by Mynx, Sienna
“You take a weapon with you everywhere you go?”
“I call him Danny-boy.” He answered. She watched him put on a dark pair of sunglasses, his tone matter of fact.
“You named your gun?”
“He and I have been through some tough times.” Giovanni fired up the engine, and they were zooming out of the drive toward the tall gates. As she expected the wind whipped over them tossing her hair wildly in her face. The drive out of Sorrento was magnificent. They arrived under the cover of darkness. Today, in the sunlight, she saw the coast. To her right, homes and stores stretched up the mountain, and down to the left the cliffs that led to the coast had the same homes and roads. The sea sparkled as if filled with blue diamonds. The sky was clear of clouds, and the sun burned brighter than she’d ever known. Mira observed it all in silent awe, until they arrived into the congested streets of Napoli.
“We will fly into Firenze, and drive out to Chianti.”
“Fly?”
Giovanni smirked at her. “In my private plane.”
She relaxed, imagining making love to him in the clouds until they arrived at the airstrip and she saw the tiny three-seater. “We aren’t flying in that!” she exclaimed.
“I’m a pilot. You’re safe with me.” He exited the jeep.
“Giovanni! No!” Mira shook her head fiercely. She wasn’t afraid of flying, but she was terrified of flying in that propeller contraption. And was he serious? He’s a pilot. Bullshit!
He helped her out and cupped her face. “I make this flight often. You trust me? Don’t you?”
“But…”
He kissed her. “Trust me.”
If he cared about her objections, he didn’t let on. He just dragged her by the hand and spoke in Italian to some man with a clipboard. Mira glanced around timidly and begrudgingly climbed inside the small cockpit. Giovanni carefully strapped her inside and gave her a headset. “You are my co-pilot.”
Fear seized her gut, and she couldn’t speak. He winked, slamming the door shut. As he turned the ignition the man out front gave the front propeller a spin and the plane grumbled to life. “Oh sweet, merciful God. Please be with me.” Mira said. She glanced over to her lover. He looked so happy to be flipping switches and speaking into the microphone piece. “Ready?”
She put on a brave smile and nodded. They drove down the runway and slowly they picked up speed. Mira squeezed her eyes shut just as the plane lifted to the clouds and her stomach lurched to her throat. She grabbed his thigh, digging her nails in.
“Open your eyes, Bella. Really see Italia.”
Slowly she did. Her gaze swept the buildings and then the coastline. Nothing had every appeared so beautifully serene. And soon she was relaxing into her seat. They coasted through the sky. He spoke to her through the headset, showing her Mount Vesuvius, one of the few active volcanoes in the world, and flew past Pompeii, so she could see the ruined city. It was magical being with him. The flight ended too soon. When they landed, he kissed her before he turned off the plane, and Mira felt such a profound new feeling of love in that kiss.
They were ushered next to another waiting vehicle, a small convertible two-seater car that had speed. Giovanni looked so handsome driving them through the coast with the sun bronzing his olive toned skin. They travelled roads that were more scenic where street vendors sold everything from leather to fresh fish. And soon she understood his choice in vehicle. A bumpy course of cobblestone had her jostling a bit in her seat. After a few hours he told her they were entering San Donato, which was named after Saint Donata, translating into a gift from God. He shared the history of the village. It dated back to the Romans. In the 4th century Christian soldiers from Arezzo stumbled into the vast hills and took up post. The men built the village because of its abundance of fruit and fertile soil. They made a fortress out of it. Afterwards the village was given the name San Donato after their bishop.
San Donato stood frozen in time, a relic of what once was. Approaching from the distance she noticed a small modest old cement block church on the left side of the country road. Giovanni eased on the gas and the car slowed to a stop. There was no traffic in either direction. Above the pointed roof was a block wall structure with a rusted bell and it appeared older than anything she’d seen thus far.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You should see the inside Bella, it actually dates back to 1000 AD. When the Romans discovered it, they uncovered numerous art treasures still inside.”
Mira smiled at him “What kind of art treasures?”
