He released me, but I could feel him hovering, a man burning up, defying his own nature by lighting up a darkness he was worried I’d be swallowed by. One candle burning in a vast void.
“Mamma,” Ettore said, his voice broken. “Mamma.”
“I am here,” I said in Italian. “It is all right, Ettore. You can close your eyes now. I am here. Do not be afraid. I am here with you.”
“Mamma,” he whispered.
Squeezing his hand, I murmured soft things to him. Words I had given to Mia when she was afraid of the darkness, or Matteo, when it was the two of us, still connected through the nature of me being a woman, feeding him, nurturing him. Being a mother.
The clockticked, a gust of wind blew into the room, chilling my skin, pebbling it with goosebumps and making me shiver. The candle on the mantle undulated one last time before it went out, leaving us all in complete darkness, except for the man who we prayed had gone on to meet the bright, peaceful light.
41
Scarlett
The Faustifamigliahad their own cemetery, and it was the perfect representation of them in life.
The land sprawled for acres and ranged from towering statues of patron saints, some had even erected statues that slept, or angels with mighty wings, to the simplest of headstones, sharing only name and date.
I had no idea when the place had been created, or who initiated its existence. It went beyond my knowledge of the Fausti family, and Brando’s too.
Some of the dates were from the 1800s. Others were more recent. None more recent than Ettore. He’d chosen his place next to his parents.
The burial consisted of only a handful, and his stone was simple but broad. A good representation of how the man had lived his life.
The church service was the opposite. It had been overflowing, all the Sicilian aunts wailing as the coffin had been shut. They even had a designated “smelling salts bringer” who was chosen by the family to not forget them.
Brando had been unusually quiet the entire day, almost snappish in demeanor and response. Though his mood was rough, his touch on me was anything but. I couldn't pry myself away from him if I had tried. Yes, soft in touch but definite in where he wanted me: next to him at all times.
I wasn’t sure if the cemetery itself had caused his mood or if something else nagged at him enough to send him into brooding silence.
It had to be unnerving, though, to be around so many of your own people, a constant reminder of death, your name written on every silent street.
Brando wasn’t a man usually fazed by death. He didn’t fear it, unless it came too close to the ones who meant the most to him. Watching him stand at the graveside, though, I could see that an internal struggle warred inside of him.
Laying a red rose on Ettore’s coffin, and then the ones that belonged to his grandparents and great grandparents, I squeezed Brando’s arm, directing him down another path.
Chatter rose and fell among the mourners, quiet murmurs lingering behind us, some remembering Ettore’s life, others asking questions about the small get-together planned at the estate.
I had a lone rose still in my palm, and I kept it between us as we strolled. We made our way down the lanes of the silent, regarding each one as we passed, soundless ourselves. His footfalls were quiet, as were mine, my heels barely touching the pavement.
We stopped when we came to a place in the sun, a cement bench placed in the right spot for soaking it up. It seemed like a peaceful place to come when someone needed a moment to think.
I wasn’t sure what I needed—to think or to get far away from this place.
For one, Brando’s nervous energy made me antsy.
For two, this cemetery sprawled, hundreds of Faustifamigliasurrounding us, and though they were no longer here, something lingered in the air. Mostly unfinished business, lost dreams, and regrets. For others, a stone-cold silence that made me shiver. A finality that made think of the closing of the casket.
Settling on the cool, hard bench, I watched as Brando moved in front of me, too wound up to sit. He turned to the side, giving me his strong profile, hands in his pockets, eyes on an expansive tomb.
“Brando Fausti.” I read the etching on the stone he gazed at. “Corvo brillante. Brilliant Raven. Were you named after him? Who was he?”
“If I was, no one told me. I have no idea who that Brando is.”
I had asked him once if Maggie Beautiful had named him after Marlon Brando. She was a big fan of his, and being the cinephile that she was, it made sense. Brando had shaken his head and told me that Luca had named him. She had agreed because she loved Marlon Brando and thought it sounded tough—that and she knew her son would be just as handsome.
In actuality, the name Brando in Italian meant brilliant raven, but it also meant fiery torch, beacon. It couldn’t have been more perfect for the man standing before me.
