Chapter 26
Camillo Vicari
Castello dell’Fiero, Calabria, Italy
Daisy slept with her mouth open and her head resting on my shoulder. With an annoyed sigh, I realized how her drool was soaking my shirt. I had never seen a lady snore like a tractor engine, but there was a first time for everything.
Martino, my driver, laughed quietly, shaking with laughter at each snore from my hostage. I pretended not to notice, especially since he was making a superhuman effort not to let me notice. I couldn't blame him.
Daisy was, at that moment, a vision from hell.
Enjoying her scent a little too much that close to me, I clenched my fists tightly.
I didn't know why I had said that to her.
The last thing I cared about was for my people to fraternize with each other.
The private lives of those who worked for me were only my concern to a certain extent.
I wanted to make sure they had everything they needed and weren't threatened, because that's how you kept loyal soldati, but beyond that.
.. I didn't meddle. However, I had just forbidden Daisy from socializing with them and had even told Luca to ignore her friendliness, demanding that the men treat her with the necessary reverence.
Her circumstances there didn't matter at all.
In the Calabria region, throughout the entire region, I had eyes, ears, and hands at my disposal.
When they weren't working for me, they worked for other families in the same line of business as ours.
Other ‘ndrine. Daisy could spend her remaining time as my housekeeper and still go out and have fun.
If she tried to escape or go to the police, she would be in for the most unpleasant of surprises.
However, the mere idea of her fraternizing with other men made my skin crawl.
But what was done was done. I had given the order and it would be unworthy to take it back. Capibastone had to keep their word even in the smallest things. Constantly changing one's mind was synonymous with a weakness we could not afford. Worse, it signified a lack of character and integrity.
Until then, integrity had been everything to those who worked for or managed a società. Men without integrity died young.
As soon as I saw the silhouette of the vineyard and the villa high on the hill, I sighed and allowed myself a relieved smile.
It was good to see those yellow walls again, which held so many stories within them.
In mid-July, at that hour, the sun was already shining in all its splendor on the roof tiles of the house, bringing out their reddish tones, and spreading over all the surrounding vegetation, creating a veritable rainbow where greens, yellows, and pinks reigned supreme.
Martino parked the car in front of the entrance, stopping a few meters from the white steps leading to the main door. Without further ado, I pushed Daisy and, with a mischievous smile, watched her bump her head on the glass.
“We’re here, Signorina Parker.” She rubbed her eyes and the spot where her head had hit. Without waiting for a reaction, I got out of the car and walked around it with long strides, opening the door on her side. “Andiamo.”
With her face swollen from sleep and a line of dried drool on her chin, Daisy got out of the vehicle with cautious steps and seemed to shrink as she stood in front of the villa. I watched as her tiny eyes scanned every detail, from the first floor to the ground floor, sparkling in the sunlight.
I let her absorb the moment, carefully closing the car door behind her.
Although surrounded by vineyards, our house had a modest garden with an orchard mixed in around it.
There were my Nonna's flower beds next to the house and fruit trees from hundreds of generations dotting the perimeter.
Orange, tangerine, lemon, and laurel trees lived there in harmony.
I placed a hand on Daisy's back and gently pushed her toward the steps.
She moved forward with some resistance, as if one wrong step could lead to her death, and stopped as soon as we reached the first step, her eyes fixed on the flower bed right next to us.
She had a cheerful smile that intrigued me.
“Daisies.”
I frowned, not understanding what she was saying. “Scusa?”
“The flowers. They're daisies,” she replied, looking at me with an expression that was new. Her face was lit up, soft and cheerful.
“In Italian, we call them margherite.” That's when I realized. “Wait. They have your name!”
“Yes!” she confirmed with a broad smile I’d never seen on her lips before.
Dio, she was beautiful. So fucking beautiful.
“It was my Papa who picked it, you know? He said that since my mother loved flowers, he wanted to give her another flower... Hence the name Daisy Peonia.” I saw her smile fade at the sound of that statement and a shadow fall over her face.
I gently took her by the wrist, noticing the bruises on her biceps, and carefully pulled her up the steps.
