify against the murderer of my parents.

What would happen later, wasn’t my concern yet. I only concentrated on the preparation for the trial, and couldn’t wait to be reunited with my family. My goodbye to my friends was brief, and quite painless. At that point I thought that as soon as my duty was fulfilled in the States, I would return and pick up my life in London where I left it off.

Amina, whose life seemed to be in an even bigger chaos, had moved out of the apartment even before my trip. Her dilemma regarding the two gentlemen hadn’t been solved; what’s more, apparently half of the Arab Emirates were after her. On saying goodbye, we promised one another that whatever may happen, we’d remain in touch. Here was another failed promise.

Sandro, as promised, came to London in person for me, and we flew back together to the States. Chris waited for us at the airport, and I was just floored to see the dark suit-and-tied, sexy gentleman with a super trendy cut. Was this my crazy cousin brother who was always fooling around? I could imagine that the women were still mad about him, but somehow he seemed dangerously serious. Sandro never missed an opportunity to tease his bro about what a pedant gentleman he had become. For the whole journey to the estate we were carrying on with him like that, but to my relief, it turned out soon that under the taylored Ermenegildo Zegna suit, I could still find the wild and adorable bad boy whom I loved so much.

The reunion at the Bertone estate was emotional and tearful. It was as if I had fallen right in the middle of a full-blooded Italian soap opera. After the cool and polite atmosphere in England, I had to acclimatize again to the sentimental, kissing Italians. Because, even though the Bertones were dreaded in the underworld of criminals, in a private environment, between the walls of the home, every cliché applied to them that could be said about the habits of southern Europeans.

Claire remarked with resentment that I was skinny, my bones were clicking, and she started curing this poor situation that very evening. She put on an apron herself, and busied herself in the kitchen with the cook. During the six-course food marathon, they thoroughly questioned me about my life in London. I didn’t reveal to them every detail about the past few years, only presented to them the version that was suitable for the concerned family. I only showed them the more modest photos from my modelling shots. My cousins were my conspirators in this, and understood my precaution. There were plenty of photos and events about which, for the sake of peace, Uncle Emilio didn’t need to know.

Not long after that, the first threatening letter arrived. It was sent to the estate in the good old, traditional way. It was put into an envelope without a sender, and was addressed to my name. It was suspicious from the start, why a letter was mailed to me, only a few days after my arrival at the States. Sandro didn’t let me touch it. He went straight to his father with it, and my uncle left the chore to Enrico. The two old Mafiosos were smart enough to proceed with the highest caution. They had seen all kinds of ugly things in their life, so Enrico went to open the letter in the garden, with a gas mask on his face. When I said this caution over the letter was more than an exaggeration, Enrico manifested his thoughts to me in a very vivid way: “You never know what these f**k jocks come up with.”

The letter was saturated with poison, even if not in the way we had initially thought. The sender’s handwritten threats contained details of how they would finish me if I dared show up in court to give evidence against Michèle DeVito. Devastated, I sat in my uncle’s office, while Claire held and comforted me. It felt terrible to get back into reality. My own, personal reality, which was determined by my being a member of this family. I lived the past years in freedom and independence, and whenever I got in trouble, it was a consequence of my own mistakes, not others’. I achieved success on my own, at the cost of some mistakes I had learned from. I walked my own path, studied, worked, gained experiences, but most of all, nobody cared what my parents were called or what family I had come from. Nobody threatened to throw acid into my face, nobody wanted to hide a bomb in my car. The moment I took it on me that I was a member of the Bertone clan, though, I received a death threat. Had I made a mistake? Should I have stayed in England and ignored the trial? Because, even though my uncle never said it to my face, I was still sure that he expected me to do all I could to send my parents’ murderer to jail. And, what was even more important, I expected the same of myself.

While listening to Sandro’s phone call with the public prosecutor, I knew that there was no rival mafia clan or deadly threat that could keep me from testifing.

The first threatening letter was followed by two others. The FBI tried to track down their origin, without success. Until the date of the trial I never left the estate, I was a captive in a gold birdcage. On the big morning, a call came to my mobile from an unknown number, but I didn’t answer it. The second call was answered by Chris, and he hung it up while uttering various swearwords. He didn’t need to say much, I already knew what the call was about. To be on the safe side, we destroyed the SIM, and I received a new phone.

