Page 21

16 Years Old

My eyes snap open and in a split second, I transition from deep sleep to wide awake. My room is dark, but through the window, headlights light up our front garden.

My feet hit the floor and I rush to grab a pair of jeans that are hanging over the chair in the corner. Tugging them on, I listen to the sounds of chaos outside and wonder who the gunshots I awoke to were meant for and if they met their target.

Nearly tripping as I yank on a hoodie and rush down the hallway, I hear the backdoor slam downstairs and urgent voices speaking a mixture of Italian and English. I reach the ground floor and, with relief, see Dad barking orders into a cell phone.

A group of Dad’s capos, his senior soldiers, are huddled in a circle and I rush forwards to see what they are looking down at.

“Giovanna, what are you doing here?” Fat Tony asks, but I ignore him. I’m not a kid anymore, Dad knows that. He has been bringing me into the family business and I observe everything.

As I draw closer to the group of men, all dressed in suits, one of the men steps aside and I catch a glimpse of the young man lying on the hard wooden floor.

I don’t know his real name, but I know the guys call him Patches because he can’t grow a full moustache. He has only been working for theFamigliafor a year or so and is probably only five or six years older than I am.

Whatever colour Patches’ shirt was before, it is now drenched in blood. I count three entry wounds in his chest, but I heard seven shots. Either four bullets went astray or he has more holes in his body than I can see.

His breaths are getting shallower and are being snatched from higher and higher in his chest. Two of the men kneel next to him whispering words of comfort and even though I am no doctor, I know he is not long for this world.

Clutching the gold crucifix that hangs around his neck, the man on Patches’ right recites the Hail Mary on a loop and we all watch as the wounded man slips into the clutches of death.

“Giovanna!” Dad barks at me from the kitchen and I hurry over to him after one last look at the body of a man not long out of boyhood.

“How can I help, Dad?” I ask, determined to play my part in the crisis.

The violence has been escalating, but no one was prepared for Alberto to send his men to our front door.

“Take your brothers and get out of here. Out of Sydney. Just drive until you’re sure no one has followed you and then head north to the safe house in Noosa,” he instructs me. I have a bag packed in the back of my wardrobe for exactly this kind of emergency with cash, a burner phone, and fake IDs for myself and my brothers.

He has barely finished giving me my orders and I am already sprinting back upstairs first to Elio’s room and then Matteo’s. At 14 and 11, they’re both old enough to understand what is going on and spring to action throwing clothes and necessities into bags while I retrieve my emergency pack and head down to our baby brother’s room.

By the time I reach Massimo’s cot, he is standing, holding on to the bars, and wailing his little head off. Despite my best efforts to calm him with my voice while I pack his bag, he only gets louder and more distressed.

I’m bending over to pick him up when from the corner of the room where a travel cot is set up, another cry sounds. I freeze for a second wondering if I imagined the sob, but a few seconds later a full-on wail joins Massi’s chorus.

“Fuck!” I say aloud to myself and hurry over to the other cot. Inside I find Francesca, Dad’s right-hand man Paul’s daughter.What is she doing here?

After a moment’s hesitation, I conclude that I can’t leave the poor toddler there and after rearranging the bags on my back and Massi on my hip, I wrangle the second crying child into my arms.

“Gio!” Matteo appears at the bedroom door and opens his arms for one of the babies. Massimo happily takes the transition and we hurry downstairs, meeting Elio in the kitchen.

“Dad! Francesca was in Massi’s room? Should I take her?” I shout across the room and after looking over at Paul, who nods his head, Dad turns and nods to me.

Peta, Massimo’s mum, and Vanessa, Francesca’s mum are currently in Bali on a girls’ weekend. Things weren’t expected to heat up like they have tonight otherwise Peta would never have left her son. Vanessa would have probably still gone. Let’s be honest.

Fear makes its first appearance only when I drive the blacked-out Range Rover containing my three siblings and Francesca out of our underground garage. It is too dangerous for us to remain at the house in case of another strike, but leaving also makes us incredibly vulnerable to being attacked or followed.

I hold my breath and, from the front passenger seat, Elio scans our surroundings for any signs of Alberto’s men or vehicles acting suspiciously.

“Can’t see anything, G,” Elio whispers. We have agreed to try to keep the younger kids from being aware of all the danger we are in.

“Okay, just keep watch. I’m going to drive around in circles for a few hours and then we will head into Queensland.”

Elio does as he is told, taking his role very seriously. Dad worries that he is too soft and won’t be suited to taking over when he retires. He is a bit squeamish, but the kid is super smart.

“Why is Alberto doing this, G?” he asks me after we have been driving for about half an hour in silence.

“Hmmmmm,” I wonder how much to tell him. “You know that Dad, Alberto, Paul, and David all went to school together back in Italy right?”