The Venetian Job Read online

"We're staying at the hotel. We're allowed to use the pool." Charlie folded his arms.

  Was he crazy? "We can go back to our room and watch the wrestling," I said to him. "Let's go."

  The man in black leaned toward Charlie and said very softly, "Mr. Petruzzelli owns hotel."

  Mr. P must've been Mr. Mafia in the pool. That was good enough for me. I was out of here. If Charlie wanted to stay and get his head blown off, that was his business. Real casual, I began to walk back toward the elevator.

  I heard a voice behind me. "Boy! You stop!"

  Before I even turned round, I realized that voice was coming from the pool. Mr. Mafia had called out to me. It was one of those times I wished I could run so fast that I'd be no more than a blur heading to the door. I held my breath, turned round and looked at the little old wrinkly man in the pool. Be cool, I told myself. But the mafia were probably like dogs and could smell fear.

  "You inglese?"

  Why did everyone think we were English? Except for Manchester United, what did England have going for it?

  "Australian," Charlie answered before I could.

  He laughed. "Good. Good."

  Why was that good? Charlie and me seemed unable to move. It was like we'd been hauled up in front of the principal at school.

  He waved us over. "Come."

  Again, I thought about running. But that would make me look like a full-on loser. Instead, I followed Charlie. Since he knew so much about the mafia, he could do the talking.

  Mr. Mafia got out of the pool and the other bodyguard handed him a big white towel. Mr. Mafia pointed to the pool. "Holiday?" he asked.

  For some reason, I blurted out, "Yeah, our mom's grandparents are Italian and we're going to find their family."

  He laughed. "Too fast, too fast."

  I realized he hadn't understood a word I'd said. And Charlie was looking at me like I was stupid.

  Real slow, he said to Mr. Mafia, "Yes, we are on a holiday."

  "You speak italiano?"

  Charlie shook his head. "No."

  Mr. Mafia held out his hand to Charlie. "My name is Franco."

  Charlie shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Charlie."

  Then Mr. Mafia held out his hand to me. I wished my friends at school could see this. I gave him a real firm handshake. "Max."

  "Good to meet you, Max."

  We all laughed and suddenly I wasn't as scared. If it weren't for the two bodyguards, he'd seem like an ordinary, nice old man. Sort of like the guy who owned the grocery store near home.

  We soon realized he just wanted to practice his English. He asked us what sports we played and when we told him we were from Australia, he jumped around like a kangaroo. We laughed like it was the funniest joke ever.

  He told us he had two grandsons about the same age as us and they loved football. "You like football?"

  Charlie told him he followed AC Milan.

  He'd only been following them for one week before we came to Italy. Charlie was the biggest suck of all time.

  "You like stamps?" Franco asked us both.

  "Stamps?"

  He waved his hand about. "Il francobollo."

  "Rubber stamps?" asked Charlie. "Or for letters?"

  "Si. Letters. Yes," Franco replied.

  I didn't want Charlie to say no, so I said, "Our nanna has a stamp collection."

  "Good. You send me ... Australian stamps. I give you money." He turned round to one of the bodyguards. "Giovanni!" Then he gave him an order in Italian.

  Giovanni came over to us, pulled out his wallet and handed Charlie a twenty-euro note. That was a lot of money. How many stamps did he want?

  Giovanni then took a little black book from inside his jacket and wrote down something. Weird.

  Franco said to us, "Send stamps to hotel." He pointed to his chest. "I own hotel. Send to Franco Petruzzelli at hotel. Si?"

  Charlie nodded. "Si."

  A bad feeling went right through me. He'd only just met us and he was ordering us round like we were his personal assistants specializing in all things Australian. What sort of mafia boss collects stamps, anyway? It was hard to imagine him soaking stamps off envelopes while his bodyguards watched him.

  4. UNCLE FRANCO?

  We didn't say anything to Mom and Dad about meeting Mr. Mafia. Charlie reckoned parents should only be told what they need to know, so at dinner he told them we did fifty laps and played Marco Polo. Actually, we only did thirty-four laps. Charlie exaggerates sometimes. His excuse was that we would've swum an extra sixteen laps if we hadn't talked to Franco.

