by Sienna Mynx
Chapter Three
Sin
Two Days Later
The world felt crowded; too small for a man of his nature. Dominic called 'grief' anxiety. Giovanni didn't believe in separation of weakness. Sometimes, grief was simply grief, and it made him weak and incompetent. He grieved deeply over his inability to prevent his wife's torment, since the day he rescued her.
Now he suspected everyone. He walked through life surrounded by the shadows of the men he paid to protect him and his family. Men he could no longer trust. Loyalty was at the heart of their code. Omertà was a vow as sacred as the holy sacrament in the Mafia, and he made each man in his clan swear, live, and breathe the oath. In the past, he’d trusted that code, but a lot had changed since the past. He'd been infiltrated, conquered, forced to kneel. His men were useless if he had no belief in their ability to hold true to their vows. Santo was his best friend since primary school, and he could not hold true to his promises.
Was Lorenzo loyal?
Could he trust the counsel of an inexperienced young Dominic?
Did Rocco keep secrets from him that could one day destroy them all?
How many bullets would Renaldo take before he decides that his new family is worth more than the blood sacrifice?
And what of Carlo? Where did his loyalties lie now that his allegiance to Omertà had cost him two brothers?
Giovanni’s eyes opened.
His gaze scaled the stone structure to the steeple. The church bell gleamed in the sun above. August in Sorrento was a balmy time of year. In four short months, everything had changed for the family. Happiness delayed. Giovanni made the sign of the cross from his head to the center of his chest, and then shoulder-to-shoulder. He started across the sidewalk and went in through the gates.
Each step he took was weighted with his burden. No man, no matter his bravado, hurried to face his demons. Don Giovanni continued with his back straight, and no sign of regret or fear once he crossed over the threshold into the cathedral. Yes, his soul was lost. He had no doubt of that. Taking the life of Father Nicosia was only the beginning. He humbled himself to his enemies and broke every vow he swore allegiance to in his faith by doing so. And he'd do it again if it would lessen the suffering of his Bella.
Inside the sanctuary, he found a still quietness. His gaze switched from the altar of candles at the front of the church to the confessional booths. He started down the carpeted aisle. His vision was narrow yet focused on the crucifixion of Christ. The thorn crown his savior wore pierced his brow and sent trickles of blood down his face. He was impaled upon wood by iron stakes. He bled from his wrists, and his feet were nailed together. Still, Christ wore a look of humility, forgiveness, impunity, and righteousness. No trace of his suffering could be seen. Giovanni would never compare himself to Christ. He simply was not worthy. But he understood the rules of sacrifice. He understood silent obedience. He had that understanding drilled into him since he was a little boy. And if he weren't the son of the most wicked man in this region of the world, maybe his mother's dreams for him would have been fulfilled in the Church. Maybe the Campania would have truly been his sanctuary out of Sicilia like his father promised. The thought of him being a priest instead of a thug brought a slight smile to his face.
The Don knelt at the altar. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and removed the rosary. His lids lowered, and he prayed. He asked for forgiveness once more, for humility, for guidance. And then the prayer ended. Giovanni felt the cold stare of rejection. Not from Christ, but from one of his servants. He cast his gaze left. Father Álvaro observed him from near the confessional booths. He wore a long dark robe and a gold crucifix that hung from his neck. Giovanni nodded toward the priest. The priest turned and went inside as if commanding him to do the same. He pushed up from his knees and walked over to the confessional. With the rosary wrapped around his left hand, he made the sign of the cross before him. He entered the small wooden booth and drew the door shut. He sat on the bench. The window to the left of his face was open. He began to speak his confessions in Sicilian, not Italian.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was twelve years ago and... ah... these are my sins. I have missed Mass for many months. I have lied many times. I have.... done many things."
"These things, Don Giovanni. What are they?" the priest asked coolly.
Giovanni didn't answer.
"You are in the house of God. You can hide nothing from him. Our Lord sees all. You cannot ask for absolution if you are not willing to confess. What are these many sins?"
"I have lied. I have stolen. I have taken the lives of others, and their brothers, and their sons. I have murdered with impunity," Giovanni confessed.
The priest fell silent.
Giovanni closed his eyes. "I have... taken the life of your brother. Father Nicosia."
"And do you regret any of it?" the priest asked, unable to disguise his disgust.
"I am guilty without regret," he replied.
"Then why are you here? To thumb your nose at God?" The priest asked.
"My wife... she's not guilty of my crimes. And yet..."
"She suffers the consequences." the priest answered.
"Yes, Father. She was poisoned months ago. At first, we thought her medical and emotional problems were residual from the poison. But... it seems she's had a few episodes that... lead me to believe there is something else. It has been hard on her. Recovery. She works at being a good wife, a good mother, and a good Catholic. She suffers the contradictions. She suffers because of me. And I know her suffering is my punishment. God is vengeful. He reaches through me to her and binds my hands so I can do nothing but watch," he said through gritted teeth.
"God forgives. He is not vengeful."
"Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. Is that not right, Father?" he asked. "He is benevolent to those that are obedient, but will strike down those who aren't. That is his law and mine."
"You are not God!"
