Chapter Thirteen Raffa #3
“Dante and Beatrice’s church,” she breathed, turning to look at me with eyes filled with starlight. “You know, I kicked myself when I went home for not making the time to visit.”
“Well, we are here now,” I said through a dry throat. “It is not much, really, but I think the historian in you will love it nonetheless.”
She followed mutely as I held the heavy wooden door open for her to slip inside. It was midafternoon on a Wednesday in the offseason, so the small, humble church was not busy. Only three other people gathered at the back of the last pew, an elderly woman in mourning black with two preteen boys.
I shifted a hand to Guinevere’s low back as we walked down the aisle to the front of the church.
It was very minimal, as many small Italian churches were: whitewashed walls, small wooden pews, scant decor with only a stone tomb and tall wood cross to mark the altar.
It meant the eye was drawn immediately to the painting done by a British artist of a scene from Dante’s Inferno that hung on the back wall.
The true item of note, though, was the large wicker basket beside the stone tomb that read Pietra Tombale di Beatrice Portinari.
The tomb of Dante’s beloved Beatrice.
The basket was filled with handwritten letters locals and tourists alike had been leaving for centuries.
“You know, apparently she isn’t even buried here,” Guinevere whispered as she took in everything like it was dripping with gold and jewels. I knew to her the history and lore were what made it priceless.
“She is most likely entombed in Santa Croce,” I agreed. “With her husband’s family. But it is more romantic to think that the same church Dante was married to another woman in might also be the resting place of his eternal love.”
Guinevere hummed her agreement, drifting over to the wicker basket.
“It’s so . . . full,” she mused, looking up at me. “People really still leave her letters.”
“They say if you write your deepest wish, Beatrice will grant it. Can you blame people for seeking out their dearest desires in any way they can?” I asked.
Her lids shuttered as she turned away, letting a sheaf of dark hair curtain her expression as she peered down at the basket again.
I left her to it in order to cross to the pulpit, where a stack of papers and envelopes waited alongside a donation box. After depositing a fifty-euro bill into the box, I took what I needed and returned to Guinevere, who was seated in the pew in front of the tomb.
She frowned as I extended the stationery and a pen to her.
“Your life has been complicated of late. I thought this place might bring you enough peace to parse out what your deepest desires are now. Beyond the chaos of myself, your issues with your father and his control, what is it that Guinevere Stone truly wants?”
Her eyes glimmered in the low light, reflective black pools under a waning moon. I could not read anything in them even though I tried.
Silently, she took the parchment from me and crossed her legs to write on her thigh.
I took my own piece of paper and pen back to the pulpit and stood behind it like a macabre farce of a priest, bent to write a different kind of sermon.
It did not take long to make my wish to Beatrice.
Desidero solo l’amore di Guinevere e la sua sicurezza.
I wish only for Guinevere’s love and safety.
It felt important to manifest that in sight of the fact she might be gone from me for good before too long. I did not have to wish for the love and safety of my family because I would always have a way to influence that.
If Guinevere decided to go home to America, all I would have remaining in my power would be wishes and prayers to protect her.
And perhaps a few well-placed soldati to keep an eye on her for the rest of her life.
I waited for her to be finished with her longer letter, then watched as she licked the envelope closed and carefully placed it at the top of the basket. I followed suit, dropping my own beside hers.
“Do you believe in this?” she asked as we turned in tandem to leave. “That Beatrice or the universe might actually grant you what you want just because you wrote it down here and now?”
“No,” I mused as I held the door open for her again, checking over my shoulder to see that Philippe was doing as I’d asked and collecting Guinevere’s note from the basket.
“I told you, I believe in no god but myself. Still, it is good practice to put what you want out into the ether. You never know what might come of it.”
“I agree,” she said as we stepped into the narrow road and I led us toward one of my favorite sandwich shops, l’Girone de’ Ghiotti.
“Dante himself wrote, ‘Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us. It is a gift.’”
“So you believe in fate?” she asked, her hand brushing mine as she swayed a little closer to me.
I reached out with my pinky to brush hers purposefully.
“It is the reason I am what I am today. Who my father was and what he did meant that even when he died, he had placed my family in a treacherous situation. Do you know what the new capo dei capi does to the family of the previous leader of the Camorra in Italy, mia dolce cerbiatta? They murder his family so there will be no one to contest his reign.”
Her head snapped to face me, mouth agape in shock. “That’s barbaric.”
“We are barbarians in suits.” I shrugged. “This has been our way for centuries. It was stupid of me to think it would ever be different just because I willed it to be.”
“That’s why you returned from London.”
“Certo. I had never wanted anything to do with the Camorra, but how could I leave my mother and sister to the wolves?” I had not wanted to share this with her, but the stakes were so low now. She had already rejected the man I was—it could do no harm to explain the true terrors of my world.
“What about an amicable transfer of leadership?” she asked. “What if someone like Leo or Renzo had taken over?”
My laughter was hollow and hard, spent shell casings at our feet.
“That is not how things are done. You take power either through blood right or by blood. Even if we had wanted to do things peacefully, it would have upended the hornet’s nest. Men would have felt shunned or angry that they were not chosen, and angry mafiosi argue with their fists and guns and knives.
My family still would have been forfeit in the ensuing power struggle. ”
“Barbaric,” she murmured again, obviously horrified by the practice. “So you always knew you would go back. England was just a brief reprieve.”
“Yes and no. I had suggested to my father that he adopt Leo,” I confessed, rubbing a hand over my mouth wearily.
“Leo was raised by his mother’s brother after her death, and Tonio happened to be my father’s consigliere, his right-hand man.
He took to the life like a duck to water.
By the time I had made my first kill, Leo had made a dozen.
My father loved him like a son, admired him more than his real son.
” My smile was flat and warped on my face, like hammered metal. “It would have made sense.”
“But?”
I sighed as we turned the corner to the sandwich shop. “But nothing is so simple. My father was a man of tradition, and most Italians do not like change. Why should he adopt Leo when he had a son who could do the job, as was my birthright?”
“But you didn’t want it.”
I wondered if she noticed the parallels, though my stakes were so much higher, between her relationship with her father and my own.
Both had wanted us to follow paths we did not truly want to walk, and we had both succumbed to the pressure. Guinevere had a chance to rebel, but it seemed she would not take it. I was the last person who should be able to judge her for that.
“That did not matter to my father,” I said with a bitter twist of a smile before I turned slightly to face her just outside the shop.
“I am who I am because of the way the world made me. You might see blood on my hands, but I wish you could see that they have never held anyone as tenderly as they have held you.”
“Raffa,” she murmured. “It’s just not that simple.”
“No, nothing worth fighting for ever is.”
“I want you to know,” she said, taking one of my hands between both of hers, clutching it tight as if she did not want to let me go.
“I do not think you are a monster, no matter what you say or how much you try to scare me away. I may have fallen in love with only some part of you, but I realize now that was the best you had to offer me. Knowing what I do now, I can say you let me fall in love with your soul, and it’s as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen. ”
“Even bloodstained as it is?” I asked, because it hurt to hear her say the words but not follow them up with any apologies or promises to stay, to love me still.
“Red is your favorite color,” she retorted with a wry grin. “And it’s definitely growing on me too.”