That eleven-year old girl in my pocket looked nothing like the woman who stood before me in the pistachio grove.
The door opened to the restaurant. All heads turned but Nicodemo’s and mine. I picked up my glass, took a sip, and then set it down, fixing my vest after. I was used to a suit.
There were eleven of them. The old man and his son took the center. The muscle protected the hearts. Three of the men stood at the door, blocking our exit, and there were probably more placed around the building.
Nicodemo grinned, his teeth bright against the tan of his skin. He thrived in this atmosphere.
So did I.
I always reacted accordingly. The main thing about these sitdowns, especially with men who were old school, was respect. Anything less wouldn’t be tolerated.
Giuseppe’s seat was at the middle of the table, separating the two sides—a representative of his daughter.
I nodded at the old man, addressing him only. “Grazie,” I said, “for agreeing to this meeting today.”
He nodded, picking up his drink, and took a sip. His eyes never left mine.
Nunzio stared at me, and I gave a subtle nod. He translated my words so the famiglia couldn’t argue that something was lost in translation. The old man hated me on principal, and I could feel it, so I would make sure there were no “misunderstandings” at this tavolo.
“I called this meeting today because the deal between your famiglia and the Parisi famiglia has been broken. There will be no wedding between your son and my wife.”
Giuseppe’s mouth fell open. He looked between us, as fast as his daughter blinked when she was attracted to something.
Nunzio translated again.
The old man stared at me, his eyes even harder. He knocked on the table once, twice, three times, and then all guns pointed in our direction.
Adriano had his gun out before they did. He was as quick on the draw as he was with snatching a piece of food. That was why it was wise to never judge a book, so to speak, by its cover. There was a legitimate reason why he was sent with me. He would take four of them out before a bullet would touch him. Nunzio had his gun pointed at the old man, his main job to destroy the heart before the muscle destroyed me.
Nicodemo still had a grin on his face—the men at the door wouldn’t know what had hit them. He was eager for it, already scenting the potential for bloodshed in the air.
Every word that I spoke, Nunzio translated, even if I would speak a word or two in Sicilian.
“You are a businessman,” I said to the old man. “We can either do business, or—” I shrugged.
Giuseppe made the sign of the cross, kissing his fingertips, which came together after.
“We will see her,” the old man spoke in Sicilian, and Nunzio translated.
To see what the fuss was about. I shook my head. “The only person you need to see is me.”
The old man held my stare, which was unyielding, as I took a drink, just like he had done. The ice clanked in the glass; the amber moved and then slid down my throat like spiced honey.
One of the old man’s men had an overachiever finger. He pulled the trigger, barely missing me. The sound of the blast seemed to echo in the room like a war drum.
Adriano had shot him before the bullet even made it past me. It stuck in the wall. Giuseppe turned to stare at it, shaking his head.
I set the glass down, still keeping eye contact, waiting for the moment of truce or catastrophe. I was prepared for both outcomes—if we stepped over the line of business into personal, we would all die at this tavolo. It would no longer be old school anymore.
Finally, the old man lifted his hand. I gave a subtle nod. All men lowered their weapons. Nicodemo stopped grinning.
“Business,” the old man said in Sicilian. “What do you suggest?”
“Money,” I said. “An absurd amount. For your loss, of course.”
He grinned at me, and then we made the deal.
15
Alcina
“What is that noise?” I asked.
Mamma and Anna were sitting with me on my old bed, going through old photographs, drinking chianti, and laughing at the amount of lace and silk I’d gotten from my female cousins at my party.
Mamma and Anna glanced at each other, and then they both smiled in unison.
“Go see, mia figlia.” Mamma shooed me toward the window leading out to the balcony.
I recognized the sound, a mandolino, but what I did not understand was why it was coming from below, right underneath my window.
I moved the curtains back, narrowing my eyes on the street. From the soft glow of the lamps, I could see a crowd had formed. At the center of it was Corrado Alessandro Capitani, accompanied by the mandolinista playing a soft tune on the instrument.
My eyes narrowed even further when I noticed papà standing on the other side of him, moving his arms like a conductor would. I could smell alcohol on the breeze, and I wondered how much they all had to drink.
Corrado cleared his throat when papà squeezed his shoulder, and then he started to…sing. To me. From beneath my balcony window.
A loud laugh escaped my lips. Mamma pinched me on the arm, hard enough that it felt like a wasp sting.
“Do not laugh at him, mia figlia,” she said. “He is doing this for you.”
“I am not laughing at him,” I said, rubbing the spot, but still a smile lit up my face. I imagined it was brighter than any moon, any flame, in the world. “I am laughing because my heart is happy, mamma.”
“Shh,” Anna shushed us both, closing her eyes.
The man could not sing, but still, his voice was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. My favorite sound. I opened the windows and stepped out onto the balcony, needing to be closer. I leaned against the iron, placing my hand underneath my chin, closing my eyes, getting lost in the melody of the traditional song, “Serenata.”
I knew il mio amante would rather take a bullet for me than to sing me this love song. He truly loved me.
I had a suspicion then on the term papà had set that neither the bull nor Eraldo would agree to. Corrado had.
