Blood Ties

Chapter 2

It took every iota of Giuseppe's self-control to not break down the door to the cottage.

Patience, he chided himself. In two hours it will be sunrise, and I will be at the mercy of these peasants. Only the beast acts without thought of consequence. The man waits.

He cradled Damiana in his arms. Her face pressed against his chest, her skin so hot it seemed to burn, her pulse almost tangible. He had carried his wife, Rosa, like this, through the threshold of their home.

No, Giuseppe shook his head, focusing his attention to the moment. She's not Rosa. Remember that.

Shifting Damiana so that her head rested against his shoulder, Giuseppe knocked again.

"Please," he called. "Let me in."

The catch slid back, and he caught sight of a man's face, deeply lined, and the barrel of a gun. "We don't want trouble here."

With the blackshirts in the countryside, it was a better welcome than he had expected, but it was still one born of fear. He was, after all, a strange man in the middle of the night, a man in a suit, a man with a car.

"Cousin?" Giuseppe feigned desperation, putting an edge on his voice. "Please," he said. "You have to let me inside."

"I don't have a cousin," The man's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Who are you?"

"Don't you remember me?" Giuseppe locked his eyes with the farmer's, feeling the familiar rush of his power. The mortal's pupils dilated as he came under his sway. "I'm your cousin, Joe," he said. "We played together as children, before I ran off to the big city. And this is my wife. She's very sick. You'll give us a place to rest, food and clothing."

The man stared back at him, his face slack as he processed. Another face in the morass of his memory, the addition almost seamless. "Joe? I didn't recognise you. Thought you died in the war!" He moved aside, and there was a creak as he opened the door. "Come in, come in. You must be freezing."

The inside of the house was warm, at least, though the decor was crude; things carved from local wood or woven from the wool of the sheep that lived there. Almost like stepping back in time. The exception was the portrait of Mussolini, that hung in pride of place over the mantel.

"Are you alone?"

The farmer shook his head. "I married Maria Dell'Oro, would you believe it?" he grinned. "She's here. And Euphrasio, my son; he lives here too."

Giuseppe peered into the darkness. Two figures there, in the doorway to the kitchen, in nightclothes. The young man had a pistol levelled at him, at Damiana. Giuseppe caught his eyes.

"Put it down, boy," he said.

Shakily, the son obeyed.

"Euphrasio!" The man's eyes widened in horror, and he raised his arms. "Joe is family! And his wife! With a baby on the way!"