“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.”