“Rocco,” I said, touching his arm. He was finally alone, getting a drink. “Have you seen Capo?”
“In his grandfather’s office.”
I nodded and went looking for him. The door was slightly open, but no Capo. I stepped in, noticing that a few of his grandfather’s books had been taken out. Before he died, he had written a letter to each of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He had written them poems and stories. When I got close enough to his desk, I noticed a book there, opened.
Mariposa,
The smallest creature can make the biggest impact. You have been seen and you are valued. Share this with the great-grandchildren I will not meet. This is for them as much as it is for you.
You have put down roots in my heart and taken shelter there for always.
Nonno
I took a seat and opened to the first page. It was an illustrated children’s book.
A black wolf with shocking blue eyes sat in a dark forest, a full moon hanging over his head. He was a lone wolf, no pack to lead, because he demanded to be the alpha. Then a dull brown caterpillar came to the wolf on page three. The caterpillar told the wolf that the reason he’s so lonely is because he lost something that had once belonged to him. Or maybe it had been stolen.
“Who would dare steal from me?” the wolf snarled at her. “Tell me what I have lost so I can find it again and call it mine.”
She crawled onto his nose and said, “Follow me and I will show you.”
The wolf thought that what he lost was something tangible, something he could bite with his sharp teeth, but the caterpillar never told him any different. She let him believe.
Some have to be shown, not told, she thought.
What happened next was a journey. They met other creatures in the forest. They got turned around and lost. And finally, when the wolf was about to eat her for taking him on a foolish expedition, she led him to a magical garden.
There, he found a rabbit to eat. There, he found shelter from the blistering sun. There, she hid him in the darkness so he could rest, and she alerted him when someone was near. She became his companion through it all. Even when she was tired and bruised from her own struggles, she never left him alone.
During their journey, the wolf started to realize that the caterpillar had nothing for him to touch, but she had offered him so many things to feel. The feelings were even more tangible than the rabbit he had devoured. Through the caterpillar’s actions, she had loved him all along, a creature so different from her; a creature that could end her world with one snap of his mouth, or a swipe from his massive paw.
What I hadn’t expected next was the caterpillar’s death. The wolf mourned for her, both of them realizing at the very last second how much they meant to each other, and what lessons there were to be learned about living and dying. It took death to make them understand what life had been trying to teach them.
What the wolf had lost was his ability to love. For so long he’d been running with the pack, biting and snarling, always fighting for his position until he was banished. When he found himself alone, he was left with…himself. The wolf had forgotten that he was capable of love. He had to be shown how to give and receive it again.
What the caterpillar needed to understand was that her struggles were not in vain. In the end, she would be remembered for all she had done. Even if it was this one snarling, violent animal that remembered her. He would never forget her. She had taught him how to love without forcing him to be something he wasn’t. Weak. Her love only made him stronger.
The last page showed a blue butterfly nestled in the wolf’s thick fur, the moon high above them, sitting in the magical garden.
“Nonno.” I shut the book and rested my head against the hard cover. He had written a children’s book for his great grandchildren. He had written a children’s book in honor of the girl he’d said was both woman and child. He knew I’d love and cherish it. Even the artwork was something out of a whimsical fairy tale.
“I believe that book was his last.”
I jumped at the sound of Rocco’s soft voice. He stood behind me, looking at the book. I ran my hand over the cover, wanting to lock it away and keep it safe.
“Have you read it? It’s…I don’t even have words.”
“Some. Your husband was reading it when I found him here.”
“Where is he?”
“I do not know, Mariposa. He is…struggling.”
“I know,” I said, thinking over the words in the book, trying to find a deeper meaning. “Can you drive me to church, Rocco?”
He took a seat on the edge of the desk, one leg dangling, watching me. “Why church?”
His grandfather had told me that he had made a deal with God, and it was the first time he had returned to church after Capo’s mother, his daughter, had taken her own life. Maybe I was wrong, but I felt it in my gut.
“Where would a man go to fade yet be seen?” I said.
He chucked me under the chin. “Clever girl.”
Rocco drove me to the church where Capo and I were married in a steel-gray Lamborghini. If I’d hoped to make it there in record time, my wish was granted. As we made our way toward the steps, two men in suits were just about to enter.
Rocco slipped his hand around my waist and pulled me closer. I was about to step out of his embrace, because he had never touched me like that before, but at the subtle shake of his head, I stood where he’d placed me.
“Arturo,” Rocco called, stopping them right before the other guy, the younger one, opened the door.
Arturo, the older of the two men, narrowed his eyes at us before he and the younger guy started toward us. “Rocco.” He held out his hand for Rocco to shake when we were close enough, but Rocco didn’t take it.
There was nothing remotely friendly about Rocco in that moment. I’d never seen him that way, and honestly, it sent a spike of fear up my chest. The Fausti was coming out in him. Some people called them lions. He had a tattoo of one on his forearm, a rosary around its mane and a sacred heart in its middle. It wasn’t noticeable under his dress shirt, but I had seen it before, when he rolled his sleeves up.
