Free Outback Hero by Sally Gould Page B

Charlie and me got
flung sideways. A moment later we realized we'd nearly been hit by
a car coming toward us.
    For a minute nobody said anything. I reckon
it was still sinking in that some crazy Italian driver had nearly
killed us.
    Charlie patted his phone. "Got the whole
thing on video. Absolute proof all Italians are crazy."
    Mom turned round and gave Charlie one of her
looks. "That was one bad driver. Don't generalize."
    Charlie nodded to her and then nudged me.
"Yeah, and all Italians are saints too. Lucky we're
half-Italian."
    "Do you really think we're related to a
mafia boss?"
    "It'd be cool." He lowered his voice and
added, "Except I read on the internet there's two mafia families in
Sicily who are killing each other. One family reckons the other
family is invading its territory."
    "What?"
    "Shh," whispered Charlie, but it was too
late because Mom had already turned round.
    "That's enough," she said, looking from me
to Charlie and back to me. "I don't want to hear another word about
the mafia or my relatives. Is that clear?"
    "Yes, Mom," we answered like a pair of
robots.
    When she turned her back to us again, we
glanced at each other. We must be related to Mr. Mafia!
    Suddenly I felt sick. It all made sense. Why
Mom never mentioned exactly where her relatives lived or what they
did. She was ashamed of them. She probably hadn't wanted to bring
us here. I bet they ordered her to because the big mafia boss
wanted to meet Charlie and me.
    Maybe our whole lives were about to change.
Maybe we'd be expected to leave school and learn the business. Far
out, I didn't even know what they did. A cold shiver went up my
spine. All of a sudden I didn't want to be in Italy; I wanted to be
home.
    To buy The Venetian Job please go to
my Smashwords author page:
    www.smashwords.com/profile/view/sallygould
First chapter of another book by Sally Gould:

Dead Scary
The Ghost who refused to leave
1
    'W oodlands' was vintage red
brick with big windows and lots of stained glass. The comfy chairs
on the front veranda and the garden full of flowers made the house
seem more friendly than grand. None of us spoke; we just stared out
the car windows as Dad parked out the front. I reckon we still
couldn't believe how our lives had changed. Mom's
childless-super-rich-computer-software-whiz uncle had died in a
plane crash and Mom inherited his whole fortune. For the first time
I was happy we didn't have many relatives.
    We'd only ever lived in a shoebox stuck in
between two other shoeboxes, surrounded by asphalt, with barely a
tree in sight. Now we were moving into the home from heaven. Lucky
I knew who my friends were; I wouldn't want kids being my friend
just so they could swim in my twenty-metre pool, soak in the spa,
play tennis and hang out in the games room. I couldn't wait to
invite my friends over. They'd probably want to move into one of
the spare bedrooms.
    Caesar barked when the removals truck beeped
as it reversed into our driveway. I opened the car door and turned
to Emily. Her pale blue eyes were wide open and she bounced on her
seat. Usually she only got this excited the night before Christmas.
'Ready?'
    She clung on to her favorite doll and
followed me and Caesar to the front door. Emily liked our old
shoebox and hadn't wanted to move at first. When she announced at
dinner one night that she wasn't moving, Mom looked horrified. So I
saved the day by telling her that living in a house with a big
backyard would be better when she had her own dog. After that she
couldn't wait to move. Problem solved, except Mom didn't want
another dog. Mom wasn't impressed.
    Dad unlocked the front door and Emily
squealed. We raced down the wide hallway to our bedrooms. We'd
chosen our rooms, the first time we got to see inside. When I saw
it was a choice between unreal and unreal, I let Emily choose. All
my clothes would fit into a quarter of the closet space and all my
books would take up about ten per cent of the bookcase. I'd have to
spread everything