I got out of the car at the court’s basement parking lot with a churning, upset stomach, and felt like I had landed in a crime story. On my sides, my cousin brothers were walking close to me, Enrico was in my front, and two other people of Uncle Emilio’s were behind me. Moreover, following the strictest safety procedures, six suited FBI agents with black glasses escorted us into the building. Just like in a gangster movie. Except, it wasn’t a movie, but my life.

I was proud of myself for not collapsing or breaking down when faced with Michèle DeVito. The man had aged without a doubt since I had last seen him, yet, I recognized him straight away because of his bald head and the cobra head tattoo around his neck. The two of us, of course, didn’t communicate; I only looked at him when requested by the prosecutor, when it was time to identify him. Michèle’s face was phlegmatic, he sized me with condemnation, and I didn’t want to torture myself in vain with a longer eye contact. As soon as I finished testifying, I left the building with the same strict security escort as before. When we drove out of the basement parking space, we saw a crowd of people in front of the court building, and the press was also represented in big numbers. Michèle DeVito was accused of several murders and blackmail cases, and obviously it wasn’t only my parents who fell victim for the inner war going on between the clans for many years.

Due to the death threats, the prosecution in agreement with the FBI saw that my life was in danger, so they put me in their witness protection programme. At first I was strongly against the idea, but since the threats didn’t stop coming, I didn’t really have a choice. It wasn’t a more favourable option for me to lay low at the estate, get on with my studies via correspondence and only leave the house surrounded by bodyguards. With a broken heart, I came to terms with the fact that I had to chuck my plans regarding London. It was out of the question for me to go back and continue my life where I had left it off. My safety could not have been guaranteed in an environment where everybody knew me. My uncle’s people flew to London and cleaned out the apartment, removing every trace of my existence there. I informed Nola in a letter about what had happened, and my uncle’s people delivered it to her in person.

After I realized I would put my friends in serious danger if I was to visit or ring them, I got into a lethargic state, and gave up protesting. I agreed to everything. I received a new name and ID, and was moved to the West Coast as far as possible from Philadelphia. There was a secret contact person with whom I was in touch regularly, and through whom I communicated with the family. Claire wept when we said goodbye, and the men were also devastated, but we all knew this drastic step was necessary.

Michèle DeVito went to jail. He was sentenced to life imprisonment. Was I happy about this development? I didn’t really have a reason to be happy, living in exile. Without a doubt, Michèle ended up where he was meant to be, but, in the meantime, my whole life fell to pieces. I had to leave behind not only my first life in Philadelphia, but my second existence too, which I had built up in London.

During the first weeks, I practically never left the flat. I even ordered my food from home delivery services, and always from a different one, so I wasn’t noticed. I read, studied, felt depressed, and missed everything and everyone. Even Chad. And Amina especially, but it was out of the question for me to contact her. When I couldn’t take confinement anymore, with a trembling heart – and a gas spray in my pocket – I took a short walk in the neighbourhood. The next day, with wobbly knees, I did the same. I was scared, but overcame my fear. I stubbornly denied that fear would rule the rest of my life. The third day I went running, and at the weekend I went out shopping for myself at the nearby store; and instead of the boring delivered food, I ate what I cooked for myself. I was a little braver every day, and with every passing week, a little bit returned from the power that I had lost. It took me half a year to finally go outside without anxiety. I didn’t really meet new people, and I quickly got rid of the men who occasionally made a move on me.

The former threats were suddenly cut off. The family never received another phone call or letter after my disappearance. After a year, on my twenty-fourth birthday, I decided to leave the witness protection programme, taking full responsibility. I had had enough of solitude, and wanted to get my life back, or at least, whatever could be restored from it. The authorities, of course, disagreed with my decision, but they weren’t the ones who had to live in exile. I moved back to the East Coast, although, this time I consciously settled far from the family. I rented a flat that was a good hour’s drive from the Bertone estate, and this is where I took notice of the shop for sale, from which I managed to create a successful party service in a short period of time. I worked a lot to make the shop known among the locals, and even managed to take on Sue, an excellent confectioner, who spoiled our clients with her own fabulous cake creations. I met Johnny, the first man in my life since Chad, with whom I purposely didn’t rush things. I had learned from my experiences, and allowed things to slowly unfold between us. My investment began to pay off bit by bit, we received more and more orders, and finally I started to make use of my speech therapy degree at a local clinic. That’s when the disaster hit. The mafia shot my shop to splinters, and my life was turned upside down for the third time.