Arturo was American, and he looked familiar to me, even though I’d never seen him before. Bold features. Thinning black hair with stripes of silver. Broad shoulders but a bit paunchy around the middle. Brown eyes. The man next to him was solid all around, but with blonde hair and brown eyes. He shared some of the same features with the older man.
After Arturo took his hand back, he slapped the younger man on his back. “You remember Achille.”
Achille took a step forward and nodded.
“What brings you here, Arturo,” Rocco said, totally dismissing the man with the strange name. Achille.
I saw fire in Achille’s dark eyes then. He didn’t like being dismissed. I watched the two strange men carefully after that. Something about Arturo made me want to take a giant step back, but Achille made me feel like he breathed down my neck even though he stood across from me.
My breath caught in my throat when I noticed Achille’s hand. He had a tattoo. Both of them did. Arturo had one on his wrist, and Achille had one in the same spot as Capo, on the front of his hand. Black wolves. The eyes were different. All darkness, no blue like Capo’s wolf.
I forced myself to look away, not to draw attention.
Arturo looked at me and then back at Rocco. “Is this your wife?” A second later, he held up his hands. “I don’t want to seem rude.”
Rocco grinned, but it was far from friendly. “You know of my wife,” he said. “This is Amadeo’s wife.”
“Amadeo,” Arturo repeated. He seemed to be thinking the name over. “Stella’s son?”
“You don’t belong here today,” Rocco said, no longer subduing the irritation in his voice. “The family grieves. Your presence will be taken for what it is, an insult.”
“I heard about the old man,” Arturo said, shaking his head sadly. “I was sorry to hear it. I was h
oping to deliver my condolences in person.”
Sorry my ass, I almost said. I had no idea who he was, but he was such a fake. And Achille refused to look away from me. He watched me with hard eyes, eyes that made me want to shrink into my skin and disappear.
“I’m Achille,” he said slowly, reaching out a hand to take mine. I kept mine close, refusing to touch him. He grinned at my discomfort. He was the type who knew and enjoyed it. Achille was Merv the Perv, the Remake, but more dangerous. He wouldn’t run out of breath. “They don’t make girls like you—” he pointed at me “—in America. If you were not married, maybe I’d be interested in making an arrangement with your family. I wonder how much you’d cost.”
It dawned on me then…he thought I spoke only Italian. That was why he was speaking to me like I was slow. Stupid ass.
Rocco pushed me behind him and got in Achille’s face. He stared at Achille in a way that made me cower. I took his shirt in my hand, holding on.
“You do not belong here,” Rocco spoke to Arturo, but he stared at Achille. “Take your boy and leave. If you want to deliver your condolences in person, you will call first. The family has not warmed toward you, and I doubt they will after today. Send flowers. That is appropriate if you feel you must express your grief.”
Arturo stood still for a minute. His eyes moved between the situation—us—and the church, and finally he sighed. Arturo put a hand on his boy’s shoulder and pulled him back, thanking Rocco in Italian for his time. Achille snapped his teeth at me before he followed Arturo’s command to leave.
As Rocco watched them go, he made a phone call. He spoke in rapid Sicilian. He was sending men to watch the Americans. After they left, he put his hand on my lower back, urging me toward the doors to the church. He opened one for me, but he made no move to enter.
“Are you coming?” I said.
“In a minute. I have another call to make.”
I hesitated.
“Do not be afraid, Mariposa. I will not allow them to hurt you.”
“Are they…bad men?”
“Sì. They are two of the worst. If you ever see them on the street, turn the other way. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” I knew they were bad news, but I was hoping he’d give me a little more information.
Leaving Rocco to make his call, I entered the church. It was quiet, and in the stillness, memories from our second wedding assaulted me. The day had brought so much joy.
Nonno.
I’d never forget how alive he was. Hours ago, he was a silent figure in a coffin.
Churches were like hospitals in that way. The invisible line between life and death were constantly being tripped over.
My heels barely made a sound as I walked, but when I entered into the actual church, I stopped and hid in the shadows. Capo sat on one of the pews, and Gigi sat right next to him, her hand on his shoulder. When she started to cry, he reached out and squeezed her neck.
“Amadeo,” she sniffed. Then she rested her head against his shoulder.
I never thought of myself as a vengeful person. I never had a good enough reason to get someone back. Most of the time, if a person made me run, I kept running to keep out of trouble. But on a day when so much had been sealed, never to be opened again, it was still hard to tame down the sudden urge to hurt her. Hurt her as much as she was hurting me.
Capo was my husband. Not hers.
My lack of experience, especially in comforting a man when he was down, was never so apparent in that moment. She was offering just enough strength for him to feel it, but at the same time, just enough vulnerability so that he wouldn’t feel weak. And she had used his special name. Amadeo. She always did. The name he’d never given me the option to use.
After a few minutes, Rocco entered the church. When he saw me standing there, he looked between the two sitting in front of the altar and me. Then he continued ahead and called on Capo. Gigi turned to look but Capo didn’t. Before she stood, she placed a soft kiss on his cheek, probably leaving a red smear behind.
