My eyes locked with his. “She told you.”
“I told her a story, a story of a man who traded his life for a woman he hardly knew, the greatest sacrifice known to man. She told me she knew a man who was as honorable as that. When I asked her who was this great man, she told me you. I am dying, but I have not lost my mind yet.”
The old man was sly. He had taken her comment and connected it. He probably asked her how old she was and did the math. Then he had tricked me into admitting it. The only way he knew that I would.
He slammed the cane down again, looking away from me. “Tell me, grandson, will you give her the life she deserves?” He met my eyes again. “You saved her life by sacrificing your soul. What will your sacrifice mean if she ends up hiding in a closet while the only man she loves is killed because he is a reckless fool?”
“Amore?” I laughed, but both men narrowed their eyes at me. I continued in Italian. “Loyalty. That’s what we share. That’s our foundation.”
“What of love? Now or in the future.”
“Love makes us foolish.”
“Says the man who has never opened himself up to it,” Tito muttered.
I narrowed my eyes at him. He narrowed back.
“Perhaps love does,” my grandfather said. “But what would you know about it, Amadeo? How can you speak on such things when you have no idea what you’re speaking about? Or do you? Prove me wrong.” He eyed me hard for a minute, and when no answer came, he grunted. “Perhaps to men who have loved, you are the fool.” He tapped his cane once, twice, three times against the ground. “Remember, Amadeo. Fools will go where even angels dare not to tread.”
“Once more,” I said to my grandfather. “Tap once more.”
He did without asking me why. Then he cleared his throat. “Mariposa reminds me of my Noemi in so many ways.”
I looked away this time, knowing where he was going with this. If he were anyone else, I would’ve walked away, but I owed him more respect than that. These were his last days, and if speaking of things I’d rather not gave him peace, I’d listen. I’d sacrifice for him as he had sacrificed for me.
“In a way, Mariposa is childlike, and in another, a woman. It is a delicate balance to be enough of both without taking away from the other. Being too much of one eliminates the other completely. Mariposa has mastered the balance. Your mother was the same. I knew when she married your father that he would not nurture the child; he would kill it. He wanted a cold-hearted woman. The life he chose to live demanded it. I grieved for the child in my child even before she was murdered. Arturo murdered that vital part of her before her soul left this world. When a woman has both sides, if one dies, the other follows. Because the two together make a whole, you understand.”
Left this world. Left me. By her own hand. By her own choice. My mamma committed suicide. My love wasn’t enough to keep her here.
“I will not waste the time I have left speaking in riddles,” he barreled on. “I am going to tell you what I think.”
He always did.
He went to continue, but numerous cars pulled up the drive, and the guests for the dinner in Mariposa’s honor spilled out. The men were ready to play baseball, including Rocco and his brothers. My grandfather wouldn’t speak of personal things in front of them. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for the Faustis—he considered them famiglia—but he never condoned their lifestyle.
My grandfather and Marzio had been friends before a bullet had accidentally killed Marzio. Ettore, one of Marzio’s sons, had held the gun, and the bullet had been meant for Luca’s oldest son, and Marzio’s grandson, Brando. The bullet had hit Marzio instead. But Marzio had enjoyed spending time with my grandfather. They would argue over just about everything, but they respected each other enough to be friends at the end of it. Marzio was a poet at heart, and that was the only thing they were square on.
Poetry was a love language.
Violence being the key to reaching peace was not something Pasquale Ranieri believed in, though. My grandfather was a firm believer that, if you live by the sword, you will die by it. Marzio believed that everyone was going to die anyway, and no matter how you went, death was death. Peaceful or not.
My grandfather didn’t support my lifestyle. I made no secret of my plans. Or who I was. He loved me despite it, but he never kept his feelings quiet on the matter. He felt it was his duty as my grandfather to try and steer me in a direction he felt was the right one. He had lost his daughter to a violent end, one he believed was her husband’s fault. My grandfather had tried to stop my mother from marrying Arturo, but she was hardheaded, thinking her love could save him from himself.
In the end, she couldn’t save herself from his violent nature. He didn’t want a wife to lead the pack with him. He wanted a pretty toy he could use until he didn’t need her anymore. A beautiful Italian-speaking girl from the old country had impressed his capo at the time. Then, after he had used my mother to put the capo at ease, Arturo slit his throat and took over the family. He’d been standing on that bloody ground ever since.
My grandfather looked away when Rocco, his brothers, and a few of the higher-ranking men entered the garden. They were all ready to play ball. I looked at my grandfather, but I knew he’d wait for them to leave before he spoke again.
Tito sat up, narrowing his eyes at us. He fixed his glasses. “Baseball is a game. It is supposed to be competitive but fun. If I see a man getting too rough—” he lifted his pointer finger “—off with your HEAD!” He made a slicing motion with the raised finger. “The doctor is off today!” He had a habit of elongating his r’s when he was mad.
Every man around him grinned, except for my grandfather.
Rocco pulled up a chair next to mine. “We must speak before the game.”
“The man at the gate,” I said. “Arturo sent him.”
“Sì. New York is a war zone. I have had five families come to me about the problems they are facing.”
