Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Violetta
Flying on cramped, overcrowded planes with budget airlines has been my only experience of aviation up until now.
Nothing about those stressful experiences prepared me for the thrill of traveling by private jet.
We didn't have to set foot in the terminal building at the airport.
We were driven straight onto the tarmac and ushered onto the plane, which is like nothing I've ever seen before.
It's more opulent and far more spacious than I could have imagined.
There's so much space you could easily ignore everyone else around you if you wanted to.
Eight sumptuous cream leather seats are dotted around the cabin.
The trim is walnut and the controls are made of gold.
There's plush carpeting on the floor and a sweet, attentive flight attendant called Sabrina served us champagne and canapés before we even took off. It’s strange.
A month ago I was the one bringing people champagne.
"This is nothing," Damiano had said as he registered the awe on my face. "Piotr Reznov's plane has a bedroom."
Trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this is my life now, I stare out of the window as Florence slowly disappears from view.
We're on our way to visit Damiano's mother and I'm not sure what to expect.
He warned me in the car as we drove to the private airfield that his mother is fragile, that she has good days and bad.
He didn't go into detail and I didn't want to pry.
Now I wish I'd asked more questions because I'm incredibly nervous.
It took me ages to decide what to wear to meet my new mother-in-law.
I must have changed half a dozen times before settling on a demure blue floral dress and ballet flats.
I kept my makeup to a minimum and left my hair loose.
Damiano hasn't commented on my appearance but I earned an approving nod from Lina, which I found more reassuring than his opinion would have been anyway.
I watch as he works on his laptop. Something is clearly troubling him. He's frowning slightly and he's held his cup of espresso for ten minutes now without taking a single sip. It will be stone cold soon.
I reach for my book but can't concentrate with the tense energy radiating from Damiano in the seat across the table from me. His phone rings and he answers immediately.
As much as I'd prefer not to know the details of his business in case they involve something illegal, I can't help but listen to his call.
There's no missing the sheer delight in his voice when he asks whether the Makris problem has been solved and receives confirmation that it has.
He talks for a few minutes more, addressing the person he's speaking to as Timofey, a name I recall hearing before.
He asks about dates, types something, then ends the call and shuts his laptop.
"Good news?" I ask.
Damiano nods. "A project I'm undertaking with a group of..." he casts around for the right phrasing, "...like-minded people is making progress."
I assume by that he means fellow mobsters but I don't ask. The sense I've gotten since being in Damiano's world is that it's better not to know too much.
"Does your mother know what you do?" I ask.
His eyes gleam with amusement.
"It's been our family business for more than a century, Violetta. I inherited it from my father, who inherited it from his, and so forth."
My eyes widen. I had no idea this stretched back that far but I suppose it makes sense. The Volantes control vast swathes of territory, command armies of men and have a legitimate business empire as well.
"So where do the Americans come in?"
"My cousins?" Damiano asks and I nod. "Our grandfather sent him to the States when he was twelve so our great-uncle could train him to rule in New York."
"He sent him away when he was twelve?" It seems so young. "Do all men become involved at that age?"
"No, I was inducted when I was fourteen, as were my brothers after me."
"So you started, uh, I mean, you didn't..." I can't form the words to ask what I want to know.
"I killed my first man at fourteen, Violetta. He was a rat who needed to be put down."
I go completely rigid with shock. When I was fourteen, I was dancing around my bedroom with my friends, dreaming of marrying one of the members of whatever American boy band we were into that week. The distance between those two childhoods is so vast I can barely fathom it.
"But it goes without saying, you are not to mention any of this in front of my mother."
"No, of course not." What does Damiano take me for? "I would never discuss this with anyone but you."
"Good. Our world has been cruel enough to her as it is."
"Why? What happened? Is it something to do with her illness?"
Damiano's whole demeanor changes. His shoulders stiffen.
"It's not an illness, Violetta, not really. My mother suffered terrible injuries at the hands of my father. He beat her unconscious and left her for dead. She recovered but she's not the woman she was before."