As soon as our feet touched the floor of the house, the scent of oils and furniture wax invaded my nostrils and the ancient hall of Villa Vicari presented itself in all its splendor.
Its dark green walls adorned with mahogany panels rising high, and a huge copper-framed mirror welcoming us in its reflection, allowing me to see the amazement spreading across Daisy's face the instant we entered.
“Do you like it, Signorina Parker?” I asked, turning around and finding her already spinning on her heels, absorbing every detail.
“It's... beautiful,” she murmured.
I chuckled. “And old. It has hundreds of years and has seen many generations of Vicari come and go.”
She responded with a simple ‘uh-huh,’ and I led her through the house.
I quickly showed her around the villa, and found myself delighted by each of her reactions.
Boredom was the expected reaction from women like Daisy Parker.
I knew they preferred modern, minimalist things that smelled like anything but dust. But there she was, that cheeky little thing, fascinated even by the most decadent spaces in our home.
When we reached the dining room, I swallowed hard as we stood before the painting of Giuseppe and Rosa.
After my parents' death, that was the place in the house I hated most, because now, instead of a full and noisy table, I was greeted by empty seats, but also by the memory of the biggest mistake I ever made.
I could still see her there. Valentina. Proud, confident, her chin lifted as if the world should bow in her presence.
The simple memory of how I used to love that treacherous woman turned my stomach.
It was on that exact dining room I went down on one knee and asked her to marry me, with a diamond ring worth a fortune and that broke a century old tradition, right in front of the painting.
Right in front of my ancestors’ eyes. Of my famiglia.
And for what?
With bile and pain mixing and twisting my insides, I tried to guide Daisy Parker out of the room, however, the cheeky thing slipped out of my hands and in a few steps approached the painting.
“It's oil...” she murmured, standing on tiptoe, but wasn't talking to me.
“You like painting, Signorina Parker?”
She simply shrugged. “I guess you could say that. My Papa used to repaint my room every year, and I’d help him.
After he passed, I painted and draw every time I got the chance.
Sometimes it was just a sheet of paper, others some objects, like vases, sometimes even my own hair.
” There was something distant in her voice that made me double my attention.
As if she was somewhere else. Maybe the past. If that was the case, I could understand it very well.
Revisiting old memories was something I did often.
“Nowadays, I paint a mural in my room every year. To remember the good old times.”
“Are you good at it?” That was not what I truly wanted to say. If I could, I would ask how much she missed her dad. But there was a line between us that couldn’t be crossed.
She was the hostage, I was her captor and, one day, her executor.
She sighed. “I try to be. I mean, since I discovered Bob Ross’ old as hell tutorials on YouTube I have improved, but wouldn’t say I’m good at it.”
My eyes wandered over her body. The way her curves painted a delicate frame. How her legs graciously stretched as she stood on her tiptoe, analyzing the painting, back turned to me. I couldn’t help but compare her to a mischievous fairy, small, feisty, curious, always with an answer ready.
Her fingers lightly touched the canvas. “Has it been restored?” she asked, then turned to me.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. Several times.”
“Who are these people?”
I sighed, letting my shoulders slump, and walked towards her. "Giuseppe and Rosa Vicari. The founders of the famiglia. One day I'll tell you their story, but for today, we have other matters to attend to. Sì?"
She stared at me, narrowed eyes, knitted brows. “You’re weird.”
“Am I?”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. Well, yes, you’re weird.
You’re a cold-blooded killer, can’t exactly call you normal, can we?
” I rolled my eyes at that comment. She really had no sense of self preservation, did she?
“What I mean is you’re a little bit weird since the moment we stepped into this room. ”
“Oh, now you’re analyzing me, Signorina Parker?”
“What can I say? Maybe I have a hidden talent for psychology.”
I nodded. “Let’s just say your intuition is right. I don’t use this room. I don’t like this room. And when you start your work as housekeeper, I hope you keep that in mind.”
“Why do you hate it?”
Cazzo. Did she really have to be so nosy?
“Because, Signorina, it reminds me of the people I lost. Now, if there are no more questions, can we move on?”
Even though there was still some reluctancy in her expression, she nodded, and I took her to the other rooms in the house.