Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1

by Di Corte, Bella

  Not wanting Zamboni to have the power to ruin our time—my first trip to Italy!; to anywhere—I decided to try and lighten the mood. I grinned. “Jocelyn used to watch me from the picture window when I was playing outside with the Ryans. Whenever I’d wear a dress, and she felt I was getting too ‘loose’ with it, she’d bang on the window and scream, ‘Mari! Keep your dress down, or the entire neighborhood is going to see your oonie!’ Then she’d bang some more. The entire neighborhood thought she was nuts.”

  “She was, but she was a good person.”

  “Jocelyn and Pops treated me like their own.”

  “I knew they would. Jocelyn had always wanted children, and Mr. Gianelli loved them. I knew you’d be safe there.”

  “Yeah.” I blew out a breath, fanning a few small tendrils of hair that had come loose from my waterfall braids. I mumbled something about how much I missed them in Italian.

  Capo watched me for a moment. “I think the reason you remember so much Italian, recognizing the words, is because that’s all your parents spoke to you. When I brought you to Jocelyn, she only spoke to you in English. They didn’t want anyone to know that you spoke Italian.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but thinking about the parents I’d never known made my heart feel heavy.

  Capo seemed to pick up on it. “We’re in Italy. Everything that belongs to New York stays in New York.” He wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “What do you say, mia moglie, are you ready to ride with me? I vow not to hurt your oonie.” His grin was wide. “It’s safe in my care. And neither will the entire neighborhood or village see it. Sit close to me so your dress doesn’t fan out. We both know how I feel about sharing what’s mine. I don’t.”

  I laughed at how ridiculous oonie sounded coming from his mouth. But he was right. Italy was too perfect to waste on things that couldn’t be changed. “You? Share?” I scoffed playfully. “Not in a million years.”

  “You didn’t answer me, Butterfly.”

  “Sì! Facciamolo!” Yup! Let’s do this!

  Capo released me, swinging his leg over the seat. I sat behind him, sticking to him like glue, and he handed me a helmet once I was settled. He started the bike and I could feel it vibrating beneath my legs. I wrapped my arms around him, holding on tight.

  He took me on a scenic ride around town for a while before we started to make our way to the outskirts. Every once in a while we’d stop at a light, but the further out we got, the less lights we stopped for. He picked up speed and I almost yelled for him to go faster.

  I was totally free. Not a care in the world.

  We rode for a while, following twisting and turning roads, huge mountains in the distance growing closer and closer, but finally we came to a driveway that seemed like it was three miles long. Hundreds of trees lined the pathway on both sides. Workers were out, picking fruit. Crates overflowed with lemons and blood oranges. Capo had told me that his family owned citrus groves.

  Down the road a little was a gate, and beyond it, the land opened up, and a humongous villa sat in the center. It was tan with green shutters and a matching tile roof. Two other villas sat on either side of the main villa, but I wasn’t sure if they were places where people lived or something else. Little pathways lined with greenery led from one place to another. The smell of chocolate was strong in the air.

  Before we stopped, people started to spill out of the main villa. A hell of a lot of people.

  “Oh shit,” I muttered.

  I thought I heard Capo chuckle but wasn’t sure. My heart started beating fast, and my stomach plummeted. It had never crossed my mind that his family could be big. Judging by the number of people flowing out of the door, they needed all three places for them to sleep in.

  The wedding planner never mentioned how many guests were going to attend. She just said that whatever I wanted, Mr. Macchiavello said to give it to me, and she would accommodate. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d have to impress all of these people with what I’d planned.

  As soon as Capo turned the bike off, they rushed us. I wasn’t sure who I hugged, who kissed me on each cheek, and who held me at arm’s length, speaking in such rapid Italian that I couldn’t keep up.

  Finally, Capo took pity on me and pulled me to his side, taking control of the situation. I was too busy trying to take mental notes, but I think they’d done the same thing to him. When he was able to fight his way out, he latched on to me and started introducing me to everyone.

