Page 83 of The Strength Of A Woman

He never got the chance to see me pick a bride, and I have Giorgio Gallo and Stefano Varela to thank for that.

Had they not set me up and ambushed us, my father would still be alive.

To make things worse, they did it for something trivial that later changed, proving once again that my father was right.

These alliances are weak like twigs.

One snap, and they’re no longer whole.

I think my father would’ve liked Leilani. She is a woman of our world. She knows crime. She’s lived amongst the worst.

Unfortunately, she’s been subjected to it as well.

They have truly done a number on this woman, and now to think that Varela is the best option for her?

Why can’t they just leave her alone?

And if she is Varela’s newest obsession, what the fuck is wrong with him?

I get angry just thinking about these two fools, and don’t start me on Sylvia Gallo.

Why would any woman do to another woman what she’s been doing to her own granddaughter?

I could never understand.

They weren’t more protective of their own daughter, and I bet they now know who has killed her, and they’re still bowing to that man.

I like money and power as much as the next gangster, but I’d never consider doing that.

There’s the line I’d never cross.

The breeze off the sea sweeps over us.

It carries a salty scent and makes her dress reveal the shape of her body.

Long legs, round breasts, hips made to be gripped and worshipped.

I move my eyes from her body to her face, and soak in her profile as she looks in the distance, her nostrils flaring.

She’s like a wild animal tasting freedom for the first time.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks as we walk closer to the sea and stop not far from the water.

“Yes, it is,” I say, not looking at the water but at the warm sunset kiss on her skin that makes her look like a fecund Greek goddess.

I’m sure the Greeks who walked these paths and sailed this sea would’ve stopped, mesmerized at the sight of this woman, convinced she is a goddess.

I’m sure the poets would’ve picked up their quills, dipped them in ink, and written poems about her.

Poems that later would’ve been recited and transferred from one generation to another.

She is more beautiful than the sea.She is the woman I never thought I’d meet.

Men like to talk.

Sometimes, they share unsavory stuff.

Sometimes, it’s things you learn from. I have experienced a lot of that, too.