Chapter Twenty-Three Guinevere
Chapter Twenty-Three
Guinevere
The woman standing by the edge of the vineyard just off the kitchen terrace looked so much like my sister Gemma, that for a moment I thought she was a ghost. Or worse, that she might still be alive, waiting for my touch to bring her back home.
She turned seconds later, sensing me, maybe, as I came up the path from the makeshift shooting range where Martina, Carmine, Raffa, and I had practiced shooting for the last two hours.
I was sweaty, still in the workout clothes Raffa had fucked me in hours earlier because he had taken me directly to the range to learn how to properly shoot pistols, rifles, and, just for fun, a vintage revolver that Tonio had once given him as a present.
This was how my mother saw me for the first time in my element: sweat-slicked, bruised at the neck by a love bite from my capo, walking with the men and woman who made up most of the family I’d found for myself in Italy.
It wasn’t the worst image.
In fact, I found myself wishing Mom had a camera so I could ask her to capture the new me.
“Hi, Mom,” I called instead, breaking into a jog when her response was to hold her arms open for me.
I threw myself into them, squeezing tight as I buried my face in her freesia-scented blond hair.
“Hi, sweetie,” she murmured as she clutched me right back.
Even though I had spent a few hours with my parents when we’d returned to the villa after the rescue, there was still so much to resolve between us.
There had been long-awaited explanations, tears shed, and some shouting, but the conversation had been like lancing an infected wound.
It had hurt just as much as it had been necessary to heal.
We held each other for a long moment, and when I tried to step away, she pulled me in even closer with a broken whisper of “When you left without a word, I thought we might not see you again, but when Raffa called your father and told him you were in trouble? I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things left unsaid between us.
About how wrong we had been in keeping you from the truth.
I wondered if losing you to this life was some kind of karma. ”
My heart ached at the worry she must have felt, even though she’d been complicit in lying to me too.
“You could have told me everything,” I said when she finally loosened her hold enough to let me step back, even though she still held my hands. “You should have told Gemma and me all of it a long time ago.”
Mom sighed, dropping one of my hands to usher me into the vines. I looked over my shoulder for Raffa, who watched me from the terrace over a cup of water and inclined his head as I walked away.
He was the one who had encouraged me to talk things through with my parents.
“You have already lost too much,” he’d said. “All of you have.”
I wondered what Gemma would have thought of the mess Mom, Dad, and I found ourselves in, and decided she would have loved it. Chaos was her happy place, and truth was her comfort.
“I told Gemma about my own life somewhat,” Mom said as she trailed her fingers along the vines.
This section had already been harvested, so only leaves remained.
“I told her my people were winemakers,” she continued. “I have always been proud of that. Albania is one of the oldest producers of wine in the world, did you know that?”
I smiled slightly. “You may have told me once or twice when Dad got cocky about his wine knowledge.”
She laughed, and I realized I looked like her a bit when she did, in the lines beside her eyes and the scrunch of her nose.
“It was much less dangerous for Gemma to go to Albania than it was for either of you to come here. My family did some work with the local Mafia when I was a girl, but we weren’t powerful or well known. Not like your father and his family.”
It still blew my mind that Dad was a Pietra. That he’d killed and stolen and lied, all elements he had raised his daughters to abhor.
“Again, if you’d told us, we might have made different decisions,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But we didn’t realize you were so headstrong. Our mistake.”
“Gemma was too,” I reminded her. “I’m surprised she didn’t visit Italy too.”
It would have been just like her to go to the country our father hated just to prove she could do whatever the hell she wanted.
“She didn’t, and she still died,” Mom murmured, twisting a grapevine between her fingers.
I pressed into her side, so she lifted an arm to curl it around me.
“I miss her all the time,” I confessed. “Being here . . . it makes me feel closer to her. She always encouraged me to break out of my shell and explore. She would be proud of me, I think.”
Mom sighed again but pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “She would. As am I.”
I frowned, tipping my head back to look up at her, and found her beautiful face was more solemn than I had seen it in years, since those months I’d spent so sick in the hospital.
