“Uncle Sal, we’ve met before? When I was four? Perhaps in the hospital while I waited for the authorities to find my Aunt and for her to come to Kansas City?”
Salvatore Luciano smiled, but it was his brother, Vinnie who spoke. “No, my dear that was me. My brother was at the jail with young Gardner. I was at the hospital with Mr. Gardino. That is young Gardner’s father. I had spoken to the doctors and knew that the prognosis for your father was less than favorable. That was when Mr. Gardino instructed me to set up the trust.”
Sal continued where Vinnie had left off. “I stayed with young Gardner through the arraignment, got him released on bail, and met my brother at the hospital. You were so young, so small, and so alone. Vinnie had convinced the doctor and the police that since your Aunt would arrive soon there was no need to involve children’s services. We would take care of you, watch over you, and keep you safe until your Aunt could come get you. We didn’t take you from the hospital. We took turns staying with you through the night until your Aunt came.”
Vinnie picked up the story. “I spoke with her to tell her about the trust that Mr. Gardino had asked me to establish. She refused it. Called it a bribe and said she didn’t want his blood money. She took you from the hospital and went back to Iowa. Mr. Gardino still insisted that I set up the trust. He said the decision should be yours when you were old enough to decide. When you were 21, I tried to find you, but your mother had died and your Aunt had married years before and she had moved. We didn’t know where you were. You didn’t have a social security number when you were four. It’s not like today when parents get social security numbers for babies as soon as they’re born. I searched for Angelique Valle everywhere.”
“Yes, by the time I started school my Aunt Marta had begun calling me by my middle name. By the time you began to look for me I had been married and Angelique Valle was no more.” She looked out the window at the lake. “I do have questions. Many of them. You’ve been administering the trust all of this time. What does that mean? Are there tax implications? Must I claim the money or may I give it away. If I give it away, what are the tax implications?”
“The trust has been paying the taxes and as long as the trust exists that will be the case. The money, all of it, is yours to do with as you please. I suggest you talk to your own financial planner and legal counsel before you decide. Most importantly, I suggest that you do nothing immediately, but give it time to sink in a bit.”
Vinnie stood and reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card, which he offered to Lane. “I know you probably already have Benito’s card, but whomever you retain to handle the matter will want to contact me directly. All of my information is on this.”
Sal stood and the two men faced Lane, but it was Vinnie who spoke. “Please forgive us, for though we are old men, we knew immediately when we met you today that you were our little Angel of the Valley. We are so happy we have found you.”
They each hugged her before they turned to leave. She stayed in the great room while Ben walked them to the door. They’d spoken only English for the last hour. Surely, they needed to tell secrets to each other in Italian again. She made a mental note to order Rosetta Stone for Italian in the morning.
Ben returned and took her in his arms. “I think we were making up before we were interrupted.”
She kissed him. “We weren’t making up; I was forgiving you for being a macho Italian man after I decided to hold you blameless for your uncles conspiring to keep secrets. When we have a fight, counselor, believe me you’ll know it.”
He took half a step back. “They say redheads have fiery tempers. I consider myself warned.”
She playfully hit his chest. “You can joke if you want. But believe me; you don’t want to see me really mad.”
He pulled her close and kissed her. “Are you hungry? How about if I change out of this suit and make dinner?”
Chapter 13
Dinner & Dancing at home
Lane had eaten chicken Spedini for lunch, but that had been hours ago. She realized she was starving. While Ben was changing, she put together a salad. It was the one thing she knew she was safe in “cooking” in Ben’s kitchen. Having grown up in the restaurant business had made Ben a great cook. Growing up Italian meant that everything was done from scratch. No frozen ingredients. No boxed pasta. No Ragu or Prego spaghetti sauce. His sauce had to simmer all day.
Lane smiled as she remembered the first and only time she had made pasta and tried to serve it to Ben. It was the first weekend after she’d brought the kids to Kansas. She had gotten Italian sausages and meatballs from Walmart Market and she had cooked boxed spaghetti and had two jars of Prego spaghetti sauce simmering in separate pots. Ben had come in through the garage and was assaulted by the smell. He casually lifted the lids and looked into each pot and pan. He shook his head.
“Lane, we don’t use boxed spaghetti, we don’t use sauce from a jar, and we don’t buy our meat from Walmart.” He had turned each burner off as he said, “I’m taking you and the kids out tonight.”
It was the first time he’d taken them to Bellini’s; and it was the last time Lane had cooked anything Italian except pizza and even then, she only made it when she was sure Ben wouldn’t be eating it.
He came from the bedroom dressed in his normal casual attire, khaki slacks, and a polo shirt. He was barefoot, and he wrapped his arms around her as she stood in front of the open refrigerator. She had just put the salad she’d thrown together in the fridge so it wouldn’t wilt.
Ben had turned on the stereo. Frank Sinatra was singing and Ben began waltzing her around his large kitchen. Who knew Ben not only was a great dancer, but that he loved to dance. She rested her head on his shoulder.
“So, counselor, where did you learn to dance?”
“It was something that Mama insisted we all learn. I think I started lessons before I could walk. She and Papa would move the furniture out of the way and dance together. When we were very small, they would hold us as they danced. When we were older, she taught all of us boys, Papa taught Marie Terese. The restaurant was closed on Mondays then, and it became our dance lesson night. We learned the waltz, fox trot, tango, to rock and roll and of course the tarantella. My brothers and I were a hit at all of the school dances. Even in junior high when most boys stood on one side of the gym and the girls stood on the other, we Bellinis crossed the demarcation line and broke the ice.”
Lane smiled as she imagined a 13-year-old Ben Bellini breaking hearts as he made a valiant attempt to waltz some prepubescent girl around a gym floor.
As the song ended, he bent her backward and kissed her. “What are you hungry for tonight, Red?” She knew he wasn’t really talking about food. It was clear from his kisses, and from the conversation they’d had last night.
Lane had no idea how desirable she was. He could tell by the way that Mickey looked at her that had he not come to his senses eight weeks ago, he’d be at risk of losing her now. He knew she’d been hurt in the past, that she’d been abandoned, and hurt by men from her father who died when she was four to the idiot she considered marrying several years ago. He was going to do everything humanly possible to ensure that no one ever hurt her again.
Much to her surprise, he opened the freezer. “I have some of Mama’s lasagna in here. Shall we heat that up?” The Bellini family had dinner together every Sunday. Even Italian families who weren’t in the restaurant business revolved around food. She knew the Bellinis got together every other month or so and made Italian sausages. The rule was if you didn’t help make the sausages, you didn’t get any sausages. Mama Bellini didn’t take pity on any of her children in this respect.