13. Vivi
VIVI
The two men share an unspoken exchange before Elio stomps off in the direction the priest is pointing. When he reaches the stone wall, he turns and fixes his gaze directly at us, standing sentry.
“There.” The older man takes the seat beside me. “We can have a proper chat now, no one eavesdropping”
“Thank you.”
He nods. “So, how are you finding life on the island?”
“It’s been…lonely.”
“Let me guess—il Signore is monopolizing your time, and you haven’t had a chance to talk with anyone else?”
I blink, taken aback. Dart a glance to Elio. The intensity of his expression hasn’t changed. He doesn’t like that I’m talking to the priest, but I don’t think he can hear what I’m saying. I shift, putting my back to him. “Um, no. Not exactly.”
The priest watches me, doing that thing where people sit in silence until you feel compelled to fill the void. Silence never used to bother me, but I’m restless, picking at my dress, until I can’t stand it anymore. “It’s the opposite, actually. I haven’t seen il Signore in almost a week.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows jump. “Veramente?”
“Really,” I confirm. “I just don’t understand.”
He extends a weathered hand, about to tap me paternally on the knee, before he reconsiders, pulls back. His expression remains encouraging. “If you want to talk about it, Signora, you may. Anything you want to say, it’s safe with me.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Think of it like confession. Just you, me, and Dio Padre.” He points up at the clear blue sky.
Right. Just me, him, and God.
Even so, it’s risky to talk. In our world, silence is more sacred than God. Omertà. But if I don’t talk to someone, I am actually going to scream. “The thing is,” I whisper, drawing him closer. “I don’t know why Giovanni married me.”
The priest stills, his head tilting to one side as he studies me closely. “Per favore, Signora. Can you repeat that? These ancient ears don’t work as well as they used to.”
The words are racing to the tip of my tongue. A torrent I can’t hold back now that I’ve started. “It’s exactly what I said. I don’t know why Giovanni married me. I don’t know why I’m here. Why I’m his wife. Why he’s?—”
Why he’s taken me.
No, that’s too much. The priest might be friendly, solicitous, but he still works for my husband. I rephrase. “I never even met him until the day of the wedding.”
It’s not a detail that would usually stand out. Arranged marriages are incredibly common with the Families. Heck, even my marriage to Tino was arranged by our parents. But switching the groom on the wedding day—without warning the bride or the original groom—and setting fire to the church…?
That’s pretty unprecedented. Even for the ‘Ndrangheta.
The priest fixes his gaze off in the distance. “I wasn’t aware.”
“You’re the family priest, aren’t you? Did you even know Giovanni was getting married?”
“Yes, I am. And no, I did not. But that doesn’t signify.
Il Signore doesn’t discuss matters like that with me.
If he’d asked to get married in the family chapel, I would’ve been honored to officiate.
But he is the capo, Signora. He may marry when and where he pleases. He doesn’t need permission from me.”
“Or me, apparently.”
For the second time in as many minutes, I surprise Father Luigi. “As I said, it isn’t my position to question, but can I still ask—did you not want to marry il Signore?”
“No,” I answer. “I did not.”
He looks at where my hands are fisted in my dress.
Where I’m compulsively gripping the place where my stone should be.
It’s been missing since the night of the storm.
I assume it fell out when I broke into the room next door.
I haven’t dared ask anyone to check, not after Giovanni’s parting threat.
I’d give anything to feel the smooth weight in my palm, especially now.
The priest registers my distress. “Is it possible, Signora, that there was someone else you wanted to marry?”
I look up at him and, this time, I can’t stop the tears from flowing. Between heaving sobs, I give him the entire story.
The promise my parents made when I was fifteen that I was going to marry Tino Valori. The letter he sent to the convent introducing himself. The years we spent writing to each other. The trip he made to Italy when I was eighteen to officially propose.
The few blissful hours we had that weekend before my accident.
The heartbreak I felt when, after finally regaining consciousness, the nuns told me my parents had postponed the wedding. The anticipation and loneliness that built and built over the years that followed.
The joy I felt when I finally, finally got to go back home, ecstatic that I was about to marry my fiancé and see my sister again.
The shock I felt when I saw the man—the stranger—who had claimed me as his wife.
The devastation I felt—feel still—knowing that Tino is dead and I’ll never have the family I was promised. The one I’ve been dreaming about for so long.
By the time I’m done, I’m covered in tears and snot, hiccupping uncontrollably. The priest pulls a cloth from somewhere inside his robe. I clean my face and dry my eyes, utterly depleted.
Father Luigi and I sit in silence for some time before he lays a paternal hand on my knee. No hesitation this time. The touch is light, solely designed to comfort, and, to my surprise, I don’t recoil. Instead, I relax.
“I am so sorry, Signora,” he says. “That sounds very hard to go through. Especially for someone as young as you, and so far from your family.”
I try to say thank you. It comes out as a hiccup.
“I’ll admit. I was surprised when Giovanni told me, without warning, that he was bringing home a bride.”
“Why?” I rasp.
He pauses, like he’s trying to figure out where to start.
“I have known Giovanni since he was born,” he says eventually.
“I’ve seen him grow, learn, develop from the boy he was into the man he is now.
He’s the firstborn son, the heir. He always knew he was going to take over from his father, the previous capo, and Giovanni has never taken the responsibility lightly.
He is exacting. Calculating. Brutal in all the ways that are required. ”
The priest casts me a solemn look. “I am a man of God, Signora, but I am also a member of the Family. Born into it, just like your husband. I know what this life demands. I know how much blood Giovanni has spilled, along with his father before him, and his father before him. Just as I know that, in all the thirty-eight years il Signore has been on this earth, his loyalty to his family has never wavered. He’s lost so much—too much, some might say—but he’s never let it sway him from what needs to be done.
