Epilogue
Camillo Vicari
Sicily, Italy
Three years later
Sicilians were exuberant by nature. While the 'Ndrangheta demanded discretion, the Cosa Nostra preferred to be flashy. This party was living proof of that.
In a mansion overlooking the sea, lined with columns that would put ancient Greek temples to shame and a red marble floor so polished it mirrored the depths of the ocean, guests drifted back and forth in their opulent attire.
There were men in suits of every cut and fabric, children adorned with jewelry far too valuable for their age, and women dressed either in clothes so minimal they bordered on lingerie or as if they belonged in a convent.
I raised the champagne flute to my lips, responding mechanically to the men beside me.
Don Finisterra chattered about the latest issues that had united the Cosa Nostra and the 'Ndrangheta.
The fight against human trafficking had become a kind of matter of honor for some of the famiglie, and flesh merchants were being treated accordingly, most of them ending up at the bottom of the sea.
I observed the new Don Zaccaria, still appearing somewhat hesitant in his position.
Don Ettore's death had weighed heavily on all of us, even though it had been peaceful: in his own bed, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends.
The entire 'Ndrangheta had come together to support his successor, and so far, he had not disappointed.
Marco Zaccaria was not a son, but one of Don Ettore's grandsons.
He was a little older than Filippo Barone and me, which suited everyone.
As the saying went... not too young to screw up, not too old to pick up a gun.
Especially because, with the enormous power he had inherited, it was in everyone's best interest that he remain in power for many years to come.
I sighed as I watched him talking to Filippo and Don Finisterra, realizing how different he was from his grandfather.
Don Zaccaria was irreplaceable, and my wife would know.
Daisy had been one of the old man's closest friends on his deathbed, and to this day I still wondered how she had managed to win the fierce friendship and affection of old Zaccaria.
Well, maybe I actually knew... After all, Don Zaccaria valued honor, tradition, and, above all, loyalty.
Those were the very reasons he had once respected my Mamusia, for the way she had defended the Vicari against everything and everyone.
And something told me that was the exact reason Don Zaccaria respected and liked Daisy so much.
A buzz began to spread through the room like wildfire. I followed the direction of the collective gaze, and a smile spread across my face when I found her.
Madonna mia.
At the top of the grand staircase that descended into the immense hall of the Finisterra mansion, Daisy surveyed the room with the austerity of someone who loathed being the subject of gossip.
Her dress was long, a dark green like a rare emerald, crafted from the finest silk.
I knew it well, as I had given it to her myself.
The square neckline and thin straps showcased the peridot necklace around her neck, and her hair was swept back to reveal matching earrings.
She no longer wore bangs, and her hair was longer than ever.
I loved it when she wore it down, but I was thankful she hadn’t for this party.
I couldn’t bear the thought of other men feasting their eyes on what was mine.
Two small figures in three-piece suits the same color as her dress appeared behind her.
Her graceful hands opened, taking their small hands between her fingers, which were now decorated with Ferrari-red stiletto nails.
I smiled as her heels clicked against the marble, slowly descending with a boy on each side.
“Don Vicari, let me tell you, those boys are the spitting image of you.”
I smiled and thanked the new Don Zaccaria for the compliment, then turned my attention back to the vision of my wife and children.
She had given me twins, two boys: Salvatore and Renato.
In the early hours of the morning when they were born, we barely had time to breathe.
She had woken up with a scream, telling me she felt pressure between her legs.
Less than five minutes later, Salvatore was born, followed shortly after by Renato.
It was a natural birth, without complications, completely on time.
But unfortunately, there was no time for an epidural or any pain relief for Daisy.
And the result? The two boys were born looking exactly like me. There was nothing of her in them, and I had to endure a chorus of protests for the first few months—she even kicked me out to a different room for a while.
I laughed as I watched my miniatures reach the final step and knelt, welcoming them with open arms. They rushed toward me and I caught them tight, hoisting them up.
Daisy approached with measured steps, a crooked smile on her red-painted lips.
There was a glint of amusement in her gaze that did not leave me indifferent, and I wondered what the hell she was up to.
