Battaglia Mafia: La Famiglia Part 11

Mira smiled. "Thank you."

"Because you are right, Bella. She's important to me, just as you are. And I want her to see how happy you've made me."

Mira grabbed his face. She kissed him. "Can we be like this always?"

"S. Per sempre tua-forever yours."

* B *

Marietta yanked hard on the curtain and dragged it across the window. In an instant the room was flooded with the bright side of morning. Lorenzo s.h.i.+elded his face. "What the h.e.l.l is going on?" he demanded. The sheet was tangled around his waist and thigh. The bed covers had all been kicked over to the floor.

"Wake up." Marietta folded her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and approached the bed. Their clothes were tossed everywhere. Carlo disappeared into the night. Lorenzo booked a room at a small hostel instead of returning her to their yacht. After the drinking and celebrating over his proposal neither of them could be trusted on the open sea. The rest of the evening was a blur. If she hadn't woke up stripped naked with the familiar aches in her lower back and p.u.s.s.y from s.e.x with Lorenzo, she wouldn't have been able to piece together what happened last night.

"What is it, Marie? I'm tired," he groaned. "d.a.m.n. Close the f.u.c.king curtain."

He called her Marie from time to time. A pet name she liked. And therein lie the problem. She liked him-the good, the bad, the confusing. No. She loved him. She had to know the truth. It was killing her.

"You proposed," she said.

He froze. He lowered his arm and looked at her. She felt her heart sink. It was definitely the booze talking last night. And that hurt. She never wanted to be married. Never wanted a mobster boyfriend either. But with Lorenzo she wanted many things. Now he had gone and opened his big fat mouth. He reopened a wound on her heart she thought had long healed. The need to be loved, truly loved in return.

"Were you serious? When you asked me to marry you, Lo?"

Lorenzo sat up in the bed. "Mi dispiace molto. So sorry, cara," he said.

Marietta closed her eyes and rubbed the tension from her brow. She bit so hard on her tongue she feared her teeth would sink through. She wanted to scream at his dirty a.s.s for tricking her into believing he could be serious. She wanted to rage against her own stupidity for thinking their fling could ever mean more to him.

"Sdraiati." He told her to lie down. He took her hand and pulled her closer to the bed. Despite her hurt she went into his arms and lay on top of him. "I should have never proposed to you that way," he admitted. "In a dirty discotheque after we'd been drinking."

"Forget it. I didn't want to marry you," she mumbled. "Never thought of you that way."

He chuckled. "You break my heart, cara. Was I serious? Yes."

She lifted her head and looked up into his face. "Yes what?" she asked with a tremulous voice.

"Sposami o morir-marry me or I'll die," he said.

Her heart stopped beating. She had learned to tell when he was lying, to read his expression and tell when he was tricking her. She saw nothing but deep sincerity in his eyes and heard it in his voice. He flashed her that smile of his and she smiled back. "I want you to be my wife. The mother of my children-"

"I don't want children," she reminded him.

"Basta! The things you say woman. Of course you want children!" he stated. "And you will give me sons," he smacked her on the a.s.s.

She dropped her head on his chest and hugged him tightly. The light of love he sparked in her heart melted her defiance. She wasn't making him any d.a.m.ned babies. But that was an argument for another time. At the moment she wanted something more. She wanted to be his.

"Today we get your ring. Do you have your pa.s.sport and birth certificate?"

"Yes," she said. She tried to contain her excitement. "I don't want to get married in a church. Let's do it at sea! On the yacht, with the ocean around us."

"Whatever you say, cara. I will visit a friend of mine, one who can expedite things here in France. We will marry. As soon as possible."

"After you propose to me properly." She sat upright. Lorenzo winced. She moved so she didn't crush his legs. "I need a proposal with you on bended knee."

"Knee?" Lorenzo frowned. "You want me on my knees? Che palle!"

Marietta pushed up and stood on the mattress. She crossed her arms and glared down at him. "I want a proper proposal. I want to do it official. And then I will marry you and make you miserable for the rest of your life!"

Lorenzo laughed. He tackled her knees and she screamed. Lorenzo flipped her on the bed. It didn't hurt, but she was surprised by his swift maneuvers. He pinned her beneath him. He held her face. "I will propose on my knees, I will do it in front of the world. And then we buy you the most beautiful dress in France, today."

"Okay," she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm so happy."

"Why are you happy, beautiful? Tell me?" he asked.

"I came to Italy looking for something. I don't know. I wanted to belong, to something, to someone. And I found you." She kissed him shyly and opened her heart to him. "I love you, Lorenzo Battaglia."

He kissed her in return. "Ti Amo, Marietta," he said before slipping inside of her again.

* B *

Mirabella watched her step. It was extremely bright out today. The sunlight b.u.t.tered the trees, flowers, groves and landscape. Every color of the day from the flowers to the trees held such vibrance. Together they strolled along a path that scaled up a hill. The forest grew denser and the breeze felt much cooler. She wore Giovanni's s.h.i.+rt over the top of her summer dress. He walked at her side, his hand holding hers, in just his slacks and bare feet. She feared for his feet. Even in her thong sandals she found the gra.s.s p.r.i.c.kly with rocks and rough patches that caused her to stumble a few times. But Giovanni kept a protective watch over her.

