Chapter 6
Camillo Vicari
Castello dell’Fiero, Calabria, Italy
Twelve years ago
The liquirizia slid down my tongue. Thick, bitter.
I set down the empty glass, watching the cold condensation drip and soak onto the mahogany table.
The men of my famiglia carried on discussing the latest shipment of diamonds, filling the air in front of me with tobacco smoke and the silhouette of hands gesturing and refilling glasses.
I, however, was focused on another matter.
Tucked away in the left pocket of my pants was a small burgundy box, containing a five-carat oval diamond ring.
In my chest, anxiety tingled persistently.
I was going to ask the woman I loved to marry me that very night, during dinner.
It would be a small party just for the famiglia, because I wanted it to be special, intimate, perfect, just the way Valentina liked it.
Sighing, I answered a question mechanically, without paying much attention to the subject. I was about to take the most important step of my life, with the woman of my life.
Valentina Messina was a dream made flesh.
She was brilliant, proud, determined, and she was beautiful.
Madonna, she made other women envious and stole compliments from every man.
From the full lips to the black, thick-lashed eyes, from the long, shapely legs to the generous breasts, from the fair skin to the brown curls that began at the crown of her head and fell all the way to her waist, there was nothing in her that lacked beauty.
She was an extraordinary woman. And she would be all mine.
“And you, ragazzo?” The pat on my hand caught my attention. I saw Zio Ricardo's round, ruddy face staring at mine. “Ready to break your mamma’s heart?”
Everyone laughed, myself included. “Ah, Zio... I wish it were different.”
“Blame this mascalzone!” Zio Ricardo joked, smacking my father lightly on the back of the head, who gave him a knowing, mischievous look. “He married a Polish woman, and now you and your brother are the ones paying for it.”
My brother Mario and I exchanged a smile.
We knew exactly what our uncle meant. Our Mamusia hated Valentina from the very beginning.
We all knew it was because I was the youngest in the famiglia, her favorite child, even if she swore it was just her mother's instincts warning her. Her disapproval ran so deep that she even used the famiglia’s business resources to dig into my girlfriend's past, hoping to find something that could change my mind.
She was unsuccessful, of course.
“If I hadn’t found this Polish mother who now gives them a hard time, they wouldn't have their height, or those green eyes.” My father pointed out with a pride that always amused me, puffing on his cigar.
My uncle, on the other hand, placed a theatrical hand on his chest, making the thick gold bracelet on his wrist sway. “You dare call your own flesh and blood shorties?”
Nonno burst out laughing, while my uncle continued with his act, adding a fake sob, and my father rolled his eyes.
“Shorties, dwarfs, goat droppings...” my father listed, and my brother and I had no choice but to join in my grandfather's laughter. “When I saw that beautiful red-haired Polish woman, I swore I’d spend the rest of my life climbing on a stool, but my children would not inherit these cursed genes.”
That was one thing my father had accomplished magnificently.
First, although he didn't use a stool, he really had to stand on tiptoe to kiss my Mamusia.
Then, my brother and I were, in fact, as he had intended, the first generation of the famiglia to surpass five feet seven in height.
I was six foot five. My brother was six foot one.
We were as tall as our mother, who, in her elegance, stood way over six feet tall.
We had also inherited her green, wolfish eyes.
Mario's were a deeper shade, with a central heterochromia that tinged the green with a beautiful amber.
Mine, on the other hand, were closest to my mother's: very light, like jade.
Unfortunately, the generosity of her Polish genetics ended there.
Neither Mario nor I had our mother's red hair, or anything similar to it. Ours was raven-black like any other Vicari's, our complexion had a brown tone that deepened in the summer, and we were, to quote my mother, noisy animals.
The teasing went a little longer. When we were served a new round of drinks, I saw my cousin Lorenzo enter the room with a document folder in his hands that was far too stuffed for my liking.
I arched an eyebrow.
“Porca miseria!” he cursed, throwing it onto the middle of the table, receiving a disapproving look from Nonno Patrizio. “Scusa, Nonno.”
“What happened, ragazzo?” Grandfather asked, and I noticed how alarmed my uncle seemed.
Lorenzo rubbed his hands vigorously over his face.