“The front of the church has a mural painted by Giovanni della Robbia. It depicts the life and death of Giovanni the Baptist. The Romans also found a crucifix to Taddeo Gaddi, two altar pieces by Giovanni del Biondo, another by Bicci di Lorenzo, and a 15th century Florentine chalice.”
“Giovanni and Lorenzo? You have got to be kidding me!” she laughed.
“Our names are as old and steeped in tradition as that church there.”
She stared with eyes stretched in wonder at the church. “I suppose it’s not in there now for me to take a peek?”
“On the way back I’ll walk you inside to see the mural. The other treasures are long gone,” he said smiling, shifting into first gear and driving away.
“How do you know all of this? Seriously as historical as Virginia is back home, I’d barely be able to tell you any of it, and I grew up there.”
“My father would make this same drive to our vineyard when I was a boy. He’d stop along the way and we’d visit families, pray at that church. He’d always share tales and make us recite history to him. He was a man that loved Italian and Sicilian history. He instilled that pride in us. I think he was destined to return to Italia. He met my mother in Firenze. Kept her nearby until she became pregnant with me then brought her to Sicily. He said he knew I’d be born a boy and he wanted my birth to be on Sicilian soil. His family was in Palermo, but Mama lived in Mondello Beach.”
“Mondello Beach? Sounds nice.”
When he didn’t respond she glanced over to find a sullen frown denting his brow.
“You said that you were born in Mondello? Right?”
Giovanni nodded. “At the time of my birth there was conflict within the family. My father at first wanted me born in Palermo where he was born. But for my mother’s well-being he decided on Mondello.”
“What kind of conflict?”
“We’ll talk about it later.” He veered off the main road across a grassy one barely mowed. Mira looked up to see the fields painted brilliant colors of purple and yellow from the wildflowers that bloomed all around and found it captivating. But to be honest their travels into Tuscany had become as freshly exciting as her new love affair with this complicated man.
“This is it?” she asked. She pointed toward the land and the vineyard fields stretching for miles. She saw several weathered barns and a small ranch style farmhouse between them.
“Yes, this is it. We will have to walk the rest of the way. My uncle doesn’t like vehicles driving up to the winery, spewing what he thinks are toxins that poison his land from their exhaust pipes.”
Mira smiled, opening her door. A quick glance back and she caught a glimpse of his gun as he retrieved it. Out in the middle of nowhere she had a newfound appreciation for his Danny-boy. If he felt it was needed, she wouldn’t dare question why. A fresh vibrant fragrance of wild strawberries unfurled all around her. “I smell strawberries. That’s weird.”
“It’s called Sangiovese, the work horse grape of Chianti. When it blooms and ripens, it smells like strawberries,” he said after taking her hand and helping her from the car. He leaned in to brush his lips across hers.
“What is that for?” she touched the side of his face, staring up into his eyes.
“It’s hard for me not to touch you.” He kissed her again, and she rested her hands on his sides. It was a soft gentle pressing of their lips and a sweet exchange of their passion. The breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and swir
led through the tall grass. She lifted her arms and reached her hands around his neck to kiss him more passionately. She lost all sense of time and space before he broke away. Together they walked along the road, to the gate. Giovanni let go of her hand once they arrived. Tall grass and weeds were tangled around the rusted links of the fence. He slipped a key into a large lock, opened it, and then pulled the chain loose. He yanked the gate open. “After you fair lady,” he smiled.
“Why, thank you,” she said.
She had to trudge through some of the grass and felt tiny pricks and stings on her bare legs. Giovanni insisted she wear another wrap around dress. She only had three in her luggage, and this one was of fine grape purple silk that clung to her legs and hips. She chose a pair of flat open toe thong sandals to wear with it, and now she regretted this choice. Once he led her from the grass to make the climb up the slanting dusty cobblestone laid road, she wished she had worn sneakers instead.
“Careful, Bella,” Giovanni pulled her under his arm, helping her move over the rocks, smiling at her struggles. “Do you like Chianti?” he asked
“I’m not really into cabernets. I called it a merlot, but it’s really a cabernet, right?”