"But I strive to be godlike..."
"You do not! You do not! You twist scripture to hide from what you know to be true. You think you are above the church, above God's law."
"And that is my curse," Giovanni said. "Because I am."
The priest gasped in shock. Giovanni could sense the grimace on the priest’s face without looking over to see it. Giovanni sat in silence and waited for him to speak.
"Are you willing to cast your sins away? To humble yourself and truly repent. Are you willing to be a different man?"
"No," Giovanni replied softly.
"Then I'll ask again. What is it you seek from a God you mock with defiance, and refuse to obey?"
"Blessings for my wife, my children, la famiglia. Not for me," Giovanni said. "My soul is not in the bargain. I accept that."
The priest did not speak or refuse to offer his penance. Giovanni continued.
"I ask for God's mercy for the innocent, and tolerance for the guilty."
"But again, Don Giovanni, you will do nothing to earn it," the priest remarked.
"I am here. I will try. And soon, once all debts are paid, I will cleanse my business. But only after I find my enemies and make sure no one will hurt the people I love again. That is the truth."
The priest sighed. Giovanni sensed he wanted to say or even do something about the defiant spirit Giovanni guarded. But the priest could not. No one could. That was another unspoken truth.
"For your penance pray three Hail Marys and make an Act of Contrition. For your soul there is no mercy," the priest said. "God bless you and your family, son."
Giovanni began to do as instructed in Sicilian. "My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do well, I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with the help of your grace, to sin no more against the innocent, my family. Our savior, Jesus Christ, suffered and died for us. In his name I pray."
Giovanni reached inside his blazer and pulled out
an envelope so thick with money it could not be sealed. He set it on the bench seat.
"For the church," he said and tapped the envelope with his trigger finger. He then left the booth.
"Grazie, Don Giovanni," The priest said with not a hint of sincere appreciation.
And it was done.
***
There is a little village by the name of Conca dei Marini nestled in the cliffs along the Amalfi coast. And a church, hundreds of years old that faced the sea. There, on a beautiful clear day, she married her prince. She could still remember how the townspeople cheered and dropped blue petals plucked from roses. She relived every sweet memory of that day when she touched her wedding ring.
Mirabella glanced down to her wedding band, encased in diamonds. She didn't wear the large solitaire unless she left the gates. But every day she wore her wedding band with pride. Each time she touched it or her gaze fell upon it, she saw his love for her, and heard the vows he spoke when he slipped it on her finger. Each time she remembered she felt stronger.
Today that memory was dulled by the ache that spread through the joints in her fingers to the nail beds, and radiated out of her palm. She clenched her fingers into a fist and sucked in a deep breath. Her gut churned as if the contents from breakfast boiled inside of her stomach walls. And her throat went dry. The worst was the perspiring. Like the hot flashes a middle-aged woman would suffer, her inner temperature would spike without warning, and she'd find herself desperate for a breeze. Often she swallowed several times, unable to quench an unnatural thirst. If she closed her eyes when these spells came down on her, she'd see flashes of the past. And the past was unforgiving. Sometimes it would be the fiery car death with Fabiana trapped behind the wheel, begging for her life. Other times it would be her running from the woods to the sea with Kei stalking her down, and his iron hand gleaming in the moonlight. And even worse she'd see a future, with Giovanni lying in his own blood, his death so real she'd wake in the middle of the night choking on her screams.
Whether in a nightmare or a waking dream, these memories, premonitions, terrors, made her want to put her hands to her ears and scream and scream and scream.
"Mama! Guardami!" Eve said.
The bubble around her consciousness popped. Mirabella blinked and looked up from her hand to her daughter. The instructor lifted Eve and brought her down again. Eve went to the barre and raised her little leg imitating the instructor. Today her daughter wore a black leotard, tights, and tutu. Her curly, naturally sandy blonde and brown tresses were smoothed into a ponytail and pinned to the crown of her head as a little ball of hair.
Mirabella smiled. It was a false smile. She hadn't had a genuine smile in over two weeks. She nodded at her daughter to continue. The ballet lessons were held in Melanzana now. As was Eve's schooling. She and her children never ventured beyond the gates.
"Little Rabbit is growing to be beautiful like her mama."
Mirabella gasped and leapt to her feet. She knocked the chair behind her over. The instructor and Eve paused. She turned. She expected to see Kei. She had heard him. His voice was real. She felt his breath against her ear. It had to be real. But there was no one else in the room.
"What's wrong, Mommy? You don't feel good again?" Eve ran over to her and hugged her legs.
"Donna? Is everything okay?" the instructor asked. Mirabella’s breath was seizing in her chest, but she forced herself to breathe through the anxiety and speak.
"Uh yes, it was... was... was a spider. It was on me. I'm fine."
"Eeeew! Kill it, Mommy, I don't like spiders! Kill it! Kill it!"
"It's gone, baby. Go back and practice. Mommy is watching. Go on."
There was a knock at the door.
Mirabella glanced over and the door opened. Catalina stuck her head in and smiled at her. She nodded to her sister-in-law to enter.
"Brava, bambina! Go on," she passed Eve over to the instructor. "One more time for Mommy before I have to go to my meeting. Okay?"
