Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Violetta
I don't get out of the city often enough.
Although Florence is one of the most beautiful places in the world and I wouldn't want to live anywhere else, the Tuscan countryside is on a whole different level.
Mere words don't do justice to the vibrant green of the rolling hills, the magnificent woodlands and charming villages we pass through.
Damiano decided to drive us himself, opting to take a Range Rover rather than one of the low-slung supercars his garage is filled with.
He thought my grandfather would be unimpressed by his McLaren or Bugatti.
Personally, I'd have relished the chance to zip through the countryside in a sports car, its engine roaring as we accelerated along the open roads.
Still, it’s nice to be alone for a change.
For much of the drive, Damiano has been quiet, giving me time to think about the family I've never met.
My father, Dario Ricci, is a man I know only from a tattered photo my mother keeps in a shoebox under her bed.
The only image I have is of him aged eighteen, leaning against a white BMW, squinting into the sun.
He was handsome then. Perhaps he still is.
My mother never speaks about him with the bitterness he's due.
He left her when she was pregnant. Once he was gone, he didn't return.
He never checked that I was okay, that we had food on the table.
He never paid his share, and because of that my mother ran up debts and I was forced to put my dreams of university on hold.
If he asked to meet me now, I would refuse. To be honest, I'm not sure why I agreed to meet my grandfather. Perhaps it's because I'm intrigued by a man who would make a land deal contingent on my future being secured when he's never bothered to get to know me for himself.
I put those thoughts aside as we slow down and pull off the road next to a set of black wrought-iron gates.
"Casa di Lupo," I read the words fashioned into the metal above a wolf's head. "This is Lorenzo's place."
"I wanted you to see it before we get to your grandfather's house." Damiano points to a large building at the top of the hill overlooking vast fields of grapevines. "That's the visitor center. It was smaller before Lorenzo bought the place. He had it torn down and rebuilt."
Pride is evident in his voice and I can't blame him. The building is an impressive structure of brick and glass. It shouldn't sit comfortably in this rural landscape, but it does.
"And the house next to it?" I'm referring to the large villa beside it.
"He lives there much of the time. I'm sure he'll show you around someday. He loves to play tour guide."
"I'd enjoy that."
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 facade.
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 least seventy 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?"
"He drinks too much, gambles, has a different woman in his bed every night. He's not the type of man you want for a father, Violetta."
That echoes my thoughts exactly. I've lived without a father for this long. I can continue doing so without a moment's regret. At least that’s what I tell myself.
"I was a coward to stay away from you too," he continues. "But I was afraid your mother would tell me I could have nothing to do with you."
"So you didn't even try?"
"No, and that is something I will always regret."
I can tell he's sincere.
"I'm not going to tell you it's all right," I say, "because it isn't. But I'm here now and I'm willing to get to know you a little."
"I'm glad." He looks up as his housekeeper enters with a tray she places on the table in front of me.
"I hope you like cannoli. They're my last pleasure in life. I order them from a little place near the Pitti Palace."
"Dorando's?" I guess. It's one of the oldest bakeries in the city.
"Yes, you know it?"
"I do, and I love their cannoli."
The old man smiles and gestures for me to help myself. I take a cannolo and bite into it. The ricotta filling is creamy, smooth, and flavored with just the right amount of vanilla.
"Tell me about your husband." There's a hint of disapproval in his tone. "How did you meet?"
"I work for him at one of his clubs. We knew each other for a while and then one night our relationship changed."
It's close enough to the truth that I don't sound as if I'm making something up. I can’t help wishing this version was true, that the beginning of our relationship was filled with romantic moments. I’d have liked to be wooed with flowers and dates at fancy restaurants.
"And is he good to you?"
I think of being locked in the basement, being forced to marry him with Riccardo standing guard, him watching me at the club and having Giorgio lay down the law about how I conduct myself at work. Then I think about the quieter moments — the unexpected tenderness.
"He tries to be."
My grandfather nods and we settle into conversation. He tells me about my grandmother, who died before I was born.
"She was furious with me the day we met," he says, a smile breaking through the gruffness. "I knocked her bicycle into a ditch trying to impress her."
He shakes his head at the memory. When speaking about the woman he clearly loved becomes too much for him to bear, he shares stories of life on the farm and his brief foray into winemaking. His wealth, which comes via an inheritance from his father, has allowed him to indulge his passions.
"You're not unlike my brother-in-law, then."
He narrows his eyes. "I am nothing like the Volante boy."
I laugh. "He's not a boy. And what I meant is the vineyard is a passion project for him. He hopes to make a life there. It's why he wants to buy your land."
My grandfather purses his lips. "Have you seen that eyesore he built?"
"I like it."
He throws his hands up in despair and I smile gently.
"If you sold, you could move closer to the city. It would be better for you to…..”
"Be close to hospitals?" he finishes for me. "I'm not decrepit, you know."
"I can see that."
As Damiano comes back into the room, I notice his trousers are dirty.
"Met the goats, did you?" my grandfather asks.
Damiano's jaw twitches and I stifle a laugh. He nods toward a photo on the shelf. "Violetta has her father's eyes."
My grandfather nods. "But none of his character. That's the important thing. She's a fine young woman. I hope you know what a treasure you have in her."
"I do." Damiano replies without hesitation, and I find I actually believe him.
"She has convinced me to sell up. You may tell the feckless playboy I'll accept his latest offer."
Insulting Lorenzo is probably a bad idea, but Damiano doesn't react to my grandfather's provocation. Whether that's out of deference to his age or consideration for me, I'm not sure. I hope it's the latter.
"Lorenzo isn't a feckless playboy, Grandpa." I'm not sure what made me address him that way, but it feels right. "He's a reformed man."
"Good, good, but I still want the terms he offered. Tell his lawyer to contact mine."
He offers his hand to Damiano, who takes it and shakes firmly. I get up and move to Damiano's side.
"We will meet again, Violetta," my grandfather says.
"Soon," I confirm.
He narrows his eyes at Damiano. "You be good to her. I may be old, but I can still fire a shotgun."
I'm sure Damiano has killed men for making less obvious threats, but he simply smiles and leads me to the door. As he always does, he helps me into the car before he takes the wheel himself.
As we drive away, I let out a long breath.
"Thank you for giving us time alone. I think we needed that."
"You're welcome."
As silence settles over the car, the weight of everything that's happened presses down on me. I need to lighten the tone. Turning to Damiano, I flash him a wicked grin.
"So, Signore Volante. Tell me about the goats."