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.
Myzie(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 theziewere.
They were spoiling her with their time and attention. They were treating her as family.ZiaVeronica 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 overheardZiaCandelora 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!”
ZiaCandelora 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 calledNonno, 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 feelingsaucy.”
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.
Tito had met Mariposa the night she snuck into The Club as Sierra. When she’d given him Sierra’s name, he knew she was lying. After Mariposa had left, he advised me not to choose her as a bride, especially with what I had planned. She was different and didn’t belong in this life.
I disagreed. Her loyalty had the potential to become ruthless if someone meant me harm. She was exactly the type of queen a powerful king needed at his side.
As Mariposa rose to meet them, I could tell she recognized Tito. Her cheeks flushed a little when my grandfather introduced her as Mariposa, not Sierra. Tito made a joke and she relaxed, laughing. Lola pulled her close, and I winced in sympathy. Her happiness came out in either a crush or a pinch. At least I knew she liked Mariposa. Lola only crushed or pinched the people she was fond of.
“Amadeo!” a soft voice called. “Amadeo!” When our eyes met, Gigi ran toward me, crashing against my chest when she was close enough.
After she was finished hugging me, she messed up my hair. “It is not fair how handsome you are, Amadeo. A beautiful devil.” She grinned. “I know ten of the most famous faces in Hollywood that would kill to beyou.”
“I’m glad you could make it,” I said. Georgina, or Gigi as everyone called her, was a famous actress in Italy, and since I lived in America, I didn’t get to see her that often. “I heard you were somewhere in the French Riviera living it up with some rich prince on his yacht.”
“Yesterday.” She waved a hand. “Today, I am here for you. I had to see this monumental occasion for myself. Amadeo married. What do the Americans say? Hell might freeze under.” She punched me lightly on the arm, and we both smiled. “So, where is she? This woman who has tamed your wild heart.”
“In the garden with grandfather,” I said in Italian. “They sit and talk every evening.”
We both turned to look in that direction.
Mariposa stood, a hand shielding her eyes, trying to see us better. I suppressed my grin. She had no idea that I’d been watching her, but when Gigi was loud enough to attract attention, she must’ve noticed the two of us. She didn’t seem to like it.
“Amadeo,” Gigi said, and it seemed like she had called my name before.
“Ah?”
She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “She is pretty, but not what I expected.”
“No?” I spoke in Italian. “Who did you expect?”