“Five.” I grinned. “The great Arturo Lupo Scarpone has finally come to you for help.”
“Help,” he said, “or information. He thinks he is smarter than me. He asks questions with the intent to hide their true meaning. He asked permission to speak to Lothario.”
Lothario was one of Rocco’s uncles. Marzio had five sons, and Luca was the oldest. Some people called him a nightmare. He was even more ruthless than his father, but something had happened, and he ended up in jail in Louisiana. Some say it had to do with a woman, Brando’s mother, but the Faustis kept a tight lid on things they wanted to stay sealed.
Ettore was the son who was set to rule after Marzio had passed, but since he accidentally shot his father trying to kill Brando, Lothario took over the family. He wasn’t his father, and he was nowhere near the formidable shadow Luca casted, but so far, he was honorable enough to keep the deals his father had made before his death with me. All of the Faustis lived and died by a code. Their word was as good as their blood. La mia parola è buona quanto il mio sangue.
In order to speak to Lothario, you had to go through channels. Arturo went through Rocco to try and reach him.
Would Arturo demand they tell him if his son was still alive? Marzio had given me permission to use whatever means necessary to have my vengeance. I was still, technically, under his protection.
So I wasn’t surprised when Rocco said, “Lothario denied his request, but I do not want him involved. As you know, the Faustis are at war from within.” He set his glove on his lap. “Calling Lothario closer will do no good for anyone. He has his own agenda, and in time, he’ll be dealt with, but for now, we must keep this between us.”
I nodded. I’d rather keep him out of it, too. Rumor had it that he wasn’t as honorable as the rest of his family.
Rocco flipped his baseball glove over. “Arturo is speaking to all of the families in New York. Even though they are at war, he is trying to convince them that he isn’t the cause of the war. He is convincing them that an outsider is at work. Be prepared.
Now that the smoke has cleared some, their eyes are open, and some may be directed at you.”
I smiled. “All eyes on me.” Let the games fucking begin. It was getting boring playing a five-person game with only one player. When they didn’t know a game was being played, they couldn’t cheat, but that was about to change.
Rocco and I stood. He held out his hand and pulled me in, slapping me on the back. “No more talk of business,” he said. “It is time to play ball!”
“Eeeeuuuu!” His brother, Romeo, yelled, and then all of the men started for the field.
Rocco waited for me.
“I’ll meet you,” I said.
He looked at my grandfather and then nodded. Tito walked with Rocco toward the field.
I took a seat next to my grandfather. He gazed into the distance. “What are you looking at?”
“I am not looking, Amadeo, I am thinking.”
“That’s right,” I said, hiding my grin. “You were going to tell me what you thought.”
He turned to me and raised his hand, like he was going to slap me. I moved away, bracing myself for it. No matter how old I was, he was my grandfather, and he’d bust my ass if he thought I was making a joke out of something he considered serious.
After a second, with his hand still raised, he smiled at me. Then his hand came down on my head and he moved it back and forth, growling at me. “You make me furious!” Then he pulled me in roughly and kissed my head. “I will miss you the most, Amadeo, after I am gone.”
His sickness was a snake around my heart, and it made it hard to breathe when I thought about him leaving me. He had always challenged me to see things differently. He was the only one who had the balls to.
I looked down at the ground. “Non voglio parlare di questo.” I don’t want to talk about this.
“We must talk about things we find difficult,” he said in Italian. “Or we will never conquer them.”
We became quiet for a while. I couldn’t look at him, so I continued to stare at the ground, my head empty of thoughts. My grandfather looked at nothing again, but I could tell his head was full of them.
“When Tito told me what happened to you,” he continued in Italian, “that day was the first day I had spoken to God since your mother died. I hated God. I did not understand why a faithful woman, such as your grandmother, had to suffer such a loss when all she did was pray. Pray for the protection of her children.
“Why hadn’t He protected my child? Why hadn’t He sent her home to us when she needed us the most? The anger consumed me. We are what we love, Amadeo. I loved to hate. It was easier than feeling that I had somehow been forgotten by a God that I hadn’t forgotten.”
A few of my cousins walked along the path, talking, and he became quiet. Seeing this, they waved but didn’t stop. A minute or two after the group was far enough that they couldn’t overhear, my grandfather twisted his cane against the ground, continuing his train of thought.
“The first time I saw you, I saw so much of your mother in you, and I felt you were my own. Arturo called you the prince, but you were always my boy. My Amadeo. My own, and Tito could not tell me if you would live or die. Again, I found myself in a position to lose it all. When we love, we are at the mercy of life and death. Love sets us in a position to lose it all. A chance—there is a chance he will make it—can make or break our soul.
“The miraculous thing is, even if we lose it all, we somehow build it up again. That tiny part of us, the ember of whatever is left in us, becomes our all until we add to it. I stood to lose the little I had when Tito called and told me of your condition. It would have destroyed me. I couldn’t survive it.” He sighed. “I drove to the church and stepped in front of the cross, willing to bargain. I said, ‘If You will save him, I will give You myself in his place. There are worse things than death that can take a man. I don’t want the worse again. I want my grandson to live. I want him to touch love and experience the good in life. Let him experience the indescribable feeling of falling in love, of loving enough to die for the woman worth his sacrifice. Let him experience the indescribable joy of becoming a father. Let him fall in love with his life! Let him live with love in his heart and not vengeance in the deepest part of his soul.’”
