As soon as Capo turned the bike off, they rushed us. I wasn’t sure who I hugged, who kissed me on each cheek, and who held me at arm’s length, speaking in such rapid Italian that I couldn’t keep up.
Finally, Capo took pity on me and pulled me to his side, taking control of the situation. I was too busy trying to take mental notes, but I think they’d done the same thing to him. When he was able to fight his way out, he latched on to me and started introducing me to everyone.
I’d need another journal to keep track. His mother’s sisters—Stella, Eloisa, Candelora, and Veronica—stood out, since he had brought them up at the restaurant. Capo’s mother’s name was Noemi. I heard Stella tell him that she’d be proud. Then she looked at me.
All of his uncles, cousins…I’d do my best not to mix names up or get them wrong. I noticed that everyone called Capo Amadeo. I wondered why? And then I wondered why he hadn’t given me the choice to call him that. It was either Mac or boss or Capo, but no Amadeo.
The sea of people parted all of a sudden. A hush fell over the crowd. Then an older man came up the line, Candelora helping him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and an old-time suit with suspenders. Even though he struggled, he kept his head up. The undertone of his skin was olive, but the surface was pale, which made him seem sickly. His brown eyes were alive, though, even if the shadows underneath were dark. When he smiled, his silver handlebar mustache twitched.
Capo met his grandfather before he made it to us. The old man slapped at his cheeks and said something too low for me to hear. Capo turned to me and said something back. When the old man finally made it to me, he knocked on the helmet still on my head and I exploded with laughter. I had forgotten to take the damn thing off.
“Let me see you.” He smiled. “Let me see the woman who has chosen to take my grandson as her husband. Let me see if she has a hard enough head to deal with him.”
I took the helmet off, setting it back on the bike, and then turned to face him again.
“Ah! Bellisima.” He took both of my hands, squeezing, while he leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks. “I am Pasquale Ranieri. You can call me Nonno, if you would like.”
“This is Mariposa,” Capo said, trying to keep up with Nonno. His grandfather hadn’t given him the chance to introduce me. “My wife.”
“Not yet!” Pasquale chuckled. “Did Amadeo tell you that I made him wait until June before he could get married?”
I looked at Capo and then at Pasquale. I shook my head. “No.”
Nonno made a dismissive motion with his hand at Capo. “You will be married on the date that I was married. I refused to attend my grandson’s wedding unless he agreed to this. I also refuse to die before then, but this is between me and—” He lifted his face toward the sky.
“I’m sure it’ll be very special,” I whispered, squeezing his hand. It was cold, even in the heat, and nothing but skin and bone, but I liked the way it felt in mine. I liked him. Immediately. He put me at ease.
“Mariposa,” he repeated my name slowly. He watched me for a minute before he smiled again. “Such a beautiful little butterfly.”
15
Capo
She fit in.
It had been a week since we arrived in Modica, Sicily, and the changes in my wife were subtle to others but so pronounced to me.
Instead of questioning her decisions like she had before we left, there was a quiet confidence about her that made her take charge—no more was it “yours.” It was “ours.”
Her laughter was even louder, even freer, than it had been with me. My grandfather ate it up. She made him laugh more than anyone ever did. Except for my mother.
My zie (aunts) had fallen in love with her. They taught her how to cook. They even gave her the secret recipe to the Modica chocolate they were famous for. Cioccolato di Modica. It was a recipe from the 1500s brought to Sicily by the Spaniards, a direct descendent to the Aztec tradition.
My wife would come to me with a huge smile on her face, brown smears all over her skin and clothes. She was as happy as a child who got to play in mud all day. She’d smell of it, too, the chocolate I loved so much. It reminded me of my mother. And it brought me joy to think that she would’ve spoiled Mariposa the same way the zie were.
They were spoiling her with their time and attention. They were treating her as family. Zia Veronica even went after her with a wooden spoon when she tried adding rosemary to her pot of whatever.
One day while I watched Mariposa make a mess with the chocolate, smiling at nothing and everything, I overheard Zia Candelora tell her, “Your parents should have named you after me. You glow like you have eaten an internal flame and your skin is made of wax!”
Zia Candelora was known for her hyperbole, but she wasn’t off her mark. Mariposa was glowing. Her smile was so bright that the gold flecks in her eyes seemed unreal. She was moving in the right direction. While she was, she also had a chance to rest, to truly find peace.
Mariposa slept like the devil was no longer on her heels because she had an angel at her back. I knew how that felt. I once had an angel, too.
At the hottest time of the day, she’d take one of her books, or the reading device, and find her favorite place to be—the hammock between two chestnut trees—and read. She always wore a big floppy hat, and before getting comfortable, she’d kick her sandals to the side. After an hour had gone by, she’d fall asleep with the book against her chest. In New York, she slept, but it was broken, like she couldn’t afford to sleep for more than an hour at a time.
In the evenings, she’d rush back to the villa and come out with my grandfather, the man she called Nonno, on her arm. They’d usually go to his private garden since he couldn’t walk that far. She’d keep the floppy hat on while she got to work. He directed her. He told her to move this plant to another spot, or pick the fruits of that one, or whatever he felt needed to be done. I could hear them laughing together. Every day she’d tell him a new joke.
“Wanna hear a peppery joke?” I heard her say, when she didn’t think anyone else was around. She gave him a few seconds before she said, “Sometimes I’ll order a pizza without toppings. When I’m feeling saucy.”
His laughter rivaled hers.
After the garden was tended to, she’d take a seat next to him, wrap her arm around his, and then rest her head on his shoulder. He’d tell her stories, or read to her, or recite poetry. Some days he’d do all three. My grandfather was a world-renowned poet and novelist. He’d won the Nobel Prize in Literature in the 1970s. His poetry was known for being lyrical and full of passion.
Mariposa’s wild laughter enchanted him, and he had somehow made her fall madly in love with him.
I rarely spent time with my wife since we’d arrived. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Once in a while I’d take her for rides on the motorcycle, or for a walk in the groves, but I gave her the time to get comfortable, to make my family her family. But even when she didn’t think I was around, I was, and I took the time to see her. To see the person that she had always had the potential to become—the child I’d given my life for, and the woman who was now my wife.
Two shadows stretched along the walk. A few seconds later, my uncle and aunt appeared. Tito and Lola. Tito was my grandfather’s first cousin, even though everyone called him uncle. Lola was Marzio Fausti’s sister. Marzio was one of the most powerful and ruthless leaders the Faustis had ever seen. Tito was a doctor, one of the best, and he saw to them personally. He saw to me personally, too. He’d been the angel at my back. And besides my grandfather, he was the only honorable male figure in my world.