“Excellent,” I said. “Tell me who she is.” One step closer to going home—after I had Alcina to bring with me.
“He does not know,” he said. “He left it up to me.”
The entire table stared at him, no one longer than me. He stared back, not caring one way or another. He got to work on his plate as soon as the young girl set it down. She relaxed some when he thanked her.
“You leave tomorrow for Bronte,” he said. “You will not loaf around Italy any longer on some fool’s quest.” He patted his mouth with a napkin. “The pistachio harvest will begin soon. You will work.”
“Fool’s quest,” I repeated. If Silvio had told him, I’d kill Silvio. This was between the two of us. I refused to allow my grandfather to stop me.
He nodded. “That is what I would do,” he said, setting his glass down, “if I found out who my father was and wanted to kill the family who deprived me of him. But things are not always clear in life, ah? Sometimes we must have patience to find out where we’re going, when we have just found out where we’ve been.”
He took another bite. I was torn between watching him and watching the men at the table, who were rising from their seats.
“You will go to Bronte, and by October, you will be a married man,” Tito continued. “This will please your grandfather. Her name matters none—or does it?”
I heard him, but my eyes locked on the son, who was walking toward the door. We stared at each other until he left. “No,” I said, absentmindedly. “It doesn’t.”
“Bene,” Tito said. “We will go in the morning.”
Neither Giuseppe nor Angela looked at me as they walked toward the kitchen after the men left. Her hand reaching out for her husband’s shoulder was the last thing I saw before the doors closed behind them.
6
Corrado
Bronte was around an hour and a half from Forza d’Agrò, and the town was known for its pistachios. “I’Oro della Sicilia.” Or,Sicily’s gold. Mount Etna towered in the distance, smoke coming from its mouth, the town lying at its feet. Lava rock was scattered from eruptions. The trees grew right out of it.
Tito told me that was why the pistachios were compared to gold, because of the volcanic soil. “It is rich,” he said, as he pointed out of the window at some areas of land filled with more trees at the foothills. “It is calledsciara.”
Nunzio drove us down an old dirt road that had worn-in tire tracks. Men and women walked the fields with straps around their necks, red buckets at the ends. Some were in the distance standing on lava rocks, balancing as they reached for the fruit along the branches. More workers walking along the road stopped and watched as we passed.
“The festival will take place in October this year,” Tito said. “Fabrizio appreciates the help. His family has owned this land for generations. It is passed down.”
“His last name?” I said, watching as a large villa in the distance grew closer. It was tan stone with green shutters and a dark, wooden front door.
“Pappalardo,” Tito said.
I didn’t even ask if Fabrizio Pappalardo knew why I was here. Tito knew better than to tell him. There were a few people who would pay a lot of money for the information.
Tito pointed behind the main villa. “There are places for the workers to stay during the collecting months. You will take an apartment.”
“We must stay close,” Nunzio said, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Sì.” Tito nodded, his wide-brimmed cap dipping with the motion. “I arranged this.”
“Can we eat the pistachios?” Adriano stared at all of the buckets filled with the green gold of Sicily. “Or are they like olives straight from the tree? Tried that once and spit it clear across the field after I fucking did. Big,huge, mistake.”
“Life is a gamble,” I said.
Fabrizio Pappalardo was waiting in front of the villa as Nunzio pulled up and parked. Pappalardo was around my age, maybe a little younger, and in work clothes. He was pointing at a bag filled with pistachios that had “Pappa”stamped to the white fabric in red, telling one of the workers to bring it somewhere.
If he noticed what kind of men we were, he didn’t outwardly show it. I was here for a reason, so I blended, leaving the suits and ties in New York. But when he saw Nicodemo, who never left the suits and ties at home, I wondered if he would take notice and start to ask questions. Then again, being connected to Tito could come with its questions, too.
Or not.
If Fabrizio had lost a few workers due to illness or accident, Tito was the kind of man who would recommend men he knew needed the work.
After Nicodemo stepped out of his car, he shook hands with Fabrizio, so they seemed to know each other. Nicodemo nodded at me before he entered the villa.
