Page 166 of The Italian Obsession

I frown as I watch the enigma across the street. I can’t even imagine my father with someone like her.

My eyes roam to the boy. He would be late teens. He has dark hair with a curl to it, and he looks exactly like I did at that age.

He had a football in his hand before she kicked it away.

Maybe he just came from training or something.

I watch them walk in and talk to the man on the gate.

I frown as pain sears my chest. I know him. He’s one of my father’s men.

He works for me.

I drop my head, unable to watch on any longer.

I start the car, and with a million vile visions of my father with her and him, I drive to Milan.

This can’t be happening.

There must be something. I’ve missed something. How didn’t I notice this in the will?

When I arrive at my offices, I head straight in. “Good morning.” Ruby smiles.

“Morning,” I say. “No visitors today, please.”

“Yes, Mr. Ferrara.”

I walk into my office, move the light switch and hit the button. The bookcase slides to the side, and I put the code into the safe. The will. I want to look at the will.

The large metal door clicks open, and I walk inside the room-sized safe. It’s filled with transactions, money, and paperwork.

I know where the will is. I saw it in here last week when I was retrieving something else. I look over the shelving until I see a large, dark-brown leather box way up high.

It’s in there, I remember it from back when they were going through everything with me. I stand on the stepladder, take it down, and go back to my desk to open it. It’s a large leather-bound book. I flick through the handwritten pages, and I frown. Title deeds, ownership papers, the properties I own… businesses…

What the fuck am I looking for here?

At the bottom of the box are loose papers. I take them out, and that’s when I see a large yellow envelope.

FOR ENRICO FERRARA TO OPEN WHEN HE FINDS THIS.

My heart stutters.

I stare at it for a moment.

How haven’t I seen this before?

I tear open the large envelope to find three smaller envelopes inside, titled in my father’s handwriting. Each one has a name on it.

Enrico

Andrea

Matteo

I put my hand over my mouth, hesitant to open it—frightened that every memory of my father is about to be crushed.

I open the letter addressed to me.