Chapter 25 #2
The men were more sensitive to women being witches and casting spells.
When we were on Aria Island, all the soldiers had thought Rosaria was haunting the island.
The Fausti family was having trouble keeping the soldiers in the castello they thought she was haunting.
Turned out, it was her living sister who was “haunting” the place.
So…I wasn’t a stranger to women and the lengths they would go to for a Fausti.
Still, Ermanno was bothered by the woman. I wanted him to know he didn’t have anything to be bothered about. Again, my Nonna taught me not to cower to women like her. Did bad things exist in the world? Things meant to cause harm, even to people?
There was no doubt in my mind they did.
My Nonna told me that her not teaching me about bad forces was as irresponsible as her not teaching me to have faith against them.
We might not want to believe these things could exist, but that didn’t make them untrue.
But…the woman and her curses wouldn’t have any power in our lives—I’d make sure of it.
I hadn’t spoken to Rocco about the witchy woman all that much.
What happened in the kitchen was recounted, and with Thanksgiving and the funeral we were headed to, there wasn’t much time to discuss it.
Though, I thought maybe the reason why Rocco didn’t discuss the situation with Ermanno was because maybe he was wary of the woman too.
I leaned forward some, turning the radio down, and faced my husband. His eyes were covered in glasses, and one hand was firmly on the wheel, the other holding mine.
Even what he was doing, something people did every day, took my breath away. Whatever Rocco Fausti did, he did with power and purpose, and he always looked beyond fine doing it.
I reached over and traced the line his hair made behind his ear.
Not a strand was out of place, but my hands ached to touch him, to run my fingers through his silky salt and pepper hair.
He became very still, then a relieved sigh left his mouth.
He lifted my hand to his mouth and placed a kiss over my pulse.
“The woman in the kitchen.” I came right out with it. “Do you know her name?”
A snort came from the back seat. Rocco narrowed his eyes before Ermanno’s father smacked him in the back of the head. Giovanni spoke to him in a sharp voice, something in Italian too low for me to hear. Ermanno sat up straighter, and his eyes hardened.
“Sì,” my husband said. “Ita.”
I looked in the mirror, my eyes meeting Ermanno’s, before he looked away from me.
Ah, that was the issue. Ita probably knew my husband…in that way.
What was new?
“Has she always been so angry?” I asked.
Rocco shrugged.
That seemed to be the only response I would get from him. He didn’t want to touch the situation with a ten-foot pole, not with me in the car.
All right.
I sat up some and turned the radio louder, then watched outside the window as the Italian terrain moved like snippets of movie scenes outside the window.
It would be my first time visiting the region.
Mamma Maria Maria was from Rimini, and Brisighella was where some of my family came from—not far from Rimini.
Rocco said it was only about an hour’s drive.
It was almost hard to believe I’d be walking the same terrain my family had, see the same things they did, maybe even feel the same way they had at one time or another.
I thought of nothing but this to redirect my thoughts from Ita and the situation between her and my husband.
Once we arrived in Rimini, my husband and Ermanno’s father stepped out of the SUV.
Ermanno sat up straighter, fixing his suit. “I do not have much time. I did not have the chance to tell you this before, but I believe the pig witch who killed the captain in the kitchen with her evil spells is the same woman who sent the cinghiale after us the night of the harvest celebration.”
“Are you sure?” I whispered, not sure why.
“I cannot be one hundred percent. I did not see her face that night. It is her voice, Ari. My bones have not forgotten it.”
“Have you told my husband?”
Ermanno nodded seriously. “He was not happy. Angry. He was very angry and concerned. He knows what she is now. An enchantress. There are good witches and bad. You are good, the best, and she is the worst.”
Rocco hadn’t told me that. Maybe because he was worried about the bad witch and I getting into a fight.
“Don’t be afraid of her,” I said. “Do you understand me? Cautious, yes, but not afraid.”
“I am not afraid of her,” he said. “I am worried for you, Ari.” He said it so softly, my eyes burned from his thoughtful words.
I held the tears back, knowing my husband would scent them and think something was wrong.
Before I could reassure Ermanno I could hold my own, Rocco opened my door, giving me his hand.
He helped me out of the car, and I took my spot next to him, ready to begin my duties as the next queen of the Fausti family.
Rocco kept me at his side as he made his rounds. He introduced me to everyone, and the meet and greet gave me hope for the future. Everyone was warm and welcoming, and they seemed to appreciate the fact that Rocco and I had made time to attend Mamma Maria Maria’s small funeral and pay our respects.
I had to admit. The woman looked much more peaceful in death than she had in life.
It looked like a great weight had been lifted, and she had found the rest she so desperately needed.
I wasn’t sure what happened in her life, or what made her the way she was, but no matter what, I was glad she seemed to find peace wherever she was.
Once the funeral was over and Mamma Maria Maria was taken to be buried, her family invited us to eat at their home.
Before we left to share dinner with them, Rocco began speaking to a branch of his family that belonged to the region.
It was all men, and they too seemed to appreciate the fact that Rocco had found the time to pay his respects to someone who lived in their area.
The plan was to visit with the grieving family for a bit, be respectful of their loss and eat a few bites of their food, and after, we would head to where part of my family was from, Brisighella.
When the guests at Mamma Maria Maria’s funeral found out a side of my family was from not far from their home, it seemed I was welcomed even more.
