Page 15 of Ricardo

I snort at the idea of it. The phrase is absurd.

A bachelor pad is an apartment or house with a leather couch, a television too large for the wall, and a refrigerator full of beer and takeout containers.

Not a gated estate with eight bedrooms, a wine cellar, imported tile, a private gym, a pool with a waterfall and a grotto, staff quarters, reinforced gates, and enough security infrastructure to make a foreign minister comfortable.

Tomasso told me I was being narrow-minded and to open my eyes to the possibilities.

So here I am, pulling into the drive of a sprawling estate with old-world Italian bones; limestone arches, a tiled roof, cypress along the front approach, and the best security money can buy.

The house sits far enough back from the road to make surprise difficult and surveillance expensive. Mature trees border the property. Cameras are hidden, but I know where six of them are before I reach the gate.

Private security in addition to the system.

I never would have allowed them to buy if it hadn't been securable.

I stop in front of the gate and wait.

A camera turns slightly toward the windshield.

I stare back.

The gate opens too slowly.

I make a note to have that adjusted.

I drive through, continue up the long approach, and pull into a circular drive that currently looks like a very expensive storm has passed through it. Two moving trucks sit near the front steps. A delivery van is parked at an angle that would make any competent driver ashamed. There are boxes stacked beneath the portico, furniture wrapped in plastic, three rolled rugs leaning against a column, and what appears to be a marble statue of a headless Roman soldier sitting in the middle of the lawn.

I turn off the engine and stare at it.

Why is there a headless soldier on the lawn?

The front door opens.

Tomasso appears with a floor lamp over one shoulder and a grin on his face.

That answers very little and explains too much.

“Zio Ricardo!” he calls.

Behind him, someone shouts, “Do not bring that through the front!”

Tomasso shouts back, “It is a lamp, not a bomb!”

“It is ugly!”

“You just don't have taste.”

“And your taste is all in your mouth,” came the response.

I step out of the car.

The July heat hits first, followed by the smell of fresh paint, cut grass, cardboard, and young male confidence. A dangerous combination.

Tomasso jogs down the steps with the lamp still over his shoulder. He is Mario’s son in the face, but there is a lightness to him that Mario has never possessed. Matteo carries the weight. Tomasso dodges it, dances around it, occasionally sets it on fire for entertainment.

“You made it,” he says.

“I said I would.”