Between Villa Mare Blu and the sea there was a clearing, and on the emerald green land a safely guarded private garden of blue roses. For the first time since she arrived in Sicily she saw his mother's flower, her flower. Whoever cared for the roses nurtured their growth and they bloomed everywhere. No other flower was allowed to thrive within the same vicinity.

The crypt was four feet tall and three feet wide. It was made of grey Italian marble that glistened under the rays of the sun. To the left was a matching marble bench for those who came to visit. Mira took a step forward. She could read the scripture carved into the surface. It said Evelyn 'Eve' McHenry was a beloved daughter, mother, and wife in Italian. Wife? Clearly that was Giovanni's attempt to give her some dignity in death though he could not give her the Battaglia name.

She glanced to her husband. His dark hair was tussled from a whipping breeze with most of it in his eyes. He stared at the grave with not a trace of emotion on his face. His mother's image was preserved in a small cameo picture on the crypt. She was a striking woman with red hair and piercing blue eyes.

Mira removed her hand from his. She stepped to the rose bush, careful of the thorns when she plucked the prettiest bloom. She walked over and placed it on top of the crypt. "Mi chiamo Mirabella. Giovanni's wife. Piacere."

The words felt heavy as they left her heart. Being so close to someone so loved brought forth emotions of her dearly departed mother. What if her mother had lived? What if she had been there for her when she found herself alone at sixteen? Would she and Giovanni have ever met? He says they were destined to meet, but love didn't happen through destiny. Look at Evelyn, stolen from her family so young. Forced into the role of mistress, and then mother. In love with a man who caused her so much pain. Did she consider herself destined for this life?

Giovanni's hands landed on her shoulders. Mira smiled. "We can go. I wanted to pay my respects," she said. "I have."

He kissed the back of her head and then embraced her. "She would have loved you, Mira. And our children. Madre wasn't like the rest of them. She had no prejudice, no envy or spiteful nature. No matter who a person was she loved and accepted them into her heart. That's why my father could never let her go. He told me once that he wanted that love all for himself. I guess I'm like him in that way."

"No, honey, you aren't that selfish."

Her husband sighed. She tried to look back at him but he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He lifted his face. "I can remember how happy my mother was when she was blessed with a girl. From the moment she brought Catalina home my mother was changed."

They stood there for a moment staring at Evelyn's crypt. If she listened hard enough she could hear the soft sounds of the ocean waves breaking across the sh.o.r.e.

"It's beautiful here. Peaceful. Did you do this for her?" Mira asked.

"I did. I told her when she took sick after Patri died that I would bring her body back to Ireland. I'd lay her to rest with her parents, and sisters. She refused. She wanted to be here. Close to Patri and us. She loved Mondello." He dropped his chin on Mira's shoulder and his hands held the lower swell of her belly. "My father's murder broke her. I knew she loved him despite everything. In the end I never understood why."

"They had a complicated love story," Mira said.

"Like us," Giovanni admitted.

"No, not like us. We are honest with each other. We respect each other. And I'm your wife." She brought his arms up to hug her tighter and she hugged him in return.

"I wanted to give her peace," he said.

"You have. One day I want us to go to America. I want to take you to where I grew up. To where my grandparents and mother are buried." She turned and looked up at him. "Would you want to go?"

He touched the side of her face. He stared at her for a long moment.

"Giovanni? Would you want to go?" she asked.

"Yes," he forced a smile. "Andiamo. There is more I wish to show you before Domi and Catalina arrive."

"Shouldn't they already be here?" Mira asked.

Giovanni drew her under his arm and they started to walk away from the crypt toward the path. "Dominic has a thing for the trains. They aren't very pleasant. But since he was a little boy he has loved to travel by train and ferry to Sicily. Especially with Catalina. They'll be here later this morning."

"Oh, okay. Dominic really is a younger brother to you? Isn't he?"

"I raised him to be a man," Giovanni said with pride.

"What about Lorenzo? Where is he? It's been months."

"You will see him soon. He has a new friend. You know how we Battaglia men are when we find that special lady."

Mira laughed. She eased her arm around his waist. "I suppose we'll be hearing wedding bells soon? Another woman married into the family."

"No," Giovanni said abruptly. "It's not that serious. And Lorenzo isn't the marrying type. He's having his fling and tending to business in Europe."

"Okay," Mira shrugged.

They continued on the path lined by roses. A breeze travelled with them and she loved the comfort of his body heat. The walk lasted longer. She moved slower. The boys were up doing the hokey-pokey in her belly. She struggled with masking her discomfort. If he thought she was tired or in need of rest he'd delay his plans for their excursion, and she needed the freedom to be out and about. It helped with her anxiety. They argued less. Mira felt another sharp pang of guilt over how she's treated him. He was such a good, attentive, caring husband. How did she ever get so lucky?

When they returned to the villa they were greeted with silence. She saw a few of his men but they barely spoke. And then she heard her daughter crying. Giovanni stopped and kissed her head. "I'll join you in a minute. Need to make a few calls."

