After we arrived at the villa, we went inside and checked the property. The outside looked newer than it was. The inside reflected its true age with frescoes on the ceiling and common Italian materials, such as hand-painted tiles. The place had been kept immaculate. The house had a feminine smell to it, as if a woman had just cooked a dish with fennel, and the anise, perhaps licorice, aroma lingered in her kitchen. Perhaps on her hands and in her clothes, like perfume.
Our things were brought in ahead of us and waited in our respective rooms. Donato took his phone and went to his room, where he planned to touch base with Guido, who waited with the men closer to the landing strip. I poured myself a glass of red wine and went outside. The pool reminded me of an alcove, the water true blue highlighted by lights, shimmering with the sea breeze.
It was not the pool that had stolen my attention, but what lived beyond it—the sea. I heard its voice in the breeze and closed my eyes, absorbing all it had to say to me. It was a gentle whisper. A lover’s voice caressing my skin, as her cool arms would do comemorning when I found my respite in her soothing rocking. I never truly swam but floated.
A reminder.
There was something out there bigger than me. Something that could carry me with ease. Something that could remind me that my problems were minuscule, especially if she turned testy and decided to take me out too far.
Donato met me outside.
“There is no food inside,” he reported. “Shall we dine out?”
“Sì.”
I had been to Trapani before. I had been over every square inch of Italy. It was my honor as a Fausti to explore the land that had nurtured me, sheltered me, and grown me from its roots. To get to know each regions’ people and record them in the book of my mind was a great joy. Because all of Italy belonged to me. Just on my father’s side, I had Northern and Southern blood. My family was known to saywe are Italy.
Sì, this was true. However. I did not always pay as much attention to each city, village, and commune as I could have. There were many, and even though I could speak both Italian and Sicilian, I yearned to know more about Trapani and its people beyond what I already knew.
Trapani exists on the coast of Sicily, and is known as a fishing port, its waters fertile and exotic. In the glow of the fresh morning sun, the colors would give it life, but Italians were late diners, and the city would come alive with a different feeling after dark.
Donato and I decided to dine at atrattoria, choosing to dineal fresco, and ordered a feast while we talked about the arts. We rarely discussed business while eating. And this trip was not for business, per se.
Donato did mention flying to America with my uncle, Ettore, to visit my father in prison there. We were not allowed to see him. Our grandfather’s rule. My father seemed to agree with it. Ettore would take my men every so often with him for the trip. However. I spoke to my father at least once a month. He refusedto be left out of any family business, even though Nonno had decided to leave the family to Ettore instead of my father, who was the oldest son. My father had shamed the family by killing a woman and her unborn child while driving under the influence of alcohol in America.
Though the situation did not always sit right with me. We were told one thing, and were always silent about the truth of it, though I questioned the entire truth of it deep inside of my heart. I had always felt there was more to the story, branches of the truth that had been cut off and shredded into pieces. The reality of the situation my father was in was not a lie, but the facts of it were being left out on purpose.
The owner of thetrattoriacame out to speak to us before we left, and our plates proved how much we had enjoyed the food. Every bite had been taken, and all the sauces sopped up with bread.
We took a casual walk after, and then returned to the villa for the night.
The chasm night brought had swallowed me inside of its void, and I returned to thecucinafor a glass of red wine before I settled outside by the pool, staring up at thesky. It was filled with more stars than thoughts in my head. I allowed the night to carry me with it, until the next morning, when I allowed the sea to rock me in her gentle arms.
Closing my eyes, I rested them while the sun beat down on my face and I felt refreshed enough to face the day.
Donato and I took breakfast and espresso together, and the look on his face was solemn as he drove me to town, where we switched the Ferarri for an off-road vehicle. I repeated the address on the slip of paper Monica had given me the morning I left her bed andCastello di Ballerini.The paper was tucked into my coat pocket, but I had memorized the words on it.
As good of a soldier as Donato was, he was an even bettercugino, as he asked no questions but seemed to understand the severity of what I was about to do. I did not know what possessedme to come, or what had possessed Monica to give me the information, but I followed without thought. It was as if the waters of my life were about to deliver me to a shore—an unknown one with life that belonged to me but also did not.
The off-road vehicle rocked violently as we climbed up a crude road, one just wide enough for the car, and at the top, looking over the city, was a place that looked as if it were built hundreds of years ago from all that the earth around it had to offer. Bells jingled in the distance. A herd of goats. Their shepard was amid them with his dog, lifting a stick made of a fig branch as he directed them where to go.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, the shepard’s eyes narrowed on me, but he did not rush to meet me. He dealt with his goats before he came ambling up to us with the dog. He gave it a command in Sicilian to stay.
“I do not have another daughter,” he continued in the same language, “so be gone, the both of you.”
Donato cleared his throat and spoke in the same language. “What was your daughter’s name?”
The old man narrowed his eyes at us. He was tall, and at one time, probably had wide shoulders. He was sunken in, and his green eyes had turned dull, not even the sun causing them to spark with life. Wrinkles creased his face, and his hands were gnarled from arthritis. His back was crooked, and his clothes were that of a man who worked with livestock.
His narrow-eyed gaze did not stay on Donato but me. He slowly looked me up and down, his gaze catching on my eyes and stilling there, and his Adam’s apple bobbed with something he found. Something he had been missing.
“Leonarda,” he said, his voice cracking on the name. “Leonarda Maria Costa was her name.”
“Was,” I repeated.
He nodded solemnly, rubbing his chin. “She drowned ten years ago. She lived closer to the city, her home overlooking thesea. She did not prefer the company of people. She was alone at the time of her drowning.”
Donato cleared his throat. “Do you have a picture of her?”