Rocco took a seat next to Capo, and his words were heated and low.
Gigi grew closer to me. Her perfect face looked even more stunning with tears. She took a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at her cheeks. “He is all yours,” she said. “Take care of him.”
I said nothing, looking away, trying not to breathe when her expensive perfume lingered in the air after she’d gone. Rocco and Capo’s voices were still hushed, but Rocco had stood. Whatever Capo had told him, or not, made him angry.
“Would you like me to bring you home?” Rocco said as he prepared to leave.
“No,” I said. “I’ll stay with him.”
He nodded and then left.
I took slow steps to where my husband sat, a lone figure in a massive church. I replaced Rocco, sitting right next to him. He hadn’t even looked at me when I sat down. His eyes were raised, and nothing showed on his face. It was cold and hard. I wondered if it was truly a waste of time to keep trying to avoid his massive waves. Would he ever truly let me, or anyone, in?
We were silent for a little while. Then his hand reached out and stilled my leg. I hadn’t realized it was moving up and down nervously.
“Speak your piece, Mariposa.”
“Capo.” I took a deep breath in and then released it in a whispered push. “Life is short. It’s too short not to live, and not to keep love after you’ve found it. You should be with Gigi. You obviously love her. I—I don’t want to stand in the way of that. Whatever it is between you two, you should go for it.”
I stood, about to leave, when he said, “You would leave me that easily.” He never looked at me. He kept staring up, but the tone of his voice stopped me.
Easily? That easily? He had no idea how much I suffered, too. How much his grandfather and his entire family meant to me. How much he meant to me. But getting to know his family, his grandfather, had given me the courage to say the words. You should go for it.
Like a recipe, sometimes it took more fear than anything else to make courage, to make selflessness. Even though it hurt me in a place in my heart that I never knew existed until him, and it made me furious to think about them together, if Capo had found love, and Gigi was what he wanted—I refused to stand in the way. Whatever reason sent him looking for me was not good enough. A deal was not good enough. Nothing was good enough if true love found you.
“It’s not that easy,” I said. “It’s not that simple. You know my feelings on love. Loyalty is the foundation, but love, love is the entire house. It trumps all. One reason. Amore. The only reason to send me walking away from you.”
Love was both the reason to stay and the reason to go.
“You’re taking the path of the real mother,” he said.
He was grieving, and apparently, not using all of his words. “Real mother?” I asked, confused.
“An old story. It goes something like this. Two women were fighting over one baby, both claiming to be the baby’s mother. The king finds out about the feud and summons both women to his chamber. He listens to both sides but has no idea who the real mother is. So he does what a king does best and makes his ruling based on what he knows.
“He tells the two mothers that since he can’t truly make a decision, the baby belongs to both of them. He’s going to take his sword and cut the baby in half. Each mother gets half. One mother agrees to this. The other mother refuses. She tells the king the other woman can have the child. She doesn’t want to see him hurt. The king gives the selfless woman the baby.”
“She loved the baby enough to sacrifice her own heart for him,” I said.
“Even cared for him would do. It didn’t have to be love.”
“I guess you can call me the real mother then. Though, when Gigi left, she told me to take care of you. So what happens if we both give you to the king?”
“Neither of you will be giving me to the king,” he said.
It was odd, but I could’ve sworn his next words would’ve been, becaus
e I am the king.
“Capo—”
“I don’t have the patience for this right now, Mariposa.”
“I understand. It was stupid for me to even bring it up.” It was. I let my emotions get the best of me, but truly, I wanted him to be happy. His grandfather’s death just proved that we only have the here and now—one life to live. “Take care of yourself, Capo,” I whispered before I started to walk away. Money aside, I never asked for much, but in that moment, I demanded clarity on this, on love, like I demanded his respect.
“You don’t need permission to call me Amadeo,” he said, and I stopped, my back to him. “Nonno gave me the name. He wanted that to be my name since birth. That’s why my family calls me Amadeo. It’s your right to call me whatever you want. I’d never allow another person to call me Capo or husband, though. Those are yours alone. You named me, Mariposa, just like I named you. The rest.” He sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Names are just names. Labels that are only surface deep.”
He must have felt my hesitation, because he cleared his throat. “Gigi is Stella’s daughter. My first cousin, so what you’re implying is incest. It never seemed to come up in conversation who she was to me, and honestly, I enjoyed you being jealous when you thought she was someone to me.”
Instead of saying something that resembled an apology, I said, “You enjoyed that?”
“Your reaction was cute.”
Cute. I hated that word. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. Even tiny vegetables are cute. But a grown woman shouldn’t be cute. She should be—
“Your mind is fidgeting.” Then he hung his head, leaning his forehead against his steepled hands.
I tiptoed back to the pew and slid in next to him again. I lifted my hand slowly and put it on his back. His muscles were tense, almost stiff, but at my touch, he seemed to relax some.
Me? I tried not to fidget. The thought of going this deep with him made me anxious. Beliefs and faith were personal. They were two of the few things in this life that were truly ours to keep, and apart from love and our sins, what else was there to take when we died?
Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1 Page 27
