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 hoping 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.