His Discarded Bride #thefictionawards2019

Part Three

CHAPTER TWO

Leilani squirmed in her seat. When she'd decided on which clothes to wear, she'd opted for warmth and comfort. Having run the length of the airport, she was hot and sticky. The baggy black-and-white-patterned rayon harem pants were sticking to her legs and backside, and they felt constrictive. Her cosy, over-sized burnt orange knit jumper was heating her up beyond endurance. She thought about tugging it off, but space was limited, and she didn't want to hit the passengers on either side of her. To be honest, she wasn't altogether sure about her body odour either, so lifting her arms up was certainly out of the question.

No, she would just have to sit still and hope the air conditioning would kick in soon. The plane was rolling out towards the runway. She'd have to take her mind off her discomfort and make the best of the situation. She glanced out the window to her left; it was, after all, her first flying experience. Nerves started to kick in as the plane picked up speed down the runway, and she gripped the armrest. Leilani didn't imagine she'd be a nervous flyer. However, she gauged the speed of the plane trying to envisage the takeoff. She doubted that the plane would make it up into the sky. She closed her sore, swollen eyes shut and hoped for the best.

Renato would have possibly felt sympathetic towards the misfit woman clutching her armrest beside him in other circumstances. Instead, he raided his mind for exit options from the plan. The plan was air-tight; he knew Vittorio would have ensured that. He always had and still did admire the man's thoroughness, particularly with ruthless details, but damn the man to hell and back for putting him into this situation. He should have just let sleeping dogs lie. Although Vittorio hadn't tended and grown the company to the level that Renato had, Renato still admired his adoptive father. The man had made himself from nothing.

Both Vittorio's parents had died in a bomb blast back in 1943 when he was no more than three years of age. Vittorio had only one memory of his mother; he recalled a day where he was playing in the vegetable garden while his mother tended to the plants. Urgently, his mother called out to him, "Tedeski, Tedeski," and pushed him towards the house. The Germans were in the yard, and from behind the cover of the curtains, they saw the soldier remove his thick, woollen grey coat and toss it over one of their roaming chickens. With their loot in hand, the Germans left the property. Vittorio remembered his mother holding him tight, the fear present in her grip.

After his parents had passed, his grandmother had dutifully raised him. He'd grown up during meagre times, often going on an empty stomach. With determination in his veins, he vowed to her as a small boy that he would grow up and take care of her, and, true to his word, he did just that. Vittorio turned his grandmother's limoncello recipe and other flavour variations into a national success. He turned the Favalli name into a recognizable product across the country.

Vittorio had cooked up batches of liqueur in his grandmother's crumbling stone kitchen and sold the bottles at local markets on weekends. He tirelessly worked shifts producing parts for Alfa in Morcone, Naples, during times when working conditions were harsh, pay was inadequate, and hours were long. Vittorio didn't complain; he just set his sights high and forced his goals to fruition.

The population boomed in Naples during the late sixties and early seventies. Vittorio gave up his market stalls in favour of supplying small businesses. Eventually, with sales and profits up, he was able to invest in a distillery of his own.

During the early eighties, his unique flavour blends grew in popularity with the locals, and, over the coming years, he was able to move into other regions of Italy, and eventually, sales were booming across the country. He did this despite the commonality for businesses to go down during these years, particularly with the local Mafioso clans taking their cut of the sales, regardless of whether a profit margin existed.