  Later that night, after we'd turned the light off to sleep, Charlie whispered, "Max."

  "Yeah."

  "I've got a theory."

  "Yeah."

  "I reckon that Franco Petruzzelli is our great uncle."

  "What?"

  "I reckon he's Mom's uncle. I reckon they're waiting to introduce us. Remember when Franco bowed to Mom when we were at that restaurant?"

  Of course I remembered, because I'd never seen a total stranger bow to Mom. "Yeah."

  "I reckon Franco arranged for us to stay at this hotel. And I reckon Mom sent us to go for a swim, so we'd meet him. I don't reckon it was a coincidence."

  I breathed in and out real hard. "I don't want to be related to a mafia boss."

  "He might leave us some money when he dies."

  "Really?" I wasn't sure that getting money from a bad guy would be a good idea. "We don't look like him."

  "Yeah, I reckon you've got his nose."

  My nose was the same shape as Mom's nose. I looked a lot like Mom. Charlie didn't. He didn't even look a little bit Italian. Actually, Charlie didn't look like Dad, either. Maybe he was adopted. I felt my nose. I'd have to have a good look at Franco's nose.

  I said to Charlie, "Why wouldn't Mom just introduce us to him?"

  "She wants us to see that he's a nice old man - before we find out he's a mafia boss."

  "We'll see, I guess." I rolled over onto my side, so my back was to Charlie. Most times he was right, but this time I hoped he was wrong.

  Getting to sleep was difficult. If I could turn my ears off, it'd be easier. The sounds of the traffic in the street below, the people down the hallway having a good time and the ping of the elevator every now and again were getting on my nerves. Charlie's noisy breathing didn't help either. I felt like putting a pillow over his head. The alarm clock next to my bed said it was 11.42pm. Charlie had been sound asleep for ages.

  Thoughts of Franco kept bothering me. Say he was our great uncle. Would our whole life change or would he just want us to send him an email every now and again? I could see Charlie and me dressed in black suits at a big family mafia gathering ... Franco introducing us to his family ... Charlie and me playing soccer with Franco's grandsons.

  And what sort of stamps would a mafia boss want? Were pictures of small furry animals too girly? What about pictures of colorful birds? Pictures of cricketers might be okay, but Franco probably hadn't heard of cricket. And why was I so worried?

  When I'd sunk into that wonderful dreamy place before falling asleep, a really loud siren sounded. And it kept going. I sat up straight. It took me a minute to realize I wasn't in my own bed, but on the other side of the world. In Sicily and sleeping in the same hotel as a mafia boss. A mafia boss who might be my great uncle.

  A voice came over the loudspeaker. First, the man spoke in Italian. Then, in English, the voice said, "Please leave the building immediately. There is a fire in the building."

  I jumped out of bed and shook Charlie, who was still asleep. "Get up! There's a fire! Are you deaf?"

  First he groaned and told me to get lost. Then it hit him and he jumped up and began to get dressed. "Where's my iPod?"

  "Who cares? I'm not getting burnt alive for an iPod." In less than ten seconds I got dressed. Someone banged on the door and I ran to answer it. It wasn't Dad, but someone from the hotel to make sure we were leaving. There were people running along the corridor. So
me were dressed and some were still in their pajamas.

  "Yeah,' I said, "we're going." As I yelled at Charlie to hurry, Dad and Mom appeared. We all made our way to the stairs, which were full of people. Everyone was rushing down the stairs as fast as they could. Our room was on the eighth floor, so it was a long way to the bottom.

  "Can you smell smoke?" I whispered to Charlie. Did I smell smoke or was I imagining the smell of Dad burning sausages on the barbecue?

  He sniffed. "Might be on the top floor."

  Franco was on the top floor. Near his usual room - the presidential suite. I remembered the Carabinieri across the road from the restaurant, all Franco's bodyguards, the fact that his usual room wasn't available, and now a fire. Something was going on.

  Finally, we reached the ground floor. We were told to wait on the street. The street had been blocked off and Polizia and people were everywhere. Everyone was looking up at the building, including me. There wasn't any smoke.