Most people think of him as cold, inflexible.
And he is. I’d add to the list calculating, extremely stubborn, and never, ever impulsive.
But he’s also loyal and incredibly protective of what’s his.
Something you’ll know if you’ve ever seen him with?—”
Father Luigi stops, abruptly cutting off his own thought. I lean toward him, the hairs on my arms standing pin straight. Whatever name he was about to give, every instinct tells me it has something to do with the child’s room I found. “If I’ve ever seen him with who? Who are you talking about?”
The priest stands, shaking his head. “Mi scusi, Signora. That’s not for me to say, any more than I can speculate why Giovanni married you the way he did.
Those are questions only he can answer. But I will say this—give him time, and he will explain.
That man has never done anything without purpose, just as he has never failed his duty to his family.
A family which, Viviana Marchetti, now includes you. ”
My married name hangs between us. I think he means it as a reassurance. It feels more like a warning.
Father Luigi holds out his arm. I grasp his elbow, allow him to help me to my feet. I turn to head toward Elio, sure that my fifteen minutes are up, but the priest stops me. Turns us in the opposite direction.
I hear Elio curse, but he doesn’t interfere. He just continues to stand guard as the priest guides me onto a flagstone path that forms a large circle around a collection of gravestones. The family’s private cemetery.
“Before you go, Signora, can I be so bold as to ask another question?”
I nod, not feeling like I have a choice.
“The boy you were supposed to marry…”
“Tino. Tino Valori.”
“Sì, sì. Signor Valori. Did you love him?”
I don’t have to think. “Yes.”
“What did you love about him?”
I open my mouth, ready for an onslaught of words…and nothing comes out. Feet numb, I stumble. The older man’s grip, surprisingly strong, keeps me upright. “I, um…”
My brain comes to a standstill just as a cacophony erupts above our heads. A huge flock of birds drops down between the trees before swooping back up, their song filling the sky with an angry, rattling sound.
We watch them dip and dive a few more times, all conversation drowned out by their incessant chirping.
“Sardinian Warblers,” the Father says once they’ve gone. “Native to the area and some of the loudest birds you’ll ever hear.”
They sound angry, mournful. I wonder if they’re looking for Little Bird. If they know what’s happened to her. If they know she’s locked away.
Father Luigi is still waiting for my answer. I give it to him. One that sounded obvious in my head, but childish when I say it out loud. “I loved Tino because he loved me.”
“Hmmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Did he?”
“Yes!” Birds squawk in the trees. I drop my volume. “He did. He said so every time he wrote.”
“Often, then?”
I think back over all the letters I sent him…and the handful he wrote in return. I was over the moon every time one came. They were proof I was lovable. Proof I wasn’t alone.
But, as I stand here, the priest’s eyes gently cataloguing every emotion that darts across my face, I realize that as many times as I told Tino I loved him, I don’t think he ever said it back. It was hinted at, implied. But never explicitly said or written down.
It’s not a confession I’m going to make. Instead, I lie. “I know he loved me. We were getting married. He never would’ve asked me to marry him if he didn’t love me.”
We’ve almost finished our loop around the graveyard. The priest starts to guide me back toward Elio. The guard is standing in the full sun, and I suddenly can’t wait to feel the heat beneath my feet and the sweat beading on my neck. I’m way too cold.
“Did he, though?” Father Luigi asks. “You said your parents told you that you were marrying this Valori boy. Did he actually ask? Did he want to marry you, Signora?”
“How could you ask me that? How could you even suggest it?” I push away from the older man, stepping into the sunlight. He stays back, cast in the shade.
“Mi scusi, Signora. I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just seeking clarity for us both.” He’s looking at me with something like pity.
“How will that help?”
“The truth always helps, Signora. Especially when you’re able to come to terms with it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Tino Valori is gone. Meaning you will always be Giovanni’s wife. The Family doesn’t allow for divorce; you must know that. Which means you must make a choice. You can continue to be in love with the fantasy of the boy you think you knew, or you can accept truth.”
There’s no cruelty to his voice. No judgement. But that doesn’t stop me from hating him in this moment. “What truth is that?”
I don’t know what I expect him to say. Whatever it is, it isn’t this.
“That you didn’t know your fiancé as well as you think you did. That perhaps you didn’t love him as much as you think you did, either. And that, sooner or later, you’re going to have to move beyond the story of the family you’ve been clinging to and accept the one that you have.”
“For better or for worse.” I don’t know why I say it. The partial marriage vow just slips out.
Father Luigi smiles. This time, it gives me the chills. “Till death do you part.”
I blink, and the priest’s expression is back to being genial. As if the last part of our conversation never happened. “Regardless of how you look at it, you have suffered a great loss, Signora. So has Giovanni. Perhaps, once you accept the truth, that is where you can begin.”
“Begin?”
“Making peace with the fact that Giovanni is your husband. Because whatever else you believe, Viviana Marchetti, know this: You’re his. There’s no one and nothing that can change that.”
Least of all you.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The absolute certainty in his voice makes my heart drop to my toes. He’s right, I know he is. About that part at least.
As for what he said about Tino…
I want to reject it all, every last word, but a tiny part of my brain won’t let me.
The sliver belonging to the person I used to be long ago before every thought and action was constrained and choked until I became what others wanted me to be.
Thinking what others wanted me to think.
Feeling what others wanted me to feel. Always. Without fail.
Maybe this priest is right. Maybe I do need to find the truth. But that doesn’t mean I’m believing his.