I looked at him from the side of my eye. He had battled cancer on and off for years, after I had come to live with him.
“Sì. I found out soon enough that He took me at my word. You were saved, but I would face death. Even so, I hadn’t lost it all again. I still had part of my Noemi to keep here. She lives through you.” He leaned on his cane some, twisting it a bit. “After you came to us, I was told that you had saved a child. You had given your life so that she could live. My sacrifice was rewarded. It was not done in vain. And neither was yours.
“I hoped the fact that she lived would be enough to keep you content. But I saw. I saw how hate ate at your insides like acid. I went to Marzio and asked him to help you, even though I did not agree with his idea of a means to an end. It is not in my blood to be such a man, or to understand him. Sometimes I do not understand you, my own blood, but I can understand hate. I hated once myself, to the point that it ate me like acid. The difference between us is that I take to my pen while you take to your sword.
“Marzio denied me. He said that you were a grown man, and if you needed his ear, he would listen. We know that he did, and after, even though death stood with you, I could see life in you again. It gave me hope.” He set his hand on the back of my head, shaking me some.
“So I will tell you what I think now, Amadeo. I think that you fell for that little girl’s innocence because she reminded you of your mother, in better times. That is why you saved Mariposa’s life, sacrificing your own. You know what true sacrifice is, and what is worth your soul now. Do not sacrifice the second chance you’ve been given for something that will mean nothing tomorrow. Do not shield yourself from love when the man sitting next to you loves you enough to give his life for yours. Allow love to consume you, Amadeo, because we become what we consume. What will you become if you continue to consume vengeance? What will it do to the butterfly you gave your life for? Your sacrifice will be in vain. Yours and mine. It will be worth nothing if you cannot feel anything but hate. That is what I know.”
16
Capo
We had planned a dinner with our immediate family the night before the wedding. Torches made the night air smoky, light music played, and people sat at a table built for a hundred, eating and laughing.
The evening was so busy that I hadn’t had much alone time with Mariposa, but she was never far from my view. She was speaking to Keely and her family. Right after Mariposa said something to Keely’s father, Keely’s mother said something to Mariposa. Mariposa’s face fell, she nodded, said something else, and then walked away with her head down.
It rubbed me the wrong fucking way. I’d make sure to find out what it was about and deal with it.
A minute later, Mariposa took a seat next to me. She kept fidgeting with the napkin on the table.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said.
“Nothing.”
Standing, I gave her my hand and told her we were going to take a walk in the groves alone. Keely flew past us, her neck red, and I turned to look at her family before I turned back to Mariposa and urged her to move.
The groves were lit up, lighting our way as we walked. The men who worked the fields had helped me string up countless solar lights in the trees for the special occasions.
Mariposa was quiet until she wasn’t. “A walk in the groves, huh?”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to you in private.”
She nudged me with her arm. “Getting cold feet?”
“My mind rules my feet, and my mind is set.” I glanced at her dress. She looked like a Roman goddess. The color was light blue, the material almost sheer, and it draped over her arms. When the wind blew, the dress fluttered like wings. The hem swept the ground as we walked, and I noticed she didn’t hold i
t up. “Your favorite color. Blue. It looks beautiful on you.”
She looked at me, right in the eye, and I had to catch her before she fell over a crate left on the ground. She exploded with laughter. “Too much wine.”
She hadn’t had a drop to drink.
“Is that what the kids are calling fun these days?”
“Are you accusing me of lying, Capo?”
“Depends. If that’s what the kids are calling it.” I shrugged. “You’re telling the truth. If not, your pretty nose is going to grow like Pinocchio’s.”
“Ooh!” She laughed even harder. “Who’s lying now? Pretty nose.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said. “The most beautiful woman to me.”
She wiped something from my face. “Are you sure about that?” She showed me her hand. It had a smudge of red lipstick on it.
Gigi. She had kissed me on the cheek earlier. Mariposa noticed it. I even caught her mocking Gigi. She’d pretend to laugh like her and then shake her tits. Gigi hadn’t noticed, but I did. Mariposa hadn’t even met her yet. They never seemed to be in the same place at the same time. And when Gigi would appear, she’d talk to me when Mariposa wasn’t beside me.
“I don’t say things for the fun of it, Mariposa.”
I almost laughed at the sour face she made in response, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to fight the night before our formal wedding. There was nothing to fight about.
We became quiet after that. She had her thoughts and I had mine.
Then she inhaled, bringing me from mine. “I love the smell here. It reminds me of the new perfume.” She lifted her arm and I inhaled the scent on her skin. It was from the same designer who made her other one, but this one was different. It had notes of orange flower and the sea. Both perfumes seemed made for her, but the new one even more perfect.
I kissed her pulse and then held her hand. “This way.” I led her deeper into the groves, wanting to go as deep as possible, as far away from people as we could get.
Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1 Page 21