"And your father?"
"You've heard the rumors?"
I nod. People have whispered about Damiano Volante killing his father from the moment he came to Florence.
"They're true," Damiano confirms. "But I didn't kill him to take his throne. I killed him so he could never hurt her again. I should have done it sooner."
The emotion in his voice is something I've never heard before, raw in a way that makes me feel almost guilty for witnessing it. I understand now why he is the way he is. The control, the coldness, the refusal to show weakness. It’s because he learned young what happens when a man loses his grip on himself.
Rather than trying to soothe him with meaningless platitudes, I allow him to retreat.
The silence continues until the plane lands in Rome forty minutes later.
On the tarmac there's another chauffeur-driven car waiting for us.
Damiano and I get into the back and we're driven to a large villa in the hills to the north of the city.
It's small compared to the palazzo but still a substantial dwelling. There are window boxes planted with colorful flowers and the shutters have recently been painted. A cat sleeps on the front step. It’s an unexpectedly domestic scene.
As we get out of the car, a man strolls toward us. Damiano greets him with a hug then steps back to present me to him.
"Marco, this is my wife, Violetta."
"A pleasure to meet you." His brown eyes dance with mischief. He turns to Damiano. "I hope you don't intend to dump your girl here and leave her to find her own way home."
"What's this?" I ask.
Damiano rolls his eyes. "My asshole brother brought Lucia to meet our mother, got cold feet or something and walked out."
"Oh? But they're still together."
Marco laughs. "Yeah, young love is crazy." He sobers. "Your Mamma is in the garden. She's having a good day but she keeps bringing up Gabriele. Since Lorenzo visited she's been thinking about him more. She's convinced he's dead and we're hiding it from her."
Damiano nods. "We'll tread carefully."
"What you should do is storm that fortress Gabriele's locked himself away in and drag his sorry ass out here.
" Marco holds his hands up to pacify my husband, whose expression has become deadly.
"You know I mean no disrespect, Damiano, but I love that woman like my own Mamma and he's breaking her heart. "
"I know. I'll see what I can do."
We walk through the front door into an entrance hall with a marble floor, gold mirrors on the wall and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
It's the last thing I expected to find in here.
Damiano leads me along a corridor and into a large sitting room with thick carpeting and sofas covered with a floral fabric.
This room is more in keeping with the rustic exterior of the house.
The French windows are open onto a large terrace. That's where we find his mother.
Pale and thin, Beatrice Volante has delicate cheekbones and big blue eyes. She must have been a great beauty in her day.
“Damiano!” She throws her arms wide when she sees him.
He rushes over to hug her. They embrace for so long, murmuring words of affection to each other, that I start to feel like an intruder. Then Beatrice playfully bats him away and holds a hand out to me. I go to her and take it.
"Violetta." She offers me a warm smile. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. When Damiano said he was bringing his wife, I was so happy."
"I'm pleased to meet you."
"Well, sit down, sit down." Beatrice indicates the seat next to her. "I want to get a proper look at you."
I do as instructed and take the chair next to her.
"Well, Mamma, what do you think of my bride?" Damiano asks as he sprawls on the seat opposite us.
"She has a very sensible face."
Damiano snorts.
"Thank you," I say, with some uncertainty.
Beatrice's eyes crinkle. "It's a compliment." I believe her. There's no cruelty in this woman, only a directness I can’t help admiring. She looks at Damiano. "Go and ask Agnesca for some coffee."
The moment he leaves, she looks at me more intently. "Are you good to him?"
"I try to be. He doesn't make it easy."
She nods. "No, he takes too much on himself. Even when he was young. Be patient with him."
"I'll do my best."
She stares off into the distance, an air of sadness about her. Then something shifts and her face lights up.
"You must go to Villa Borghese. We used to take the boys there on Sundays when they were small. They loved to race through the gardens. It always ended in tears."
"Because Lorenzo couldn't stand to lose," Damiano says as he appears with a tray bearing three cups and a plate of cantuccini. "He still can't."
