Chapter 5 - THE FALL FESTIVAL
St. Cecilia Elementary School was a red-brick institution surrounded by a chain-link fence, bustling with hundreds of chattering children, exhausted parents, folding lawn chairs, and the sweet smell of cotton candy and caramel corn.
When Lorenzo Duca stepped out of the Maybach holding Emma’s small hand, the collective chatter of the schoolyard dropped by half.
Mothers pushing strollers stopped walking. Fathers holding coffee cups stared in open disbelief. Teachers holding clipboards blinked rapidly, wondering if a high-ranking celebrity or a visiting dignitary had just wandered onto the school grounds by mistake.
Lorenzo remained entirely unbothered. He ignored the stares, kept his stride unhurried, and walked Emma right up to the registration table where a harried-looking teacher with graying hair was checking off names.
“Name, please?” the teacher asked, looking down at her clipboard before glancing up. Her eyes widened as they traveled up Lorenzo’s tall frame, resting on his sharp jawline and expensive sweater.
“Emma Bennett,” Lorenzo said smoothly, “and her... borrowed dad, Lorenzo.”
The teacher swallowed hard, her pen hovering over the paper. “Oh! Ah... Mr. Duca—I mean, Mr. Bennett! Welcome to St. Cecilia’s Fall Festival. You’re... you’re down for the father-daughter three-legged race at eleven o'clock.”
“We’ll be there,” Lorenzo said, giving the teacher a polite nod.
For the next two hours, Lorenzo Duca—a man who routinely settled mob turf wars and negotiated multi-million-dollar real estate acquisitions—did things he had never imagined doing.
He sat on a small plastic folding chair while Emma forced him to wear a plastic pink crown during a face-painting session. He bought three rounds of cotton candy, ate a suspiciously greasy hot dog from the PTA food truck without a single complaint, and dutifully carried Emma on his shoulders so she could see the magic show over the heads of the older kids.
Sitting thirty yards away on a park bench beneath an oak tree, wearing a baseball cap and reading a folded newspaper with a sniper scope hidden in the crease, Marco Rossi watched the scene through polarized sunglasses, shaking his head in silent disbelief.
The boss has lost his mind, Marco muttered into his sleeve radio. Repeat, the boss is eating cotton candy.
May you like
“Any hostile movement?” came a voice over the encrypted earpiece.
“Just a PTA president trying to hit him up for a donation for the library roof,” Marco grumbled. “Give it ten minutes and the boss will probably buy the whole school.”
