We traveled to Palermo for Marzio’s funeral. It seemed like the entire city and beyond was in attendance to pay their respects. I wore a traditional black dress, matching lace mantilla in place to cover my hair.
Instead of one funeral, in a way, I was attending two. My desire and hope gone to heaven with the death of a dream.
During a silent part of the mass, I took Brando’s hand in mine and grasped tight. My eyes were closed when I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “You are in the clear, my husband.”
His hand tightened on mine, the relief palpable. A burdened sinner absolved by a touch of grace.
Though deeper despair was cleansed, another troublesome issue set in—everyone at the funeral sought him out, wanting a word or two, or to make his acquaintance.
“Abbiamo sentito cose buone.”We hear good things.
And that was in the language I could understand. Sicilian was lost on me. Brando grew up speaking both languages—Maggie Beautiful had parents who were from the North and the South. She spoke both languages, thanks to them. Luca—a given.
I knew some of those people were not family, but leaders and other powerful men who belonged to that world. Brando moved me along a few times when my imagination flared. A few men looked exactly like the type to be comfortable securing cement blocks to legs, waving as the body sunk, then having a drink after to celebrate.
When I offered to help in the kitchen, the women gave me wary eyes in response. They were all draped in black, and fierce. Mean manicotti makers who not only screamed “putana” at any female who got too close to their men, but women brave enough to garotte someone threatening their family, and also capable of staunching gunshot wounds.
Ask me how I knew all of this? Call it a premonition.
At least I had experience in staunching wounds. I prayed that I’d never have to do it again.
Brando put us on the first plane back to Tuscany after the services. After arriving back at our villa, he went up to our room to sleep. He hadn’t done much of that as of late.
Maggie Beautiful had gone to Aberto’s. Violet and Mick had gone back to Natchitoches to see the kids back to school. We hadn’t seen much of Uncle Tito and Aunt Lola since his release from the hospital.
We were not alone though. Mitch stayed with us, too afraid to fly yet. He claimed he needed time to build up the courage again. Guards hovered around the villa like murderous watchdogs at all times.
Mitch sat at the kitchen table, watching me. I ditched my heels and switched them out for fluffy black slippers, tying an apron around my waist. Jet circled my legs, so spoiled by my attention that she knew if she were sweet, she’d get a treat.
“Oh, all right,” I said, going to the fridge and pouring her some cream. I set down the jade-green bowl, watching her lap it up.
“Scarlett.”
“Yes?” I looked up to find Mitch staring at me.
“You okay, kid?”
My lip trembled, but I smiled anyway. “Are you up for steak?”
He nodded, eyes still on me. “Yeah. Sounds good. He’d do for one too.” He nodded toward the stairs, meaning Brando. “Red meat settles his blood.”
Rocco had arranged for food to be delivered—enough for the men—and a man to cook it all. Given my mood, I didn’t want anyone in my kitchen. Opening the fridge, I stared into the abyss, tallying exactly what I needed. Fifteen men, fifteen 24-ounce ribeye steaks, blue-cheese butter to set on top, baked potatoes, roasted vegetables, and pasta. It was eaten with about every meal.
That’ll do. And he’ll have nothing to complain about. Oh, wait. He didn’t anymore, did he?
Mitch told me he was going to the gym to work up an appetite. I told him to spread the word that dinner would be done soon. Only a few of the men ate at a time, but they would have to discuss the details amongst themselves.
My hands busied with the familiar routine, my mind occupied by the searing of meat, the wrapping of potatoes, the chopping and seasoning of vegetables, the crumbling of cheese, the mixing of butter. It all came together nicely, and I set the table, asking Mitch to get Brando and whoever else was going to take first string to eat.
“You’re not eating?” Mitch said, a frown on his face.
I removed my apron, hanging it on the peg. “No, I’m going for a walk.”
“Shouldn’t someone go with you?”
“I’ll tell one of the men. They’ll keep watch.”
The frown didn’t fade as I walked away from him, veil still on my head, and fuzzy slippers on my feet.
