Brando was Luca Fausti’s son, as I was. It was said that my father could walk through a hail of bullets and see the other side of them. One man stated that he collected the bullets and sent them flying back as if they were arrows instead of balls of lead. We were not easy men to kill, even by our own blood.
However, after the impassioned speech Brandohad given at my table, we all held the secret to his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. His wife. It would not be long before our family sniffed out this vulnerable spot inside of his chest and attempted to rip it out.
Perhaps his entire heart.
My grandfather sat his fedora on his head as he invited me to walk next to him along the trails that led to different sections of his property. It seemed as if his mind had already pointed him in a direction. We took the path that led to his tomato plants. The red fruit was plentiful, and his eyes grew bright at the size of them. A tender wind blew past us, and the spicy, earthy scent was so strong, it would cling to the fibers of our suits as cologne would once we were backinside.
“Finalmente,” he said. “Pomodori!”
He said this as one would say, “I have created fire!”
“Trouble with the tomatoes then, Nonno?” I asked.
“Ah,” he made aso-sonoise. “The plants will give me such plentiful bounties such as these, and other times—ah.” He shrugged. “Pasquale tells me I must sing to them, but he is a poet. I tell them I will cut them down and move them if they do not do as I say. Produce fruit. You see. They do as I say.”
He was referring to Mac’s grandfather, the poet, Pasquale Ranieri.
Nonno removed his jacket, setting it on a bench across from the tomatoes, and rolled his sleeves up. He picked two of the ripest tomatoes. He handed me one and took the other for himself. He bit into his first and shook his head. I almost did the same thing.
“Perhaps singing the order to them will make them sweeter,” he said.
I agreed.
“This is the truth aboutpomodori,” he said. “They are not a pushover fruit, ah? Look how they react in a hot pot. They fight back. Ah, well. Nature. This is why she is a woman. She can get away with being wayward.” He nodded to the bench. “Set your jacket there. Grab the two baskets. Harvest the fruit. Agata is a witch in the kitchen. She will entice them to be sweet for our dinner.”
We filled the two baskets and then he invited me to take a seat next to him on the bench. I wiped sweat from my brow with the inner side of my wrist. Neither of us had gotten any dirt on our suits, but we each had some streaks on our hands and underneath our nails. We might have been raised in ancientcastelliand wore custom suits, but Nonno demanded that we kept close to our roots, whether the sun made us sweat or we felt the dirt that carried our boots beneath our feet.
My grandfather stared at the basket of tomatoes. “Your fathergave up his life, our way of life, for the woman in America. I have never spoken about it with you, but it is time.”
I did not say anything. This was our way.
“My son had a son with her. Your brother. Who you now know as Brando Piero Fausti. He was not born into our ways, but I sense that our blood is strong inside of him. I will meet him and be the judge of this. However, your uncles are uncertain of his timing. Brando has never been proud of our name. All that he does, he does according to his own law. The space between his heart and our name is between your father and him. I will not get involved in that. Your father had a son with the woman and then allowed him to run free. A man of our blood needs to be tethered to our name to become the man he is meant to be.” His eyes moved from the basket to the mountains in the distance. “What lies between them lies between them.”
He used his inner wrist to wipe droplets of sweat from his brow, just as I had. “You were created to be a solider, my grandson. A prince. A king. You were raised in our life. You have sacrificed for it. I will acknowledge this. However, I have found truth to be harsher than a sword against flesh at times. This is our way. The only way I know. The only way you know. My ruling is this: I will decide after I meet your brother and his wife whether I will allow him access to his birthright. If I do, our rules will be his if he decides to challenge my son, or you, for the position of our future king. For your father’s sacrifices, even though he has dishonored our family, I have allowed him to make the choices regarding his family in America all these years. All that he has done for them, he has done out of love, out of the romance we regard so highly.
“Ettore has never agreed with this, and he does not now. He is becoming possessed with the thought of Luca’s estranged son taking his position. That will all play out on the stage of life. You and I will be either an active member of the cast or a person who has a seat in the audience.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I do not wish to speak of Ettore now, but of you, my grandson. You decided on thesongbird as your wife to fulfill your duties to this family. I have met your wife. Danced with her. She is beautiful, but she does not possess the capability to be all your romantic heart desires. Even a flat man, one who does not fizzle with ourromanticoways, can see the truth where the relationship between you and your wife is concerned. This is the sacrifice we make for our family, ah? We trade one desire for another.
“However, your brother has it all: he has choices in a family he has never claimed, and a woman who is worthy of a war, or so you tell me. But you, Rocco Piero, were created to be a part of this family, no matter your place in it. Remember that and do not allow anything or anyone to sway you. You have always wanted this family. Allow it to be your guiding force when a love your brother has cannot be yours. I have done this after the loss of my heart. I have lived for a different heart. We Fausti men are born into this world with two. The one we carve out for the woman we love. The one we keep— the one that roars inside of our chests. The echoes of times that we have inherited from ourfamigliaspeaking to us in an ancient tongue. Remember who you are and what you were created for—an everlasting vow. This life. Our life.” He balled a fist and hit it against his heart. “La mia parola è buona come il mio sangue.”
I hit my chest, just as he did, touching the tattoo across my pulse.“La mia parola è buona come il mio sangue,”I repeated, feeling the truth in those words warm my chest.
He nodded,finale. “You will stay here with your uncle and sort the details of our meeting with your brother. When the details are finalized, then, and only then, will you leave.” He stood, and I stood after him.
“Sedersi,”he ordered. He put his suit jacket back on and then picked up the two baskets with ease. “I will take these to thecucina.Agata will be glad to have them for dinner.”He glanced at them. “Perhaps.”
I took a seat, as he had ordered me to, watching him leave. He serenaded the tomatoes as he disappeared, his deep baritone as impressive as any man in the Caffi line. Even afterNonno had gone, it seemed as if his voice lingered behind him, stuck in that space of time with me. Entangled with the dirt on the ground and the heavy rays of sun beating down on me from an Italia sky. Mixed in with the spicy scent of tomatoes and the scents of two Fausti men—one cutting me with the sword of truth while my body absorbed the impact as it always did, without a shudder or flinch at the pain it had caused.
Sighing, I leaned over some, staring at my hands, at the dirt on the ground, at the hidden roots of thepomodori. Sweat ran from my temples and fell to the ground as if it was raining, mixing with the blood of the fruit.
The chain around my neck, the one with the lion pendant, stood out against it all. My carved-out heart had been preserved.
My grandfather was not plainly speaking to me. He was speaking to me in a language we shared. It was both ruthless and romantic, and I understood it without him having to explain it in laymen’s terms.
My older brother was conceived out of love.
My brothers and I were made from duty. Out of expectations. We were born to serve the family.
My older brother would get the king’s feast, while I received whatever was left over, even if I had set the food at the table.