  I’d need another journal to keep track. His mother’s sisters—Stella, Eloisa, Candelora, and Veronica—stood out, since he had brought them up at the restaurant. Capo’s mother’s name was Noemi. I heard Stella tell him that she’d be proud. Then she looked at me.

  All of his uncles, cousins…I’d do my best not to mix names up or get them wrong. I noticed that everyone called Capo Amadeo. I wondered why? And then I wondered why he hadn’t given me the choice to call him that. It was either Mac or boss or Capo, but no Amadeo.

  The sea of people parted all of a sudden. A hush fell over the crowd. Then an older man came up the line, Candelora helping him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and an old-time suit with suspenders. Even though he struggled, he kept his head up. The undertone of his skin was olive, but the surface was pale, which made him seem sickly. His brown eyes were alive, though, even if the shadows underneath were dark. When he smiled, his silver handlebar mustache twitched.

  Capo met his grandfather before he made it to us. The old man slapped at his cheeks and said something too low for me to hear. Capo turned to me and said something back. When the old man finally made it to me, he knocked on the helmet still on my head and I exploded with laughter. I had forgotten to take the damn thing off.

  “Let me see you.” He smiled. “Let me see the woman who has chosen to take my grandson as her husband. Let me see if she has a hard enough head to deal with him.”

  I took the helmet off, setting it back on the bike, and then turned to face him again.

  “Ah! Bellisima.” He took both of my hands, squeezing, while he leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks. “I am Pasquale Ranieri. You can call me Nonno, if you would like.”

  “This is Mariposa,” Capo said, trying to keep up with Nonno. His grandfather hadn’t given him the chance to introduce me. “My wife.”

  “Not yet!” Pasquale chuckled. “Did Amadeo tell you that I made him wait until June before he could get married?”

  I looked at Capo and then at Pasquale. I shook my head. “No.”

  Nonno made a dismissive motion with his hand at Capo. “You will be married on the date that I was married. I refused to attend my grandson’s wedding unless he agreed to this. I also refuse to die before then, but this is between me and—” He lifted his face toward the sky.

  “I’m sure it’ll be very special,” I whispered, squeezing his hand. It was cold, even in the heat, and nothing but skin and bone, but I liked the way it felt in mine. I liked him. Immediately. He put me at ease.

  “Mariposa,” he repeated my name slowly. He watched me for a minute before he smiled again. “Such a beautiful little butterfly.”

  15

  Capo

  She fit in.

  It had been a week since we arrived in Modica, Sicily, and the changes in my wife were subtle to others but so pronounced to me.

  Instead of questioning her decisions like she had before we left, there was a quiet confidence about her that made her take charge—no more was it “yours.” It was “ours.”

  Her laughter was even louder, even freer, than it had been with me. My grandfather ate it up. She made him laugh more than anyone ever did. Except for my mother.

  My zie (aunts) had fallen in love with her. They taught her how to cook. They even gave her the secret recipe to the Modica chocolate they were famous for. Cioccolato di Modica. It was a recipe from the 1500s brought to Sicily by the Spaniards, a direct descendent to the Aztec tradition.

  My wife would come to me with a huge smile
on her face, brown smears all over her skin and clothes. She was as happy as a child who got to play in mud all day. She’d smell of it, too, the chocolate I loved so much. It reminded me of my mother. And it brought me joy to think that she would’ve spoiled Mariposa the same way the zie were.

  They were spoiling her with their time and attention. They were treating her as family. Zia Veronica even went after her with a wooden spoon when she tried adding rosemary to her pot of whatever.

  One day while I watched Mariposa make a mess with the chocolate, smiling at nothing and everything, I overheard Zia Candelora tell her, “Your parents should have named you after me. You glow like you have eaten an internal flame and your skin is made of wax!”

  Zia Candelora was known for her hyperbole, but she wasn’t off her mark. Mariposa was glowing. Her smile was so bright that the gold flecks in her eyes seemed unreal. She was moving in the right direction. While she was, she also had a chance to rest, to truly find peace.