  I searched the crowd. It took me a while to see him because he was surrounded by a bunch of Carabinieri. He was wearing a dressing gown and looking real old. His bodyguards were with him too and they were still dressed in black suits. Franco looked straight at me and nodded. As if he really were my great uncle, I nodded back. For some reason I felt relieved. The bad guys hadn't got him.

  From side on I checked out his nose. Far out, my nose wasn't that ugly.

  We were soon allowed back to our rooms because it was a false alarm. Hundreds of people were waiting for the elevators, so we took the stairs. By now I was wide awake, so I didn't mind. It was sort of exciting. A good story to tell, as Dad would say. But Dad and Charlie grumbled all the way back up the stairs until we reached our rooms.

  False alarms happened, I supposed, but I couldn't help feeling that something big was going on.

  5. MOUNT ETNA

  At breakfast the next morning, there were still Carabinieri in the hotel. Some of them were hanging round and a couple were having breakfast like they'd moved in. The hotel guests were louder than usual. I really wished I could eavesdrop. Mom said everyone was probably still talking about the fire alarm. But it was more than that ... I could feel it in my gut.

  Mom stared at me and said, "You're quiet. Are you feeling all right?"

  "I'm good."

  Really I wasn't too good. I couldn't stop thinking. What could I do if Mr. Mafia wanted me to join the business? In video games, I was pretty good at shooting people, but real life was another thing. If you killed someone, I reckon in the next life you'd be a homeless, hungry orphan with only one leg.

  I needed an excuse so I wouldn't have to join the business. Having a rare disease could be good, but I didn't know the name of any. Or what if I was on my way to being a soccer superstar and my country couldn't do without me? That might work until old Franco saw me play soccer. What about saying I was adopted? That might work for Charlie, but since I looked like Mom it wouldn't work for me. I couldn't finish my breakfast, I was so sick from worrying.

  When we went to leave the hotel after breakfast, we couldn't. The entrance was blocked with police tape and no one was allowed to leave or come in. Two Carabinieri with machine guns were on guard out the front.

  We sat in the hotel foyer for almost an hour. Matteo, the guy from the front desk, apologised three times, but he'd only say: There has been an incident and the matter is being investigated. I could tell someone important told him to say that.

  Lots of people were waiting to leave. No one got angry, even though no one knew what the problem was. I reckoned that was because of the Carabinieri hanging round with their smart black uniforms and their big black machine guns.

  Charlie and me swapped iPods because we were sick of listening to the same songs. Not that I liked rap music.

  Franco and his bodyguards never appeared. That was a bit weird.

  Finally, we were allowed to leave. Matteo opened the door of the hotel for us and said goodbye to each of us. I told him we were going skiing and he replied, "May the goddess of good luck go with you."

  "Fortuna," Charlie said.

  Matteo's face lit up. "Si. Fortuna is the goddess of good luck."

  Charlie was such a smarty-pants.

  It took ages to drive to the top of Mount Etna. I played a game on Dad's phone and Charlie read a book about Italy. He was so boring.

  We must've been halfway up to Mount Etna when Charlie said, "I bet I can name more Roman gods than you can name Italian soccer players."

  I paused my game. I hated not taking Charlie on. The thing was that he only bet me when he was pretty sure he'd win. But there must be more Italian soccer players than Roman gods. The problem was, he could rattle off a bunch of Greek gods as well and I wouldn't know. I counted on my fingers how many Italian soccer players I knew. "Do you mean players born in Italy or ones playing for Italian clubs?"

  "Anyone who plays for an Italian club will do."

  That sort of made it easier. I had to know at least ten, maybe twelve. Surely there couldn't be that many Roman gods. How many did they need? They had to have a god of war because they were always at war with someone. And they'd have gods for the animals, the sea, thunder and lightning, and there was always a god of love. Surely, there couldn't be more than nine.

  "Okay," I said, "you first."

  Charlie smiled his sly smile. Then real fast he said, "Jupiter, king of the gods; Mars, god of war; Apollo, the sun god; Dis, god of the underworld; Neptune, god of the sea; Bacchus, god of wine; Ceres, god of crops; Mercury, god of trade; Saturn, god of farming; Vulcan, god of blacksmiths; and Cupid, god of love."