“I know you don’t understand why we kept all this from you, but we had our reasons, and they were justified, if a little misguided. Your life has already been so difficult, sweetheart. Unlucky as you’ve been in health, we thought to spare you from the dangers of your dad’s past life.”
I could understand that, even if I didn’t like it. Not having children of my own, I could not begin to comprehend what it must be like to want to keep them safe.
I only know how I felt about Raffa. The lengths I would go to in order to protect him.
There was no limit on that, and so there must have been no limit on what my parents would do to protect Gemma and me.
“I get that,” I told her. “But that doesn’t change what’s happened. I came to Italy, and I found myself here. I won’t be going back with you.”
Mom laughed a little, surrendering. “Yes, your father told me you’d said that. Even with the danger, Jinx? Is he really worth being . . . tortured as you were?” Her smooth, cool hand cupped my cheek. “Is it really worth knowing you could die because of him?”
“Yes,” I said simply. “When life isn’t worth living without him.”
She sucked a breath in between her teeth, eyes shining. “Oh, damn. Why did you have to go and have your father’s heart?”
“Dad’s?” I asked, surprised. “I used to think we were so much alike, but now . . . it feels like we are strangers.”
“Oh no,” she corrected, taking my hand to walk along the vines again.
“Your father fell in love with me when he started to travel to Albania to do business with the Mafia there. He told me it was love at first sight the day we met at my parents’ vineyard, where he was having lunch.
We both knew we could not be together, but your father didn’t care.
He told me he would move heaven and earth to be with me, and he did.
When I found out I was pregnant with Gemma, he decided to give up everything he’d ever known to keep his new family safe.
We left for the US two weeks after I handed him the pregnancy test. He never spoke to anyone from his old world again, but I knew it had to have pained him.
He never seemed to regret it, and he never made me feel guilty for his sacrifice. ”
My chest hurt, filled like a balloon close to bursting.
“You are willing to give up everything you’ve ever known for your Raffa, just as your father was for me,” she said softly, stopping to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “So I know nothing I say will stop you, even though I wish I could because I want you safe and close more than anything.”
“He’s not a bad man,” I told her in a threadbare voice. “In fact, he’s the best man I know.”
“So is your father,” she said. “I understand, honey. More than I can say. I won’t stand between you and happiness.”
“And Dad?”
Her sigh stirred my hair, and she held me close.
“Your father will take some more convincing. We are going to stay here for a while, I think. If you mean to make a life here, we want to make sure it’s a good one.
I won’t be able to drag him home until he sees with his own eyes that Raffa is good enough for you. ”
“You might be here forever, then,” I quipped. “Dad doesn’t seem inclined to like a Romano based on principle.”
“The only time I’ve ever seen your father cry is for you girls,” she said firmly, cupping my face so I had to look into her warm hazel eyes. “His number one priority in life is seeing you well. Give him a chance, and he’ll give you and Raffa one.”
“I can do that,” I allowed, shifting to throw one of her arms around my shoulder so we could keep walking. “So, Mom, were you ever tortured for Dad? Maybe we can trade notes.”
Her laugh rang out over the rows of grapevines and soared deep into the heart of the valley below us. I thought the sound suited this space, the marriage of my old family and new coming together in a way I had never believed possible.
I was working in the office with Carmine later that afternoon after a lengthy shower and a slightly awkward lunch with the Romanos and my parents.
My work for Dad’s company was over, but I was transitioning into doing some things for Lupo Nero, Raffa’s investment company, and I couldn’t help but advise Carmine when he asked me for help on a problem.
Which was my current project.
A series of break-ins at some of Raffa’s shell companies had been occurring over the last few months, but nothing seemed to have been stolen, and there was no discernible link between the companies that were targeted.
“Perhaps you can see something we haven’t with that puzzling mind of yours,” Carmine had suggested, handing me the flash drive with the information. “We believe it has something to do with the Venetian.”
“I can take a look.” I accepted the files. “But I’ll need access to more information about Lupo Nero and the Romano Group.”
“Why the latter? None of the companies are attached to the Romano Group.”