“Right. So you prefer merlots from Napa?”
Mira shrugged. “I guess. I’ve drunk so much wine since I’ve arrived it’s a mix for me.”
“Well, it’s okay because Chianti doesn’t stand well on its own. With the right meal, it’s the red wine of lovers. Not an expensive wine compared to some I’m sure you’ve had, but its taste lingers along the palate and arouses your senses in sensual ways you will come to appreciate,” he said kissing her forehead, draping his arm around her shoulder to keep her close. Mira glanced over to the violet colored blossoms on the vines.
“Those flowers are beautiful.”
Giovanni nodded. “When they bloom, swollen grapes the size of coins drop down.”
Letting go of his waist, she walked over to the vine and pulled a full bloom. Biting into the round tiny fruit, she frowned. His laughter boomed in the air. Her mouth was filled with a sour burning flavor that must be the same as the taste of battery acid.
“Bitter is it?” he asked.
“Extremely!”
“It takes time to mature; the longer it’s allowed to ripen the sweeter and higher the alcohol content.”
Mira put her hand behind her back and dropped the grape innocently.
“I saw that,” he chuckled
“It was nasty.” She kissed his lips. “Mmm, now this tastes better.”
Giovanni laughed, pulling her in his arms “Let me taste, again,” he slipped his tongue inside her mouth. Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him back, feeling his hand go down her back, cupping her below.
“Il mio ragazzo! Il mio ragazzo!” A short man who looked to be covered in wrinkles from head to toe yelled out to them. He wore blue jean overalls over a short sleeve white t-shirt and a cap pulled down low, shading his face. Giovanni let go of the kiss. “Here comes my uncle Rocco. He’s a bit of a flirt. Be careful how close you stand to him.”
Mira watched a peculiar bowlegged older man with a wide grin rushing toward them. He flashed her a toothless grin. His face deeply wrinkled, his hair thinning and grey. She guessed his age around seventy, at the very least.
“Giovanni!” he shouted. He pulled Giovanni down into a hug, giving him kisses to his cheeks.
“Rocco! Where are your teeth this morning? Did you not get the call we would be visiting?”
Rocco laughed. His gaze volleyed over to her and snagged. “Chi è questa belladonna?”
“Speak English, old man. She’s American. Her name is Mira.”
Rocco took Mira’s hand and kissed it. Rubbing his gnarled fingers over her soft skin, smiling he said, “Welcome to Vigna di Battaglia.”
“Grazie.” Mira smiled and the old man embraced her. Once they parted she was almost certain his hand brushed her backside.
“Rocco, she’s with me,” Giovanni pulled her back to him.
Rocco nodded. “I still got it Gio,” he boasted.
“Well, keep it away from my girlfriend capisci?”
Girlfriend? Did he just call me his girlfriend? Mira slipped her arm around Giovanni smiling. Her hand hit his gun, and she flinched, pulling away. He looked at her confused, but Rocco immediately interrupted. “Come, come, Carlotta will be so pleased.”
“If it’s okay, Rocco, I’d like to give Mira a tour of the old cellars so we can do some tasting.”
Rocco nodded. “Of course, Gio. I will set it up.” He shuffled off excitedly.
“I don’t want to impose. If he has work to do today we can—.”
“Nonsense. Those are my cousins, the workers,” he nodded to the vineyard. She could see two men on top of a large truck, and others in the distance. “They will handle the business, and we’ll tour the old wine cellars.”
“How old is this place?”
“Over a hundred years old, before Mussolini. My grandfather bought the land, and Rocco and many other family members made it fertile.”
Rocco waved from a distance signaling for them to follow. She walked a bit ahead, around the mowed path to an older building made of wood instead of stone. When she entered the cool atmosphere it made goose bumps rise along her arms. Mira took note of the dark stone walls and large barrels lined up in the center next to blocks of steel containers for crushing grapes. She inhaled the acidic smell of fermentation and was overwhelmed by the odor. She glanced back to see Giovanni pick up some very crude looking pair of sheers with a long wooden handle. He inspected them closely.