The traditional song merged into another. I remembered, from my time in New York, my aunt’s old records, that this song had been sung by a man with a throat made of velvet. I opened my eyes to see better, like it could help me see him better. The man my heart had known forever, but was so new to my eyes.
I swayed to the melody, keeping my eyes on his, and when the canzone came to an end, I applauded softly. I wiped a tear from my cheek and then bowed to him, as if the dance was ending.
Come tomorrow, our dance, a permanent one, was just beginning.
16
Alcina
I had dreamed of wearing this dress many times.
Even as a child I would beg mamma to let me wear it after she showed it to Anna and me the first time. Anna thought it looked old. I thought it had charm that most dresses these days did not.
It was vintage and had belonged to my nonna Evangelina. It was classic, elegant, and romantic—it was timeless. A dress that could have been worn years ago or in modern time.
Anna said that if the wedding dresses of Grace Kelly and Apollonia Vitelli—from The Godfather—had a child, it would be nonna Evangelina’s.
“I take it back,” Anna said, appraising me through the mirror in our parents’ casa after mamma helped me into it. This was the first time I had seen myself all day. It was bad luck for the bride to look in a mirror before she put her gown on. “I have a better description. If old-world Roman Catholic had a mood, it would be this dress.”
The entire gown was made of fine French lace, even the bodice and long sleeves, and it barely swept the floor, especially with the heels I wore.
Anna softly ran her hands through each side of my hair, which we had parted down the center, making sure it was perfetto before mamma set the matching scallop veil on my head. The tulle was made in Italy, but the lace matched the dress. Mamma pinned it on in such a wa
y that it looked like it was made to be there. The beauty of it cascaded over my shoulders and ran along the floor. It was longer than the gown.
Anna smiled at me before she put her hands over her mouth. “The dress did not fit me,” she said, shaking her head some, “but it is perfetto for you, Alcina. You look ethereal.” She turned and looked at mamma, moving her hands away from her face dramatically. “Alcina!” she screamed. “Alcina!”
I laughed at how ridiculous she was being, but it was true. Corrado told me I did not have to hide any longer, that we would be getting married in the daylight for everyone to see, and here we were—about to take the walk to church without fear.
“Alcina!” Mamma smiled at me, her eyes crinkling with happiness. She ran her hands over my veil, right above it, not touching me. She wanted to, but it did not seem as if she wanted to mess up what she had done. “La mia bambina.” My baby girl.
She kissed her palms and then put them to each side of my cheeks. I closed my eyes, relaxing into her touch, and then a tear slipped when she kissed my forehead.
“You are not only effortless beauty, Alcina,” she whispered. “You are bold strength. Remember that, ah?”
“I will remember,” I whispered.
“Bene.” She kissed me again, letting her lips linger. “Because that man is going to try your patience, your devotion, your love.”
I opened my eyes to meet her serious ones.
“They all do, bambina mia. In their own ways, capisci? Your man has a mind of his own. A strong mind. That is good. Once he wants something, or not, it does not change.” She shrugged. “He wants you. And right now…this is all so romanticismo. As it should be. The villain has turned into the hero. Your knight in shining armor. But where there is light, there is always dark, ah? We have to learn how to balance both. We must be determined to love even when the romance fades.”
“Si, mamma.” I nodded.
Anna sighed. “If he does not treat you right—”
We all looked at each other and then made a cutting motion with our fingers, a snip, snip noise with our mouths.
Mamma pulled us both in, careful of my veil, as we laughed, and told us as long as her blood pumped through our veins, she knew we would be all right.
The warmth of the sun poured over my face as I kept it turned up to the sky.
As a girl, I had dreamed of roses and candlelight on this day. But as a woman, I wanted moonflowers and the sun.
Papà took my left hand and kissed my ring finger. The ring, which reminded me of a halo, dazzled as fiercely as the Mediterranean Sea. “I have never seen flowers like that before,” he said.
I opened my eyes and looked down. Moonflowers. Corrado had sent over the bouquet, my rosary wrapped around the lace-covered stems. “They are night blooming.” I grinned.
Papà sighed and turned his face forward. When he had seen me for the first time earlier, he had cried. It did not seem like he wanted to cry again.
“Papà,” I said. “I am going to be okay.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes forward. “As long as he remembers what it means to sing.”
“You brought him to his knees,” I whispered.
“Amore,” Papà corrected me. “Amore brought him to his knees, so to speak.” He cleared his throat. “My blessing was his then.”
Anna stood ahead of us on the steps. She turned around and nodded at us before she walked into the church. A minute or two after, papà and I followed.
A choir sang in the background. The sun’s rays pierced through the stained glass, but the colors subdued it, making the light glow instead of blind. Even with the prisms of color, the air reminded me of amber again, the smoky smell of burning candles drifting. I was brought back to that cold day in December, when I had asked for things I needed.
One look at the man waiting for me, and I knew every prayer had been answered.
He would be all I ever wanted. All I ever needed.
The amber was not to warn me, but to warm me.