While my husband and Mac spoke to the Fausti men about family business, Mari and I decided to go back into the church.
My husband made sure the entrance and single exit was blocked off by his men. Ermanno, as usual, escorted me inside, taking a seat at the back of the church. He removed his cap, set it over his heart, and slid into a pew before he closed his eyes in prayer.
The church was set in the hills, the inside dim with hundreds of candles swaying with an invisible breath—hundreds of prayers alive within each flame. The smell of incense was strong, along with the smell of preserved bouquets. A mixture of roses and death.
Mari genuflected and slid into the pew before the votive candles. I followed her. Both of our heads were covered in black lace out of respect. We both took a stick from the sandbox (or was it called a match holder and extinguisher?), using lit wicks to light our own.
The entire church was silent except for the crackling of the wicks as the fire slowly burned them down. Hundreds of prayers attached to each glass jar.
I selected a matchstick from the selection in the sandbox, found an unlit candle, and as the wick burned to life, lifted my heart’s desires above. I also lit a candle for Aunt Lola, Uncle Tito, Mamma Maria Maria, and for anyone who loved and would miss her.
Mari lit her own candles.
We both seemed to fade into our own space, the quiet embracing us both.
Our eyes were closed, and we knelt next to one another, rosaries clutched in our hands.
After we both made the sign of the cross, signaling we were done, we sat back in the pew, Mari’s hazel eyes glistening in reflection to the swaying flames.
I clasped the cross around my neck. “I love the music here,” I whispered. “It’s very peaceful.”
She nodded. “This is exactly what I need when I come here—peace and quiet. It reaches my soul.”
I truly enjoyed spending time with Mari.
She was different in her own way, in beauty and personality.
I liked that she and Mac were not blood-related to the Fausti family but were as close as if they were.
They shared a lot of history with the Faustis.
I loved how Mari always tried to make me feel a part of it, like I was always meant to be there.
“I told you that Rocco was one of the first people in the Fausti family I met?” Her voice was barely above a whisper too. “Well…” She looked up. “He was one of the first men I came face to face with and actually had a conversation with.”
I grinned. She was something else. “You did.”
“I had no idea back then what I was getting myself into—or how deep my husband’s connection to them ran. It all turned out okay, better than okay, as you can see, but…the Fausti family can be overwhelming.”
“That they can,” I agreed.
We grew quiet again until she sighed. “Are you ready for all this?” She didn’t gesture to anything, but I knew what she meant.
Was I ready for the life my husband was born into, was deeply a part of?
“Yes,” I whispered without a breath of hesitation. “I knew from the beginning who Rocco is. Who my husband is. I accepted all of him, not just parts.”
She stared off into the distance. “I understand that completely.” She kept her voice at a tender whisper.
“After Mac’s Nonno passed, he was struggling.
I went to Rocco after the funeral, looking for him.
Rocco asked me where I thought Mac was. I knew.
He would be at church. Where else would a man go who needed to be seen but hidden at the same time?
Rocco took me there—the same church we were married in was the same church we said our goodbyes to Nonno in.
Subsequently, the same church all our children were baptized in. ” She sighed.
“Rocco took me to church that day. Inside, the stained-glass windows had never made so much sense to me. They reminded me of my husband. Still do. He tells me now that I’m the metal that keeps the pieces of him together. I’ve created a picture of him from the broken pieces I’ve found.”
She became quiet again, her fingers stroking her rosary.
“Rocco was broken too, and you’re keeping him together with your arms, Ari.
But, when I ask if you’re ready for all of this…
I guess what I really mean is, are you ready to become the lead that keeps his pieces together?
This life isn’t the nicest. It’s made of sharp pieces and crushing blows.
“You’re about to be introduced to his world.
A world that adored Rosaria Caffi.” Mari looked up.
“I’m only speaking the truth when I say this, so I’m not speaking ill of the dead, if it’s like I said…
the truth. The only reason you have her size of heels to fill is because the world loved her voice.
Her life seemed like a fairytale. She had the voice, and she had the man.
Rocco is well-loved in Italy, because he took the time to get to know her people.
He truly means it when he says he is Italy.
“But…I guess what I’m trying to say is this.
You’ll become his hard, I know you will, but I don't want to see your beautiful glass broken in the process. I love you for you, just like Rocco does, and I know the judgment won’t be fair.
Not when people will set you next to Rosaria and only see her for her voice, not the complete truth. ”
I turned forward, my eyes above, my fingers clutching the cross. “I know,” I whispered. “Why do you think I’m here?” I motioned with my chin to the front of the church.
“I’m going to guess for the same reasons we all find ourselves here.
” Her voice was still a whisper. “We long to hide away from a world that sees its own version of the truth in us and places it there, but at the same time, we crave to be seen for who we truly are. And when we are? That’s when we tap into our strength—that’s when nothing else can touch us but our own truth. ”
A flood of light entered the church, along with a cold wind that didn’t touch us or the warmth of the candles. My husband took easy steps to get to me, and when he did, I took his offered hand as he whispered, “Time to go, my wife.”
I held him in my arms then, and he held me in his, and together, we became a mosaic scene, the flames of the candles lighting us from behind.
To the world, our love made the steel that kept the mosaic together.
But the most important take away was this: No matter how the world saw us, the only thing that would ever matter between us was the truth—our love that would one day be written in stone.