"Va bene!" Eve giggled. The instructor took her hand and Catalina stepped to Mirabella's side. They watched Eve perform a jeté for her mother. The leap from one leg to the other sent the four-year-old higher than Mirabella had seen her daughter reach before. Mirabella blew her baby a kiss, and nodded to the young woman she'd hired from Scuola di Ballo del Teatro alla Scala out of Milano. Typically, a request to have a four-year-old tutored by a trained ballerina, to accomplish her tinker bell dreams, would seem ridiculous. However, when it came to Mirabella's wishes, no matter how small or unorthodox, they were never declined throughout Italy.
She glanced at her watch and realized her sons would be up from their naps soon. Mirabella eased her left hand into her pants pocket. She prayed the spasms would stop. As for the whisper in her ear, it was her mind again. And she had control over her mind.
"It's time," Catalina said.
"Va bene," Mirabella replied. Together they left.
"Are you well today?" Catalina asked with Mirabella walking at her side. "You look a little feverish."
"I'm fine. Just... hot," she said and fanned herself with her right hand. They turned the corner, and then walked further and turned right before arriving in the hall to the west side of Melanzana.
"Have you spoken to Marietta?" Mirabella asked.
"She's out sailing with Lorenzo," Catalina replied. "I think they will take the boat to Capri today. I heard one of the men say so. It'll be good for her."
"I agree," Mirabella said. She walked into the office that used to be Giovanni's. It was hers to use since he conducted most of his business affairs in villa Rosso. Catalina closed the door. Mirabella sat behind the desk and made herself comfortable in the large chair that typically occupied her husband. She reached for the phone. It was then her visible tremors seized her fingers. Catalina turned in time to witness it.
"I'm okay. Must be some kind of nerve spasm from the medication or something," she gave a nervous laugh.
"I thought the doctors took you off the medication?" Catalina asked.
"They have, but you know, sometimes, ah, the pain lingers," Mirabella reasoned.
"Pain? Mira?"
"Dial them for me," Mirabella smiled. "Please."
Catalina picked up the phone and dialed the conference line. Mirabella tried to appear relaxed. Her heart raced a mile a minute. She had to calm herself. Soon the line connected and people from all over Europe and the States began to announce they were on the call. Her sister-in-law took a seat and smiled encouragingly at her.
"Buona sera!" Mirabella said.
There was applause on the conference line. It had to be staged by Catalina. And when Mirabella looked over to her Catalina winked. "Thank you. Merci beaucoup! Tutto grazie!" Mirabella said and tried to settle the excitement on the phone line. "We have much to celebrate. In just four months, since the re-launch of Mirabella's, we have surpassed every goal I've set. Now the real work begins. Let's start with Paris."
"Buongiorno, dahling! This is François. We are ready in Pa-ree! When will you be traveling to France? There is only so much we can do without you. Fashion Week is only weeks away."
Mirabella wasn't sure what to say. She desperately wanted out of her self-imposed isolation. But it could never happen now.
"Ah... well..."
"Yes! Yes! We are coming in from L.A., Mirabella," said Darla. "We already have our schedule for the runway event."
"Everyone, give her a chance to speak." Catalina cut in when the questions began to fire at Mirabella at once.
"Thank you, Catalina," Mirabella said. "Of course we are all set for Paris. And Catalina will be present. Unfortunately, I over promised. I'm afraid plans have changed and I won't be making the trip."
There was an audible gasp over the line.
"Dahling? Je suis choqué! You must. Milano was magnifique. But only the beginning. À quoi penses-tu? The world is yours now, my love. And we are ready. We need you. No. No. No. We must have you, all of you. It is our time," François pleade
d. "Someone please speak up! Aye I feel faint!"
Mirabella put her hand to her brow and closed her eyes. At first Giovanni said she should go. Then she told him her fears. Together they agreed upon a compromise for him to travel with her. That was before Mirabella woke up screaming in bed after another nightmare. She was losing control and worst of all she feared she was pushing him away. Mirabella bit down on her bottom lip and tried to keep back her tears.
"Basta!" Catalina clapped her hands. "Enough already."
"No. No. François is right," Mirabella sighed. "I would love to be there. However, the focus is Fabiana's line in Paris. I want our two fashion houses to have a distinct flavor. A difference. And the face of Fabiana's is Catalina. No?"
Everyone on the phone agreed with polite mumbles.
Mirabella winked at her sister in-law "Catalina should be the featured designer. She has had input on every piece that will come down the runway. I have intentions of returning to Milano's Fashion Week this fall. My desire is to draw the world here. To Italy. It's the breath of my work now. My inspiration."
"Yes! Yes!" Catalina cheered for her. "I agree. I mean I accept the challenge, Mirabella. I will make it a huge success. Trust me."
"So I want to congratulate you all, and tell you to be ready because in two weeks I expect each of you to make me proud. Oh, yes, and please defer to Catalina and Marietta for any of your needs."
There were a few lasting questions from different teams that she answered, and the conference call ended timely. Exhausted, Mirabella dropped back in her seat. When Fabiana and Teddy ran things it just didn't seem this hard.