Chapter 30 #2
Fabiano translated, and before I could react, his cheerful uncle grabbed me and greeted me in the Italian way. With a kiss on each cheek.
I laughed. I was getting used to such intimacy. Besides, I had no other choice.
“Piacere, Signorina Daisa!”
“Daisy, Zio. Daisy.” Fabiano corrected him, while I took a step back and turned my attention back to his muscles and the sweat running down them.
Good Lord... The Italian air really did wonders for men.
Gennaro pronounced my name correctly and fired off a few more things in Italian, fluffing his moustache.
Fabiano smiled. “Uncle Gennaro wants to know if you have ever done sfogliatura before.”
“’Sfogliatura’? What’s that?”
Fabiano chuckled. “It’s when we remove some of the leaves from the vines to help the grape clusters ripen. We usually do it closer to harvest time, but this year the fruit is very late.” He explained, running a hand through his dark, curly hair that fell to his neck.
“Nope.” I confirmed. “We don’t have any vineyards in my town.”
Gennaro asked something else.
“My uncle wants to know where you're from, Signorina.”
“Oh, just call me Daisy! No Signorina!” I asked. “I'm from a small town in South Mississippi, United States of America.”
Gennaro let out a loud “oh!” accompanied by wide eyes and open hands. With enthusiasm that transcended language barriers, he said something that made not only Fabiano, but also the people around him, burst out laughing.
“My uncle traveled a lot when he was a boy and spent three months in Mississippi during his trip around the world!” Fabiano translated, placing one of his strong arms on the old man's shoulders, who was nodding fervently.
“He says he loved the food... Fried pickles, fried catfish, your fried chicken... And...” The old man said something in my direction that included ‘scusa,’ one of the few words I recognized thanks to Camillo.
“And he apologizes, but his English was never good, and over the years he's forgotten it.”
"No problem. Besides, I'm in Italy, so I have to learn to speak Italian.“ In front of those friendly people, it was easy to forget everything that had been happening. ”And your uncle is absolutely right, Fabiano! Our food is great."
Fabiano smiled warmly, translating my words to his uncle with great ease, but I realized that the old man was starting to protest.
“Okay, okay!” Fabiano replied in English, amused by whatever Gennaro was saying to him. “He says he may not be able to speak English anymore, but he understands most things,” Fabiano explained, and I smiled again.
“Well, I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Gennaro, because you're one of the nicest persons I've met so far!” The old man burst out laughing and, before I could react, he gave me two more kisses on the cheeks and disappeared again into the vineyard, returning to work.
“Would you like me to show you the vineyard, Daisy?” Fabiano's invitation surprised me, but it filled me with joy. Mainly because of his friendly expression.
“Of course!”
Fabiano put his sweaty cap on my head and guided me carefully through the vineyard, and I soon realized that this wasn't going to be much of a guided tour.
He took me to Gennaro, and they both gave me a lesson on how to prune vines.
I helped them as best I could to finish a few rows, feeling the sun bite my skin on my arms and shoulders.
Two hours later, we were done, and to my great relief, Fabiano didn't give me any more work. Instead, he guided me back to the road that divided the vineyard and took me on foot to the land adjacent to the villa.
It seemed that Camillo's property extended far beyond the house and vineyards. Far beyond what Luca had shown me.
Fabiano took me on a tour of land covered with olive groves as far as the eye could see, others with orchards full of orange trees, others that were part of the hills I ran through at night.
At a certain point, Fabiano took pity on my unaccustomed legs and took me with him in a pickup truck.
He showed me more and more of the land until he parked in front of a huge building.
“You're going to see the olive oil mill and the wine press.”
And so it was.
Fabiano explained that they were not yet in operation in July. They would only start working in the mills in September. Even so, I was allowed to taste both the Vicari olive oil and the wine, which finally allowed me to understand Europeans' obsession with bread and olive oil.
Real olive oil, not the kind we found in American supermarkets, didn't need seasoning or anything else. It was thick, fruity, delicious.
We left the mill and Fabiano drove up a hill, making me pray to the good Lord for my life at one point.
He took us down a winding road, flanked by a steep rocky abyss, and I only didn't curse him because, right after that, he stopped the car in front of an impressive landscape, sculpted by human hands.
“What you see here is what made the famiglia Vicari rich,” he said, slamming the door of the pickup truck.
I followed him, paying close attention to what lay ahead.
A road stretched to the other side of the land, and on either side of it, the earth sank, carved out by what I believed to be decades of hard work.
The excavations had created hollows large enough to house several villages.
You could see the fiery orange and white tones of the clay mixed into the soil.
In some places, low-lying brush had already grown.
“It's... impressive.”
“Sì.” I noticed the pride in Fabiano, who watched everything with his hands on his hips.
“Giuseppe Vicari's eyes discovered a pocket of precious stones in these lands you see. But it was my famiglia, the Mancuso, who began to excavate them. We started out as employees, then became friends, and finally partners.”
“Partners?” So Donatella hadn't misled me. They really were all mobsters.
