A Father’s Shadow

The image seared my retina--the face of my dad, bruised and terrified, with duct tape over his mouth, the background his small apartment in New York that remained easily identifiable--and I was falling over to the world tipping the scales and my legs shaking as Mantovani picked me up, and the only thing supporting me is his face, which was duct taped, and I kept saying, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no Mom looked at the screen and screamed, her hand to her mouth, with tears instantly and streaming because even after the divorce she still cared, still recalled the man who had loved us both in his silent fashion and Sanna took the phone, his face hard to something deadly, and ordered flights and alliances to be made at once in New York. Bandaged though he was, and insisting on remaining, Conti rose, growling, on the couch, saying, We get him back, no one touches family, and the intensity with which he spoke was reflected in the intensity of all of us, the family, blood and chosen, coming together in one will.

Mantovani drew me to the study and out of the noise, closing the door and pressing me against it, forehead against forehead, breathing hard, "We're getting him back, Candice; I swear on my life," and I kissed him then, desperate and deep and putting all the fear and love of my heart into it, my hands clenching in his shirt as though I could keep him here indefinitely, unsusceptible to the vengeance we would have to take. He was kissing me back to the same urgency, lifting me up on the desk, papers flying, his hands slipping under my shirt and touching flesh, and we were both grounded in the heat of our bodies, and I could feel him whispering between kisses, You are my strength; we will end this together, and a few stolen minutes the war was outside, and passion was burning us instead of air, and I knew why all the bullets were worth it.

At the living room, arrangements were made hurriedly, half the crew to be left to guard the villa and Ryan, the remainder taking off to New York, private jet fuelled and ready--and it seemed to me that the sheriff was breaking in two directions at once, making the war a multi-front nightmare--and mom demanded to come, and her voice did not slip at all in crisis, she was going, and that was that, and the fact that Ryan, on hearing the news, was able to buy her information on a basis of her own safety. At break of day we got on the jet, feeling weary and yet almost alert on adrenaline and I sat next Mantovani, whose hand never left mine, and Mom was staring out the window and daydreaming about it and Conti was making calls to club chapters in the East Coast.

Many hours afterward, landing in New York, stars shining like cold diamonds in the sky, we moved at light speed--armored SUVs to the neighborhood of the man I was going to save, local friends greeting us with guns and information--and the eagerness to save dad was so strong that it became palpable to my tongue, fear and love twisted together. We circled the building, snipers on the roof, breach team on alert and Mantovani led the attack kicking the door open and guns cocked as we stormed into the apartment only to find dad alone still bound but alive, the captors having fled and a note pinned to his chest: "Consider this a warning; next time she dies first.

It was like a wave of relief rushing over me, and I sliced Dad free, and wrapped him in my arms, where he smelled of coffee and old books, and this brought me back to the earth, and he muttered, saying, I knew you'd come, princess, and the man stood and cried and Mom was standing in the doorway, looking at the man she left, and they looked at each other and their eyes met, and the words they were used to saying together came between them. However, when we assisted Daddy to his feet, his phone went off on the tablebursting into an automatic live video feed of the villa back in Italy on fire, flames licking at the night sky, and Sanna screaming over the shots and then the feed went black.