With each step that I took, with every step I had always taken, I came closer and closer to him. But I had to pass through different levels of light as I did. Brightness that blinded. Darkness that made me narrow my eyes to see better. Then there were the areas that glowed from the prisms. They were absolutely heavenly, soothing in a way that was difficult to describe.
I would forever remember this day, the sound of my footsteps, of the journey, to help me balance the light and the darkness life would bring, as mamma had said. I would always remember that each step I took, one foot in front of the other, would always lead me to love.
One step. Another.
Corrado Alessandro Capitani stepped toward me.
We met in the glow.
I blinked up at him. He grinned at me.
“Angel eyes,” he whispered.
Papà took my hand and placed it in Corrado’s, and after papà told the church he would be giving this woman to this man, we walked together, footsteps in sync, meeting Padre Greco at the altar.
The service was in Italian, and Corrado had practiced his vows. He spoke them perfectly, each word understood, each word loud enough that the entire congregation heard his promises.
“Io, Corrado Alessandro Capitani, prendo te, Alcina Maria Parisi, come mia sposa e prometto di esserti fedele sempre, nella gioia e nel dolore, nella salute e nella malattia, e di amarti e onorarti tutti i giorni della mia vita.”
I did the same.
“Io, Alcina Maria Parisi, prendo te, Corrado Alessandro Capitani, come mio sposo e prometto di esserti fedele sempre, nella gioia e nel dolore, nella salute e nella malattia, e di amarti e onorarti tutti i giorni della mia vita.”
Before Padre Greco announced us as husband and wife, Corrado cleared his throat. “Ho trovato qualcosa per cui vale la pena morire.”
I stared at him, the amber in the air moving around him like smoke, and cleared my throat. “Ho vissuto per te, anche quando non sapevo che esistessi.”
I have found something worth dying for.
I lived for you, even when I didn't know you existed.
Padre Greco announced us as husband and wife. Then he told Corrado that he may kiss his bride.
Mio marito—my husband—placed his hands on each side of my face, his touch warm and firm, his thumbs skimming the corner of my mouth, and leaning in, he kissed me in heaven, creating something sacred between the two of us.
The air was still hot as we walked arm-in-arm toward my grandparents’ casa. Famiglia and amici followed behind us—their laughter and animated conversations reflecting all that I felt.
I had never seen the look Corrado wore on his face before. “What are you thinking?” I whispered as he helped me down a particularly steep slope of road. Our village twisted and turned with the shape of the terrain, molded by the hands of it.
“Many things,” he said, the light hitting his eyes and turning the hard amber into dark honey. “But they all revolve around one central point. You. I miei occhi d'angelo.” My angel eyes.
I smiled at him, and he kissed me. Rowdy applause broke us apart but did not steal the smile from my face. Nothing could. I laughed against his mouth and continued to laugh throughout the entire evening.
We had only had a few days to plan, but what we did in those days turned out to be spectacular. Like the dress, I wanted a sense of tradition mixed in with a dash of modernity. Our roots and our extending branches. Where Corrado and I had come from and where we were headed. Twenty-four hours that would stand the test of time.
Our reception was held at my grandparents’ casa, but it was usually traditional for the reception to be held on the street where the bride lives. Since we needed more space than what my parents’ casa had, and my grandparents’ place was in a more rural area, we decided to have it there.
Mamma along with numerous members of our famiglia came together and cooked their famous ragù to serve with pasta. Tables were lined with homemade cookies and liquor. Two of my uncles played the mandoli
n and the fisarmonica. Some guests had already started to dance.
A small stage had been built in the yard, but no one would tell me what it was for. The backdrop was the mountains and sea in the distance.
Papà had enlisted the help of Corrado and some of the other men to string hundreds of lights from the trees. The entire yard glowed as the sun sank into the horizon. The hundreds of candles I had brought from Bronte flickered from the centers of every table, adding to the light and softening the moonflowers woven between. I had made each and every candle by hand during my darkest hours. Now they created a light for all to see me by.
I did not care about all. I only cared about him.
He was talking with Uncle Tito and Nicodemo, and I had been having a conversation with his nonna, who had traveled from New York with a few other members of his famiglia to attend our wedding. Perhaps he felt my eyes on him, calling to him in a language only the two of us understood, because our eyes met over the hundreds of candles.
I did not need the heat from the flames to make me melt. I needed only one look from him. I remembered the night he first touched me, and a shuddering breath left my mouth.
Corrado Alessandro Capitani was one of the world’s most talented magicians. He could touch me without putting a hand on me.
A band started to play and couples drifted closer to the stage. A soft but gruff voice—one of Corrado’s cousins from America, Domenico (Dom) Casino, who was famous there, or so Anna told me—started to sing. It was an older song redone, but in the same romantic way—“Unchained Melody,” by the Righteous Brothers.
I turned my eyes away from Corrado to the stage, realizing its purpose, and started to sway to the melody. When I turned back to my husband, his eyes were still on me, but his body moved.
It felt like he crashed into me when one arm wrapped around me, the other fisted in my hair, and his lips came against mine in a kiss that stole my breath. I pulled his hair, trying to get even closer, and my fingers dug into his shoulder.
Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3) Page 10