“Sì! We get a small percentage of the stones that come out of these hills.
And another percentage on the olive oil and wine.
But we're not the only ones!” He said, turning to me with a huge smile.
"All the families who work here get a percentage, however small.
Some barely pay for a coffee, but it gives a man a good reason to work.
The wages alone pay the bills and are good wages.
But knowing that there's a little bit that's ours is different. .."
“Wow... I didn't know Camillo was that generous,” I said, genuinely surprised by what I was hearing.
Fabiano gently placed a hand on my back and led me back to the pickup truck.
“Signor Camillo acts as his famiglia always did, but this wasn't his decision.
The division of business percentages began when Giuseppe Vicari gave part of his business to my famiglia.
Then, other descendants followed in his footsteps.
But it was Signor Camillo's grandfather, Don Patrizio, who gave a little of what he had to those who worked for him.”
I was silent for a few seconds as the car started up again. “He seems to have been a good man,” I finally murmured.
“He was. Many people miss him. And Don Gaetano, Signor Camillo's father, too.”
“Mrs. Donatella Condello told me that he died in a car accident in my country.”
Fabiano sighed, his hands firmly on the steering wheel.
“Sì. Their car fell off a bridge.” So, I hadn't been mistaken after all. The mafia family Olivia had told me about, the one that had died in a police chase, was indeed Camillo's. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the words I heard next: “Signor Camillo's wife was to blame.”
My breath stopped and shame began to gnaw at my bones.
Camillo was married?!
There was no sign of her, or any other woman, in his room, but I was forbidden from entering the east and west wings of the house. Was there where they stayed? Or did she live in a separate house, which was why he tended to disappear?
My good Lord...
“She is no longer with us.” My expression must have been too obvious.
I turned to Fabiano, embarrassed by the relief I was feeling.
What did I care if Camillo Vicari was single or married?
He was a jerk, a murderer, and my kidnapper.
Nothing more. "Signora Valentina was quite a woman. Very beautiful, tall, intelligent... Signor Camillo loved her so much it was ridiculous. Once, she told him she was allergic to peaches. By the time Don Patrizio and Don Gaetano found out, he had already ordered us to uproot all the peach trees. He had many arguments with his mother because of her. Signora Natalia hated Valentina.”
I swallowed hard, looking at the window beside me. The sun was about to set in a few minutes, but even its copper beauty on the horizon was not enough to dispel what I was feeling. My chest felt tight. A sharp pain made my toes curl.
When I first told him I was afraid to be alone in the housekeeper's house, he didn't even care. But for that so-called Valentina, he even uprooted a peach orchard.
I rubbed the back of my neck, focusing on Fabiano and pushing those absurd thoughts away.
“Did she also die in the accident?”
“No.” His heavy tone surprised me. All this time, Fabiano had been extremely pleasant and had proven himself to be a cheerful man, but now his tone was distant, heavy. “She was murdered at home, in America. She and her son.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Camillo had had a wife and a child. My heart sank as I imagined him returning to Italy alone, with no one. It was no wonder he wanted to protect the family he had left from Senator Jones. But there was something that still puzzled me.
“Did you say she was to blame for the accident, Fabiano?”
“Sì. She went to work in America as a lawyer or whatever she was.
She got hold of some dodgy documents and had Signor Camillo's famiglia arrested. When they tried to escape, she called the police and the accident happened,” he said.
“Camillo, Mario, and Lorenzo were in another car, which is why they survived. But Don Patrizio, Don Gaetano, Don Ricardo, Signora Natalia, Signora Renata, and Signora Geovana... they died in the accident.”
“And... And did Camillo forgive his wife?” The question came out without me thinking.
Fabiano sighed and scratched the curls covering the back of his neck. “No. He asked her for a divorce as soon as the sentence was read. He preferred to go to jail divorced than married to a traitor. He didn't even want to recognize the boy when he found out she was pregnant.”
“Oh...”
We didn’t talk about it any further. It was terrible to realize everything Camillo had been through, and I understood why he was so paranoid. He had been betrayed by the woman he loved and lost his family because of it. I couldn't imagine the kind of guilt he must have been carrying in his heart.
I suppose we all have our demons...
After a few minutes on the road, I frowned. The sun had already set, but there was no sign of the houses of Castello dell'Fiero. Quite the opposite. Fabiano had entered some kind of highway.
I sat up straight in my seat.
“Where are you taking me?”
He smiled and winked at me. “I’m going to prove I can be a great friend, if you let me!”
I narrowed my eyes, remembering all the shooting lessons my Papa gave me when I was a little girl. Those people were part of the mob. Fabiano was no exception, so I was pretty sure there was a gun somewhere in that pickup and I wasn’t afraid to use it if my new friend tried anything funny.
“How exactly are you planning to do that?” I asked, already eyeing the glove compartment.
Would it be there?
However, the Italian looked at me and gave me a warm smile, easing my nerves as he explained, “I’m taking you to Reggio Calabria.”