American Dynasty

T E N

Maia Mitchell as Fiorella Dioli ^^^

*******

Alesio was having a fit when Stella and Fiorella finally appeared. "You girls were supposed to be here more than half an hour ago! I thought you were in trouble!"

Alesio was an old, stout little man of no more than 110 pounds, reminding Stella of an elf. He had been the family chauffer since before Stella was born and he was like a second father to her. It was actually little bit amusing to Stella to see him stomping and jumping around because he resembled a small child throwing a temper tantrum, but his beet red face told her just how angry her was.

"What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?" He demanded, opening the car door for the two girls. They climbed in swiftly, watching as Alesio closed the door, jogged around the car and climbed into the front seat. It never failed to amaze Stella how spry Alesio was at his old age.

"We took a wrong turn," Stella said, not wanting to worry Alesio by telling them about their encounter with the gangs. "We-" Stella began, but Fiorella cut her off.

"We almost got kidnapped by an Irish gang but then a boss from another gang saved us," Fiorella blurted out. Stella closed her eyes and pursed her lips. "Sorry," Fiorella said meekly.

Alesio was at a loss for words. The most he could muster were unintelligent noises and squeaks. "You what!?" He finally managed to say. "We have to tell the police! He would never let them get away with this-"

"No," Stella said firmly, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. "I need to talk to my father."

"Your father?" Alesio echoed. "What does he have to do with this?" Stella met his eyes in the rear view mirror grimly. "That's what I would like to find out."

***

Stella nearly lost her nerve when she was standing in front of the large oak doors that led to Beppe's study. He was inside, she knew because she could hear his deep voice speaking in Italian. The dinner that she had scarfed down a few minutes ago was threatening to come back up as she knocked three times and heard her father pause.

"Come in," he called out.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Beppe sat at his large mahogany desk with a telephone pressed to his ear. He glanced up and smiled when he saw his daughter. He murmured a few more Italian words before hanging up and devoting his full attention to Stella.

"Cara mia, what brings you here?"

"Papà, we need to talk," Stella said, not waiting to be told to have a seat. She pulled out the chair directly across from her father and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

"Alright, what would you like to talk about?" Beppe asked, amused by his daughter.

"Have you ever killed anybody?"

Beppe's smile faded immediately and all colour drained from his face. "I-Stella, why would you ask such a thing?"

"You didn't answer the question," Stella pressed.

"No," Beppe said, frowning deeply. "I have never killed anybody, nor do I have the intent to. What put such a thought in your mind, bambina?"

Stella hesitated. "I've heard rumours about you. Bad ones."

Beppe's stare hardened. "That's all they are, just rumours. And frankly I'm quite hurt that my own daughter would be so quick to believe such lies. I don't even own a gun; never have. Do you really think that I would have the stomach to kill another human being?"

Stella looked down at her lap, feeling ashamed that she had jumped to conclusions. It scared her that she had indeed been quick to trust that Eddie McGrath and Flynn were telling the truth. "I'm sorry Papà, it's just...sometimes it seems like you're hiding things."

Beppe tilted his head and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry that I've made you feel that way, cara mia, but trust me in that I do not hold secrets. I would not lie to you."

Stella nodded and quietly got out of her chair. Beppe watched her cautiously as she approached him and placed a soft kiss to his cheek. He waited until he heard the click of the door closing before he let out a breath and sat back in his chair.

The weight of guilt lay heavy on his shoulders from lying straight to his daughter's face. Inserting a key into the middle right hand drawer in his desk, he pulled it open to reveal a loaded pistol. He gingerly picked it up and studied it.

It was a simple pistol, a Colt model he had held onto since 1913. Beppe cleaned it after every kill, but nothing could ever permanently wash the blood off. He ran his calloused fingers along the barrel, admiring the craftsmanship. The gun had been the bringer of too many deaths for Beppe to count. Irish, Italian and Jewish gangsters alike had looked down the barrel of that gun before their world went black, with Beppe's calm, sadistic smile the last thing they saw.

Beppe tucked the pistol back into the drawer and slowly closed it. With any luck, that pistol would never see the light of day ever again.