Grinded (The Invincibles 3)

In the last couple of years, so much had gone wrong at Valentini, I couldn’t help but wonder if God was punishing our family. For what, I didn’t know.

I rushed into the hospital; Georgio was just inside the entrance.

“This way,” he said, leading me to the elevator.

He didn’t speak and I asked no questions. Until I saw my father, I wouldn’t be able to think straight.

“Papà!” I rushed over to his bedside after Georgio escorted me to the room. Both of his legs were in casts and elevated. “Dio santo!” I shook my head as tears ran down my cheeks.

“Pia, bellissima, I told Georgio not to bother you with this.”

“Bother me? You’ve been seriously injured, Papà.”

The door opened and my mamma came in. When I rushed over and put my arms around her, she put her head on my shoulder and cried.

I heard my father groan. “It’s a couple of broken legs.”

I had to cover my mouth when I saw the look my mother gave him. If looks could kill, broken legs would be the least of his worries.

“What happened, Papà? Do you feel up to talking about it?”

“No. I am very tired, Pia. Perhaps tomorrow.” My father’s eyes weren’t on me as he spoke; he was looking at Georgio.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I can stay overnight.”

My father patted my cheek. “Take your mamma home, Pia. Make sure she rests.”

“We’ll be back in the morning.”

“Sì.” He nodded, his eyes drifting closed, perhaps because of the painkillers.

Georgio followed us to the elevators. “Did you see what happened?” I asked while we waited.

He shook his head but looked in my mother’s direction.

As I drove my mamma to the house, my mind raced with the other things that had gone wrong at Valentini since I first left for college.

Within weeks of me moving into the dorms in Siena, there was a malfunction in the room that held the stainless tanks used to ferment the white wines. We lost an entire year’s worth of juice when the cooling system went down for an indeterminate amount of time. That was the part that bothered me the most. People were in and out of the wine rooms all the time. How could it be that no one noticed? Perhaps if they had, we could have corrected the problem before the juice went bad.

Then there was an accident involving our head winemaker when the ventilation system in one of the fermentation rooms stopped working, much in the same way the cooling system had. Given the amount of carbon dioxide released during fermentation, adequate ventilation was essential to guard against the risk of CO2 poisoning.

Fortunately, one of the workers had gone looking for him and found him passed out. If he hadn’t gotten the man outside when he did, he might’ve died. Still, he’d been hospitalized for several weeks. After he was released, he’d informed my father he was still too weak to return to work.

The third and final emergency, before my father’s accident, involved a break-in where several thousand dollars’ worth of wine were stolen. As with the other equipment malfunctions, the security system had failed, allowing the thieves access to the storage rooms and leaving us with no video surveillance to determine who they were.

“Pia, what is on your mind?” asked my mamma, who I thought had fallen asleep.

“I’m worried about Papà.”

“Sì. As am I.”

“Do you know what happened, Mamma?”

She nodded with hooded eyes. “He was run over by a forklift.”

My head snapped in her direction. “What? Are you serious?” I looked back at the road, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white. “He could have died.”

“But he didn’t.”