“There are going to be changes in Rome, and Bernardi has been dismissed,” he declared, and we all shifted uncomfortably.
“Was he ‘dismissed’, or did he receive a gift?” Zio Ricardo inquired, sniffing something in the air. “New blood always wants more.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “Discretion issues.”
Our grandfather inhaled sharply, signaling for more drinks. “Let's deal with the famiglia matters inside the famiglia house.”
The subject died there, as it always did whenever Nonno invoked his authority. And I realized I had one more thing to add to my nerves.
A new round of drinks was served, and we thanked the waiter, Francesco.
I watched him walk away, his bald head gleaming.
He was forty-seven years old, yet still worked for his father, Signor Marziano, who refused to leave the small restaurant he had founded more than fifty years ago here, in Castello dell'Fiero. I wondered if that would be my fate as well, as the youngest in the famiglia. If, twenty years from now, when I turned forty-eight, I’d still be working for my Nonno or my Papà, without questioning anything and bowing my head at the slightest command.
“So, Cugino? Is today the day you finally put a ring on the attorney's finger?”
I smiled at Lorenzo, and ignored the drink in front of me. I'd had enough alcohol for the day.
“Today's the day!” I declared, taking the velvet box out of my pocket. I opened it, allowing the light streaming through the restaurant windows to reflect off the stone and fill the space with a hundred sparks. “What do you think?”
Lorenzo whistled, picking up the ring, turning it with careful fingers. “I think it's worth three houses, that's what I think. How many carats? Four?”
“Five,” I corrected, proud of my achievement. Lorenzo wasn't wrong, that diamond was worth a fortune.
“What's the clarity grade on this, Camillo?” he asked, still examining the jewel, lifting it up to his nose so that the sun shining through the window behind me would fall directly on the diamond.
“FL. And before you ask: D color, Portuguese cut.”
Lorenzo raised his eyebrows and quickly put the ring back in the box. When he handed it back to me, I noticed that my grandfather was glaring at us and my father was signaling for me to get ready.
“The Vicari women's ring is much prettier than that thing.” There it was, the comment that had been going on for six months, ever since I told them I was planning to ask Valentina to marry me. “It's old, it has history. That thing only has money.”
I shrugged. “But this is the kind of ring Valentina likes, Nonno.” I reminded him.
I knew the value of the famiglia ring, which before belonging to my Nonna Renata and my Mamusia, had belonged to dozens of generations of Vicari women. I also knew that it was tradition for the first son to marry to keep the ring. But Valentina didn't like the jewel.
When my Nonna Renata told her the story of the ring's succession without going into detail, at the time we weren't even thinking about marriage, she whispered to me right after how happy it made her that I was the youngest and she didn't have to inherit, in her words, ‘that old, boring thing.’ I never explained that the ring was passed to whoever got married first, nor would I.
My goal was to make her happy, even if it meant breaking a centuries-old tradition.
“I hope the woman is worth the disservice you're doing us,” spat Nonno Patrizio, and I rolled my eyes.
“Valentina is lovely, Nonno! Give it a rest!” My brother interjected, smiling awkwardly. “Besides, let him, I want Mamusia's ring for myself...”
We laughed and that seemed to cool my grandfather's dissatisfaction.
We paid a few minutes later, leaving for the villa.
When we arrived, everything was ready for dinner.
The men had lined the vineyard with torches and were already lighting them.
As soon as I entered the house, I saw that the maids had already placed the bouquets of red roses everywhere and the table was set to welcome us.
I paused, observing the silver cutlery laid out on the burgundy linen tablecloth, alongside with the modern crockery ordered especially for the occasion.
Everything in our house was old, everything had tradition, history.
However, that wasn't Valentina's world, and I really wanted the evening to be hers.
Only hers.
I stuck my hands inside my pockets, standing under the arch that connected the dining room to the main living room.
In front of me, at the opposite end of the table, hung a painting that carried a very old story.
It was the portrait of a young couple, two Italians with dark hair, skin, and eyes.
He was dressed in a three-piece suit, she was wearing a white lace dress.
That portrait had been preserved over the decades and restored once or twice, yet, even from that distance, I could still see it.
The ring.
The damn ring.