Damiano nods. He pulls back onto the road.
"Lorenzo wants your grandfather's land to expand his operations. He's got a good thing going with the winery already, but my brother's ambitious."
"Doesn't it interfere with his other activities?"
A wry grin twists my husband's lips. "You mean his mafia activities?"
It's the first time Damiano has acknowledged his family's involvement in the mafia so openly. It’s a relief that the pretence has been dropped. Taken aback, I don't know what to say.
"Well, uh, yes."
"He's not as involved as he used to be," Damiano says. "Since he bought the vineyard he's been gradually pulling back. If he makes a go of it with Lucia, I imagine he'll have even less to do with our business."
"You can't pull back too?" I know the Volante family control a vast legitimate empire as well as a criminal one.
He smiles tightly. "I don't have that luxury. My brothers get to live as they please because I'm here to run things."
For the first time I see the burden he shoulders. He accepted this life for the sake of the people he loves and there’s not a trace of bitterness in his voice. There’s something sad about that. He sacrifices so much for others and asks for little in return. I reach across and put my hand on his thigh, offering some small reassurance. He looks at me in question but doesn't tell me to remove it.
We drive a couple of miles farther down the road and pull onto a narrow, dusty driveway. The house, when we reach it, is large and obviously old, judging by the weathered façade. Everything is neat and tidy but the flower beds are bare. The place is looked after but not loved. I know how that feels.
When we get out of the car, a woman comes out to greet us.
"I'm Signora Bellucci," she announces with an air of formality. She reminds me more of Gianni than Lina. At leastseventy years old, she's thin and pale in a black dress signifying widowhood. It does nothing for her sallow complexion.
As she leads us through the hallway, I slow to look at the pictures on the wall. I assume the couple featured in most of them are my grandfather and grandmother. Their poses are stiff, as if these are official portraits, but in most of them their eyes are sparkling, as if they're not taking things entirely seriously. There are also photos of a young boy who has my cheekbones. My father, I assume, when he was a child.
I keep walking.
We're shown into a small sitting room with large windows letting in a flood of light. My grandfather is already on his feet. For a ninety-year-old, he looks surprisingly robust. I suppose working the land does that for a person. He greets Damiano first, looking him dead in the eye as he shakes his hand.
"Damiano Volante," he says gruffly. There's an air of toughness about him and I see already why Lorenzo has had trouble persuading him to sell. "I'm Alberto Ricci."
"It's good to meet you, Signore." Damiano shows him the respect due to an elder.
His gaze softens when it lands on me.
"Violetta." His eyes glisten with obvious emotion, but he makes no move to embrace me — something I'm grateful for. "My beautiful girl. Please, sit."
I take a seat on the sofa, leaving room for Damiano, but he doesn't join me. He's looking at the photos on the shelf by the fireplace. Three of them are of me at various points in my childhood. I draw in a sharp breath and raise a hand to my chest. He watched me grow up from a distance, took care to preserve these moments I don’t even remember. Yet he never once knocked on our door. I don’t know how to feel about that.
"My way of keeping you close," my grandfather explains.
There's a moment of awkward silence, the air loaded with tension. I want to say so much to this man but I don't know where to start.
"I'd like to take a look around," Damiano says. That catches me completely off guard. I expected him to stay by my side. "If that's okay with you, Signore Ricci?"
"Yes, yes, but stay away from the goats. They don't like strangers in fancy suits."
For the briefest of moments, I think I see panic flicker across Damiano's face. Could the big bad mafia boss be afraid of a few goats? It hardly seems possible. He comes to press a kiss to my cheek.
"You've got this," he murmurs before turning to leave. His certainty that I can handle myself steadies more than I care to admit.
My grandfather watches him go with no small amount of mistrust before taking a seat in the armchair opposite me.
"Dario is a weak man," he says, contempt dripping from every word. "He had everything he needed in life but couldn't hold onto any of it. I told myself it wasn't my fault he turned out that way, but I failed him. When he lost his way I was too much of a coward to confront him."
"What do you mean, lost his way?"