"Okay. I'll see to Eve and then shower. What should I wear?" she called out to him as he walked off. He threw up his hand as if it didn't matter. She smiled and went in search of her baby.

Later Giovanni put his face in the palms of his hands. He calmed himself before he spoke.

"How much is gone?"

"I a.s.sure you, Gio, I have everything under control," Santo said through the speaker system on the phone.

Giovanni wiped his hand down his face. He sat back in his chair. "If you had it under control why did I hear this from someone other than you?"

"Domi-"

"It wasn't Domi!" Gio shouted. "There's nothing you do for this family that's beyond my knowing!" Giovanni believed forty percent of the truth was missing from Santo's tale. "The Mottolas have taken over Chiaiano," Giovanni said. "It happened under your watch. Now answer the f.u.c.king question. How much is gone?"

There was a brief pause before Santo cleared his throat. "The urbanization project. Francesco Mottola now says the region is his and so are the deals we've made. He has several villagers signing over their land to him. I had intended to meet with him to settle the matter, civilly. To challenge him will raise the brow of the other clans. The Camorra is the priority here."

"Mannaggia! Don't lecture me on the Camorra." Giovanni rocked back in his chair. "Che disastro! You had your chance and you f.u.c.ked it over. You f.u.c.ked me over."

"Gio, maybe I should come there. We can sit down and talk about this reasonably. Give me the opportunity to make this right with Mottola without your intervention. I can fix this."

Giovanni looked at Renaldo who stared back, waiting on an order.

Giovanni bit down on his lip. "No one takes from me. For now do nothing. Let Mottola make his move. I expect to see you in two days. Bring me Giuliani." Giovanni ended the call. The news came from an informant in the Mottola clan. The seizure of Chiaiano happened thirteen days ago and Santo hadn't said a word. Which either meant the work he thought they were putting in to settle disputes over the rival clans' thirst for drug trafficking had fallen through, or Santo had another agenda.

"Call in Marco. He's to shadow Santo from now on, and to make sure Giuliani comes to Sicily."

Renaldo stood and walked out. Giovanni checked his watch. He'd been distracted. He'd also been a fool to believe vultures like the Mottolas would not see his generosity as weakness. If he gutted Mottola then that meant he'd inherit his business, drugs and wh.o.r.es would fall under the name Battaglia. That pollution was the very last thing he wanted in his business. He picked up his pen thumping it against the note pad. Lorenzo's warnings against legitimizing the family echoed in the recesses of his mind. His father's hatred of heroin and how it divided the Mafia remained at the forefront of his mind.

"Hi?" Mira knocked on the door. She had changed into khaki brown shorts and a lemon yellow halter maternity top. She looked refreshed from her shower.

"I thought we were leaving?" she asked. "Eve's with Nico and Cecilia. They are taking her to the beach so we can sneak out and she won't see us."

"Yes. Yes." He rose from his desk. "Let's go."

There was a homey sense of familiarity with Mondello. Sweet memories of their motorcycle ride through Chianti, Italy surfaced as she and Giovanni travelled off their land on a single lane highway. Still in two days Sicilia had not replaced Sorrento in her heart.

Mira adjusted the seatbelt. It fastened a bit snug over her middle. Giovanni didn't drive like a man transporting his pregnant wife. Every time he braked, cursed and made gestures at slow moving drivers with his hands, the seatbelt tightened. Several times she grabbed the handle of the car door as he pa.s.sed a slow moving vehicle or rode the b.u.mper of another.

"Can you slow down please?"

He glanced her way. She couldn't see his eyes because of the reflective lens of his sungla.s.ses, but she noticed a sly tilt at the corner of his lips. That expression of his said: I'm having fun, baby, don't question it. So Mira held her tongue and endured his driving for the moment.

"First we visit Porticello near Palermo," he said.

"Really, is it like Mondello?" Mira asked. She stared at the sailboats. Several drifted on turquoise blue waters.

"It's a small fis.h.i.+ng village, yes. Not as beautiful as Mondello."

The car veered off the steep cliff down to an open two-lane highway. For twenty minutes they travelled with the sea to their left and the rocky edge of the mountain to her right. And eventually Porticello crept up on them. She gaped at the approaching little market town. It looked like something from a picture book. The buildings were all stone structures of cream, lemon, melon and shades of pink. With plants and laundry hanging from the windows. Old men sat around card tables gawking at their s.h.i.+ny black sports car moving through their town. A few local men carrying fis.h.i.+ng nets stopped to observe.

"I guess the tourists don't venture here huh?" she asked.

"They do. The villagers recognize my car," Giovanni said, and cast her another sly smile.

Mira should have known her husband's infamy would be felt here. She placed her hand to her belly. She swallowed down the hunger bug when she saw the quaint little eating spots and the open sidewalk produce market. Giovanni navigated the narrow cobblestone streets by taking one-lane alleys. Mira fiddled with a radio station until she found one with music that was pleasing. Of course it was in Italian.

"Do they have festivals here?" she asked.

"Mondello has a few. A windsailing festival that many people love."

"Windsailing?" Mira frowned. "Is it like sail boating?"