“Good evening, signori,” she greeted us.
Don Finisterra was the first to return the gesture, taking her hand, where the ring of the famiglia’s matriarchs and the thick gold wedding band sparkled.
As he kissed it, I found myself wondering what the consequences would be of snapping the neck of the powerhouse of the Cosa Nostra… “A beautiful party, Don Finisterra.”
“An honor, Signora Vicari,” the Sicilian declared with excessive friendliness.
I planted a few kisses on my boys' heads so no one would notice my sour expression. Daisy was greeted by Filippo Barone and Don Marco Zaccaria. Only then did she approach me, that mischievous smile returning to her face.
“These two delayed me,” she protested softly as the men returned to their conversation. “They didn't want to put their shoes on for anything in the world. Donatella and Luca had to help me convince them. It took quite a few chocolate cannoli...”
I laughed and set the ragazzi down on the floor by my legs to give her a quick kiss on the lips. I felt their little hands pounding against my slacks and heard their protests over the music, but I ignored them.
The day I allowed myself to be forbidden from kissing my wife by two miniature people would be the day I lost my mind (and balls).
“I’m starting to think we should have left them at home,” I grumbled, looking down at the two pairs of jade eyes fixed on me, their sulky faces pressed against my legs. “Little rascals...”
Daisy laughed and leaned into my side. When Salvatore tried to protest, she simply gave him a sharp look. That was enough to silence the ragazzo and keep them both quiet; even I felt a slight shiver down my spine.
“I’m trying to take notes,” she murmured close to my ear. “Your mother looked so natural in those pictures, as if she were born for this kind of things. But me... look at how they stare at me, as if they don't want me here.”
I snorted and burst out laughing, immediately feeling her nails dig into my arm through my suit. “Dolcezza, they aren't looking at you like that. They’re afraid of you,” I reminded her, and she huffed, looking away.
Daisy had earned quite a reputation. The story of how she had executed Antonio Palumbo—along with the man’s wife and children—had spread everywhere.
My men reported that, behind closed doors, it was said no one should take us for granted, and that ‘Signora Vicari was more ruthless than her husband.’ That amused me, because I knew Daisy was harmless.
.. unless someone touched her the ones she loved.
The rest of the evening was pleasant.
Eventually, Luca showed up and took the ragazzi back to our estate in Sicily, a mansion I had bought by the sea as a gift for our first anniversary. And Daisy and I took advantage of the rest of the night to find some time alone.
As we walked barefoot along the shore, with only the breeze as our witness, she stopped and looked at me again with that clever, mischievous ferret-like expression.
Piccola Furetta. Forever.
“Don Finisterra's great-granddaughter is lovely.” I narrowed my eyes, suspicion tingling in my chest, as I watched her bite her lower lip. “Don't you think?”
“Daisy...?”
She smiled and lowered her hands to her belly, causing my eyes to widen. “Ready to be the father of a little girl, Don Vicari?”
I choked on my own breath but didn't let her say another word. I swept her into the air and spun her around, laughing.
“A bambina?!” I asked, overjoyed, as we both tumbled onto the sand. I pulled her close, covering her lips and face with kisses. “Pregnant, and with a bambina, no less?”
“I didn't want to tell you until I was sure, but yes. It’s a girl.”
I kissed her again.
About four months later—thankfully in a hospital this time—Daisy gave birth to a girl with her eyes and my dark hair. She was tiny and chubby-cheeked, every bit as charming as her mother.
“Let’s call her Margherita,” I whispered into my wife’s ear, my chest overflowing with pride and admiration.
“The Italian version of my name?” she asked, her sparkling peridot eyes fixed on me. “Are you sure you don't want to call her something else? I don't know... a name with more meaning, like your mother’s.”
“Dolcezza...” I brushed her hair back with careful hands, guiding her to look deep into my eyes. “There is no name in my life more important than yours.”
“Camillo...”
“Ti amo, Piccola Furetta.”
Her eyes welled with tears and her smile was wide and radiant. “I love you too, sugar.”