Amapola Beviláqua Part 2

I listen in silence, unsure of what to say, not even knowing if the words will come out of my mouth. A deep sadness grips my heart, and although it’s obvious that if this man is everything people say he is, my father is likely no longer alive, my heart begs me to try to find him.

I walk aimlessly down the road and hitch a ride with a passerby. If they spoke to me during the journey, I don’t know—I couldn’t hear anything beyond the silence of my soul and the voice of my conscience urging me to keep searching for him.

I'm dropped off at Piazza San Pietro—St. Peter’s Square. I enter the Basilica that gives the square its name, a place I’ve visited many times with my parents. As I sit on one of the pews, I finally allow the tears I’ve been holding back to flow.

I pray to God that my father is alive, that He guides my steps and leads me. If my father tried to steal, it was in a moment of desperation—he doesn’t deserve to die for that.

I control my tears and walk through the streets of Rome—a city so beautiful, but today, especially, I see nothing but my pain and suffering.

Nearly two hours of walking bring me to EUR, the neighborhood where the Dalla Costa family’s business is located. I know it’s here because it’s practically off-limits to us Italians—only tourists wander freely and happily here, unaware of the evil that surrounds them.

I didn’t know either, until my father was taken by them.

To be honest, I’m not sure what I can do, how I’ll be able to speak with the devil himself, how I’ll confront him about my father’s whereabouts. Is my father dead? Will I be killed too?

I decide that I might die at the hands of this demon, but I won’t cower.

With my head held high and a determination that even I envy, I walk into the place that could easily be mistaken for a museum, given the opulence and artwork displayed throughout. Living in Rome, I’ve learned to value culture and admire art. In another moment, I’d make sure to examine every painting up close, but not today. Today, I just want to find my father.

“I want to speak with Signore Dalla Costa,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but the woman looks at me in shock.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s important.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Signore Dalla Costa only sees people with appointments and for urgent matters.”

“But this is urgent,” I growl in frustration.

“Don’t raise your voice, signorina. This is a place of class,” she reprimands.

“Don’t raise my voice? A place of class?” My Italian blood boils in my veins, and I lose control. “I JUST WANT TO KNOW ABOUT MY FATHER! YOUR BOSS EITHER IMPRISONED HIM OR KILLED HIM! I JUST WANT MY FATHER!” I scream in desperation, only to be firmly held by a brute who seems twice my size.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says to the secretary, dragging me deeper into the building.

I walk—or rather, I’m dragged—toward what feels like certain death. I know this is what will happen: the ruthless Dalla Costa killed my father and will do the same to me.

This is it; this is my end. And maybe it’s for the best—I’ll join my mother and perhaps my father. This life has been cruel to us. I shouldn’t expect anything more than what’s coming.