Page 6 of The Man with a Treasure

His upper lip lifted. “I cannot leave Soldier’s magic on the sheets for poor Mamma.” He held up the sock. “Perfecto.”

My head bobbled as I decided Sal, yet again, had made sense, then I leaned over and grabbed my own dirty sock.

Best friends quietly and anxiously laid back in their beds, yanked down pajama bottoms, and ‘tugged’ on ‘soldiers,’ neither lasting longer than a minute.

Relief sating our hormones, we both tossed our socks next to our leather work boots and sighed back into our pillows. We stared at the ceiling for only seconds before our eyes closed and we drifted into a deep sleep.

It felt like we had barely shut our eyes when our bedroom door swung open, Mr. Rossi, yelling, “Wolf in the sheep pen!” before he took off running out of the front door.

Knowing what that meant, Sal and I jerked up to sit in our beds and grab our shoes. As soon as we each slipped on a sock, we both cringed.

Sal murmured, “Oh noooooo.”

Wetness had me about to yank off my sock until Mr. Rossi, already outside, banged on our one window. “Now! Now!”

We both jolted, then realized we had no time to fix the issue. Humiliated and disappointed, we had to slip on our dirty socks and boots and run.

Grabbing guns, I mumbled, “Next time, I am using your sock.”

We half-ran and hopped, not appreciating the wet sensation.

Sal laughed. “At least I am not an ‘Angel of the Night’ with soldier goo in my boot.”

I went to smack him on the back of his head, but he hobbled away too quickly.

For the next year, Sal and I trained for more skills we’d ‘need’ in the future. Mr. Rossi worked on our stealth in the dark. Why we would need to be so sneaky in the future was missed by me. Our speed was important, too. Yes, physical running was important, again for reasons unbeknownst to me, but it was the speed of reloading handguns, rifles, and shotguns that had Mr. Rossi’s interest. So, Sal and I practiced, pleasing Mr. Rossi.

When allowed to be teenagers again, I would sneak away, Sal following me into the woods, demanding, “She better have brought me a friend again!” to find Zeta waiting for me at the river. Sal would cheer, “Perfecto!” when seeing a friend, bashfully smiling, knowing she was his entertainment for the evening. By this point, Sal had kissed so many girls he was becoming an expert.

Not me. I was only kissing Zeta, the young woman with an electric charge that made me positively admire the female gender. That’s why, while kissing her and feeling tears, I was so surprised. I had never seen her cry. She was always rambunctious, willing to cross every line set in front of her. Except for one.

Shaking, she whispered, “My father has promised me to another.”

This wasn’t hard to believe. In fact, it was still somewhat common in certain parts, but she was so young. I was fourteen, and she was fifteen. “W-What? To whom?”

Wiping under her nose, she growled, “My father’s friend’s son. He’s a scoundrel!”

“The son?”

“No. He is not so bad. I’m speaking of my father.” Her chocolate eyes found mine. “I told him about you.” Her bottom lip trembled before she admitted, “He said I am to stay away from Giordanos.”

“But I am a Bianchi.”

Her eyes filled with pity. “But… you are owned by them.”

I blinked as I pulled back in shock. “Owned? I am not—” I thought about the skills being taught to us, the Team Juniors. I was being trained to protect a house I was not to enter except for permitted areas. I was being groomed to protect a family who didn’t even eat meals with me. No, I may not have had a fence around me like the livestock, but I definitely had invisible barriers I was not to cross. “Am I?”

More tears slipped down her soft cheeks. “I will miss you, so much.”

“Wait… Is this goodbye?”

She hiccupped around tears. “Mother says if anyone were to find out about you and me, it could make me look unworthy of my future husband’s family name.”

Suddenly understanding I was not of the needed caliber to ask for her hand in marriage, I took a heavy step back. “I am not good enough.”

She reached out to me and cried harder when I pulled away. Clutching her denied touch to her chest, she begged, “Angelo, please.”

I kept backing away. “No. You are brave. You are a fighter.” My chest tightened to such an extent I felt physical pain. “Just not… for me.”