“What’s that?”
“My uncles would use these to cut grapes free from their vines. They’d fill barrels that they wore strapped to their chest and then haul them in to be picked free of stems and leaves.”
“Wow, that seems like a lot of work.”
Giovanni hung the sheers back on the wall. “It was.” He nodded goodbye to Rocco who closed the barn door giving them privacy. “Until we bought those.”
Mira looked over in the direction he pointed out the window. She saw a tractor looking vehicle with a large container in the front and two mechanical arms that had sheers on the end.
“That is a mietitrice meccanica, what you would call a mechanical harvester. It fills those containers with the amount of grapes ten harvesters could haul in within a matter of minutes as opposed to hours. They are brought into a room like this and dumped into crushers.”
The more he talked, the more he touched her. First his hand reached for hers, and then he stroked her arm. Now he was behind her, running his fingers up and down her hips. Mira relaxed against his chest as the low timber of his voice spoke smoothly against her ear. In her mind’s eye she saw a family of brothers, relocated to Chianti from Sicily, out in the fields doing honest hard work. How did that life lead them down the path of a life of crime?
“Sounds interesting,” she said, folding her arms and pressing into his tall frame.
“The crushers?”
“Yes. I thought most of it was done with their feet?” she asked softly as he kissed the inside of her neck.
“Would you like to?”
“No,” she chuckled.
“I think it’ll be sexy to see you stomping grapes for me.” He let his hand ease from her hip down the front of her thigh.
“Is that so?” she sighed.
Giovanni let her go, and Mira collected her thoughts again. She stepped away from temptation to get a closer look at the large containment barrels, as if she cared.
“Come with me. The tour isn’t over.” He again captured her hand and led her to the back of the barn to a closed wooden door. He opened it, and she saw the stone steps that went to a dark cellar. Hesitant at first she braved the steps, careful to follow close in the dark cramped hall. An unknown light source beckoned them at the end. They arrived to find it to be from a single bulb in the center of the wine cellar, and walls of bottled wines, some cover
ed in cobwebs. There was a small bench and table at the back of the room with a ceramic bucket used in tastings to pour out excess wine. To her left there lay a thick yellow quilt with a white picnic blanket on top. She counted three bottles of wine and a tray of meats and cheeses. Giovanni led her over to the large blanket.
“You planned this?” she asked. “A picnic in a wine cellar?”
“Zia honored my wish. You will meet her soon. Shall we?” he said.
She smiled at how sweet and secluded the setting was. With him a dusty wine cellar felt like the Taj Mahal. He reached behind his back and removed his gun. He turned to put it up over on one of the shelves. Mira dropped to her knees. She picked a bottle with its black lettering and read the family name across it. “It’s a 1987 Chianti. Only two years old?”
“It’s from our best harvest. Mark my words, ten years from now people will proclaim 1987 the best crop Chianti has ever produced.”
She liked how he spoke of wine, how confident he was. It was the kind of strength most women found attractive in a man. After the long drive, she was a bit hungry. She lifted the lid to the basket to find fresh baked bread wrapped in red napkins. “What’s for lunch?”
“Prosciutto and soprassata. Think of it as different salamis and cold meats. The cheese is fresh. Zia makes it and the olive oil too, from scratch. This here is raveggiolo cheese you should spread across sliced bread.” He stretched out and laid down on his side, observing her. She took the lead to fix their tiny plates and spread the cheese as he suggested over the sliced loaves. She found a container of plump olives, her favorites, and fed him one from her fingers.
“I like when you feed me, care for me,” he winked.
“So you’re the kind of man that wants a woman to take care of him?”
He nodded.
“That’s not attractive in the States,” she smiled.
Giovanni looked as if he could give a shit about what men in the States preferred. “You know what I would really like?” he asked as he poured them wine, and she tasted everything she could sample from the trays. She stopped mid-chew and looked to him. Swallowing she blinked curiously. “What?”