  "That's eleven; I can beat that."

  "I haven't said the goddesses yet."

  "What?"

  "Fortuna, goddess of good luck," he said with that sly smile. "Juno, queen of the gods; Venus, goddess of love and beauty; Diana, goddess of the moon; Flora, goddess of spring; Minerva, goddess of science and wisdom; Roma, goddess of Rome; Janus, goddess of doorways and bridges; and Vesta, goddess of the hearth." He took a breath. "That's twenty."

  "Twenty! Who needs twenty gods?"

  He shrugged. "They liked gods. There isn't a limit on the number of gods you can have."

  Could I argue that goddesses aren't actually gods because gods are male and goddesses are female? That'd make me look real lame. I sighed. "You win." I wasn't going to tell him that I only knew twelve Italian soccer players.

  I stared out the window. The mountain looked strange where rivers of lava had flowed down and hardened. It was like we were on another planet. But then we hit the snow. As soon as Charlie and me got out of the car, we had a massive snowball fight. I got Charlie in the head five times. That paid him back for being such a smarty-pants.

  Then we hired skis and ski gear and took the cable car up the mountain. Up the top it was like a fashion parade with lots of people standing round, like show offs, so everyone else could see how good they looked in their bright-colored ski gear. Besides that, it was sort of the same as skiing at home. Mom and Dad, who were as slow as, went on the easy runs, while Charlie and me hit the black runs and raced each other the whole time. It was unreal racing down the mountain while looking over the ocean.

  Sometimes at the bottom or top of the slope, someone would start to speak to us in Italian and I'd say in Italian, I can't speak Italian. Do you speak English? "Non parlo italiano. Parla inglese?" They always understood and sometimes they'd answer in perfect English. Ordinary Italians were nice; it was the black-suited ones who wore black sunglasses that I wasn't thrilled about.

  Late in the afternoon, we finished skiing and returned our hire gear. Charlie and me went to sleep in the car on the way back down the mountain. At least we did until a loud rumbling woke us. At first I thought the noise was fighter aeroplanes invading my dream, but the rumble vibrated through my whole body. Real quick, I sat up straight, wide awake. "What was that?"

  Mom turned round. Her face was white. I'd never seen her look like that, even when she was sick. S
he said very softly, "The volcano is rumbling. It'll be okay; we aren't that far from the bottom."

  Two things hit me. Mom was lying to keep me calm and Dad's knuckles were white because he was holding the steering wheel so tight. I wanted to scream, Mount Etna is an active volcano! The thing was that I knew that. But what were the chances of it waking up cranky today?

  "Look at the smoke." Charlie, who'd just woken up too, was gawking out the back window. He sounded excited.

  The smoke was dark. It looked angry. "Charlie, we could all die!" I felt like punching him.

  Suddenly it seemed to hit him that we were in serious trouble. "I know. Etna is one of the most active volcanoes in the world. It erupts all the time."

  "What? When did it last erupt?"

  "Last year."

  "Great." I heard Mom suck in her breath.

  Dad interrupted, "Everything is going to be fine. In less than an hour we'll be off the mountain and this will be merely a good story to tell your friends."

  Just then our car went round a bend and Mom screamed. Ahead of us, a massive tree blocked the road. There was no way to go round the tree because old lava flows covered most of the ground either side of the road.

  Far out! I was too young to die!

  6. DEATH IN TAORMINA

  Dad turned off Tom Tom because Tom Tom kept telling us, in his robotic-newsreader voice, to go straight ahead. There were two other cars in front that had been blocked by the tree. Of course, no one in those cars spoke English. Although it really didn't matter because the problem was obvious.

  The driver of the first car told us in sign language that he'd called someone on his cell I wished I knew how to say in Italian, Do you have a plan B? But I was pretty sure the answer was no.

  Everyone was standing round as though someone was going to have some brilliant idea as to how the enormous tree could be moved. A couple of times we leaned up against the trunk of the tree and pushed. Nothing happened, except the mountain rumbled again and the smell of rotten egg gas got stronger. Everyone but us was talking real fast and waving their hands about. Gradually, more and more cars stopped behind our car.