  Mariposa slept like the devil was no longer on her heels because she had an angel at her back. I knew how that felt. I once had an angel, too.

  At the hottest time of the day, she’d take one of her books, or the reading device, and find her favorite place to be—the hammock between two chestnut trees—and read. She always wore a big floppy hat, and before getting comfortable, she’d kick her sandals to the side. After an hour had gone by, she’d fall asleep with the book against her chest. In New York, she slept, but it was broken, like she couldn’t afford to sleep for more than an hour at a time.

  In the evenings, she’d rush back to the villa and come out with my grandfather, the man she called Nonno, on her arm. They’d usually go to his private garden since he couldn’t walk that far. She’d keep the floppy hat on while she got to work. He directed her. He told her to move this plant to another spot, or pick the fruits of that one, or whatever he felt needed to be done. I could hear them laughing together. Every day she’d tell him a new joke.

  “Wanna hear a peppery joke?” I heard her say, when she didn’t think anyone else was around. She gave him a few seconds before she said, “Sometimes I’ll order a pizza without toppings. When I’m feeling saucy.”

  His laughter rivaled hers.

  After the garden was tended to, she’d take a seat next to him, wrap her arm around his, and then rest her head on his shoulder. He’d tell her stories, or read to her, or recite poetry. Some days he’d do all three. My grandfather was a world-renowned poet and novelist. He’d won the Nobel Prize in Literature in the 1970s. His poetry was known for being lyrical and full of passion.

  Mariposa’s wild laughter enchanted him, and he had somehow made her fall madly in love with him.

  I rarely spent time with my wife since we’d arrived. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Once in a while I’d take her for rides on the motorcycle, or for a walk in the groves, but I gave her the time to get comfortable, to make my family her family. But even when she didn’t think I was around, I was, and I took the time to see her. To see the person that she had always had the potential to become—the child I’d given my life for, and the woman who was now my wife.

  Two shadows stretched along the walk. A few seconds later, my uncle and aunt appeared. Tito and Lola. Tito was my grandfather’s first cousin, even though everyone called him uncle. Lola was Marzio Fausti’s sister. Marzio was one of the most powerful and ruthless leaders the Faustis had ever seen. Tito was a doctor, one of the best, and he saw to them personally. He saw to me personally, too. He’d been the angel at my back. And besides my grandfather, he was the only honorable male figure in my world.

  Tito had met Mariposa the night she snuck into The Club as Sierra. When she’d given him Sierra’s name, he knew she was lying. After Mariposa had left, he advised me not to choose her as a bride, especially with what I had planned. She was different and didn’t belong in this life.

  I disagreed. Her loyalty had the potential to become ruthless if someone meant me harm. She was exactly the type of queen a powerful king needed at his side.

  As Mariposa rose to meet them, I could tell she recognized Tito. Her cheeks flushed a little when my grandfather introduced her as Mariposa, not Sierra. Tito made a joke and she relaxed, laughing. Lola pulled her close, and I winced in sympathy. Her happiness came out in either a crush or a pinch. At least I knew she liked Mariposa. Lola only crushed or pinched the people she was fond of.

  “Amadeo!” a soft voice called. “Amadeo!” When our eyes met, Gigi ran toward me, crashing against my chest when she was close enough.

  After she was finished hugging me, she messed up my hair. “It is not fair how handsome you are, Amadeo. A beautiful devil.” She grinned. “I know ten of the most famous faces in Hollywood that would kill to be you.”

  “I’m glad you could make it,” I said. Georgina, or Gigi as everyone called her, was a famous actress in Italy, and since I lived in America, I didn’t get to see her that often. “I heard you were somewhere in the French Riviera living it up with some rich prince on his yacht.”

  “Yesterday.” She waved a hand. “Today, I am here for you. I had to see this monumental occasion for myself. Amadeo married. What do the Americans say? Hell might freeze under.” She punched me lightly on the arm, and we both smiled. “So, where is she? This woman who has tamed your wild heart.”