"You must be good to him, Damiano. He's sensitive. Did you know he likes to draw, Violetta? He'd stand for hours, drawing the fountains."
Damiano meets my eye and subtly shakes his head. He mouths Gabriele at me, then drops his gaze to his cup, showing exaggerated interest in his coffee. It’s hard for him to witness his mother’s confusion.
"I'd like to visit the Villa Borghese," I say to break the awkwardness. "There are lots of places in Rome I'd like to see."
"Damiano can show you around. Perhaps you can see Gabriele." She frowns and her whole body sags.
"I saw Gio this week," Damiano says, before his mother can sink into a maudlin mood. "He married a nice Scottish girl."
"Scottish? Where did he meet her?"
"Scotland." Damiano deadpans.
Beatrice bursts out laughing. "Of course he did. Where else would one meet a nice Scottish girl?" She looks up as Marco steps out onto the terrace, bringing a coffee pot and placing it on the table in front of us.
"Agnesca thought you might like a refill."
"We'd have to drink our first cup before we have a refill," Beatrice says. "Honestly, Agnesca does like to make a fuss."
"She takes good care of you, Zia Beatrice," Marco says.
"And so do you," Beatrice acknowledges. "Would you be a dear and fetch my knitting bag? I left it in the library."
"Still knitting, Mamma?" Damiano asks. "I thought you'd have a new hobby by now."
"No, I find it soothes me and Gabriele brought the loveliest wool when he came. He brought a girl with him, you know. She's a chef at some fancy restaurant in Florence. Perhaps you know her?"
"I haven't met her yet," I say gently.
"Well, she's a lovely girl."
Beatrice rests her head against the back of the chair. She looks tired. When Marco reappears with a large red canvas bag in hand she perks up a little.
"Oh, thank you."
She pulls three little knitted bears out of the bag, one blue, one red and one white.
"Oh, I don't know which is yours, Damiano." She inspects each one carefully and then thrusts the red one toward him. "This one, I think."
"Good choice, Mamma." He gets up and takes it from her, cradling it his palm as if it’s something precious. "I'll treasure it."
We stay for another half hour, drifting from one topic to the next as Beatrice weaves her way through tangled memories. I get the sense Damiano wants to spend more time with her but it's obvious she's worn out so we rise to leave.
Beatrice pulls me in for another hug, this one weaker than the last.
"Take care of my boy. He'll need you. And tell Gabriele I understand."
Unsure what she means, I promise I'll do as she asks. Damiano kisses her cheeks and smooths her hair back from her face with aching tenderness.
The moment we get in the car, he becomes tense. He takes his phone from his pocket and calls someone. When he gets no answer he leaves a message.
"Gabriele, your time is running out. I swear on my fucking life if you don't call Mamma in the next seven days, I am going to burn you out of your house and drag you here to face her."
He ends the call and slumps against the seat, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he heaves in deep breaths.
I reach over and place my hand on his. He pulls me close and wraps his arms around me.
For once it’s not about desire or possession.
He’s seeking comfort and I’m only too happy to give it.
"He was ambushed near his house in Rome," Damiano says after a long silence, and I realize it's Gabriele he's talking about. "Someone shoved a broken bottle in his face. The scarring, it's bad. He doesn't leave the house anymore."
"Your mother doesn't know?"
"No, she'd burn down Rome to find the man who did it to him."
It's hard to imagine that frail woman doing anything of the sort, but when she spoke about her sons I caught glimpses of a fierce love that might make her capable of anything.
"He's never been caught?"
Damiano lets out a sigh. "He fled the country but believe me, I'm still looking for him."
"Will it help?" I ask. "If you find him?"
"Probably not, but it's the only thing I can do to help my brother."
I smile sadly as I snuggle closer to him. Perhaps one day I'll show him that there's another way to help Gabriele, to free himself from the guilt he carries. For now, I say nothing and let him soothe himself with thoughts of revenge.