  “In the garden with grandfather,” I said in Italian. “They sit and talk every evening.”

  We both turned to look in that direction.

  Mariposa stood, a hand shielding her eyes, trying to see us better. I suppressed my grin. She had no idea that I’d been watching her, but when Gigi was loud enough to attract attention, she must’ve noticed the two of us. She didn’t seem to like it.

  “Amadeo,” Gigi said, and it seemed like she had called my name before.

  “Ah?”

  She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “She is pretty, but not what I expected.”

  “No?” I spoke in Italian. “Who did you expect?”

  “Someone like me.”

  Gigi was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world. I was never one to be swayed, though, by the popular vote. In my eyes, the woman standing across from me, full of dirt from the garden, was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had something that I’d never seen in anyone else. Or felt from anyone else. Maybe attraction had the same rules as pheromone phenomena. Whatever attracted me to Mariposa was mine alone—therefore, what a fucking rare treasure.

  Zia Stella and Zia Eloisa stepped into the garden. They wanted Mariposa to shower and get ready for a dinner they’d planned with all of the women. All of the men were going to play baseball. Mariposa wouldn’t move. She refused to stop staring at us.

  Gigi groaned. “I will catch up with you later.” She quickly kissed my cheek and then hustled in the opposite direction. Lola had started to make her way toward us.

  This time my grin came slow and satisfied. After Gigi had gone, Mariposa allowed my aunts to cart her off.

  “There you are!” Lola said when she reached me, pinching my cheeks. “How are you, bell'uomo?”

  “I’m fine, Zia, and you?”

  She smiled. “I love her, Amadeo! She will make a wonderful wife. She seems like a wonderful girl.” She hesitated for a second, then opened her mouth but quickly closed it. “Your grandfather and uncle would like a word with you,” she said in Italian, nodding toward the garden. “I’m going to find Gigi. I need celebrity gossip!”

  Before I could reach them, one of the guards stopped me. He spoke in Italian. “A man has come to the gate. He claims he is looking for the place where the women make the chocolate. He was told that he could find some here.”

  My aunts had shops all over Italy, and the one in Modica was extremely busy, especially during tourist season. Once they sold out, they sold out. You’d have to come back the next day, but no one would direct them here. The chocolate operation was a family business, and our secrets were our own, including where we lived.
>
  Over the years, a couple of men had done the same thing, except their excuses for stopping had varied. This was the first time any of them had claimed the workers at the shop had given them this address. They were getting low on lies.

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if the king wolf himself had showed up. He felt the devil on his heels lately. And with Armino missing, Achille was adding to the flames.

  “Bring him to one of the villas deep into the property,” I said in Italian, nodding behind the main villa. “Wait with him and do not let him leave. Do not tell him he has come to the wrong place, either. Do not tell him anything but that he must wait.”

  “Sì.” He readjusted the gun hanging from his shoulder and dug in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up and said, “I will inform the others.”

  The scent of smoke lingered even after he’d gone.

  * * *

  Tito was talking to Nonno about new treatments for cancer when I walked up. He was listening but shaking his head. I could’ve told Tito to save his breath, but he never did. I had tried to talk my grandfather into more treatments, but Nonno refused to even entertain the idea. He said he was old enough, had lived enough, and when his time came, he wanted to be at home, in the comfort of his own bed. It was time for him to see my grandmother and my mother again. A life full of living had given him the grace to accept death.

  Their conversation slowed when I pulled up a seat in front of the bench, but Tito didn’t stop talking until he felt he was done. After, silence filled the space between us until my grandfather knocked his cane against the ground. His eyes were heavy. He was tired.

  “You wanted to see me,” I said.

  Tito looked at me from underneath his explorer hat and crossed his skinny legs. “Mariposa looks different, Amadeo.”

  “She does,” I said. “She’s flourishing.”

  My grandfather leaned against his cane and then cleared his throat. “You did not tell me,” he said in Italian, “that Mariposa was the child you traded your life for.”