Chapter 40 - Vince
Vince
My Dearest Stellina,
If you are reading this, then something has happened to me. Please know, first and foremost, that I have always been so proud of the woman you’ve become. You are strong. Kindhearted. Brilliant. I love what you are making of your life.
There’s so much your mother and I shielded you from, truths we thought we were protecting you from by hiding them. But with us gone, it’s time you knew.
I wrote this letter when idle threats began to surface. I gave it to Preston Langford, my longtime best friend and our family attorney, with strict instructions: if I die under suspicious circumstances, this letter goes directly to you.
Let me start from the beginning.
I am Vincenzo Matteo Ferretti, born in a small-town outside of Palermo, Sicily. I am the eldest son of Don Matteo Ferretti, once the head of the Cosa Nostra, and Francesca Estella De Luca Ferretti. Your grandparents were infamous—ruthless when crossed—but fiercely loyal to those they loved.
Francesca was a force. Beautiful. Sharp-tongued.
She was my father’s equal, though the world rarely knew it.
She could bring a man to his knees with one look, and she ruled beside my father, not behind him.
But at home? She was a lullaby singer, a monster hunter, and a baker of sweets whose almond biscotti could stop traffic in our village. She was my mother.
My parents married young, just eighteen. Much like your mother and I did. Nine months later, I arrived. People feared my father, saw him as dangerous, evil even. But to me, he was just Papa. A loving father… until the day everything changed.
My mother was kidnapped and murdered for information she never had.
Papa was shattered. I still remember the way his voice sounded that night—like stone breaking.
He stepped down as Don and handed the role to my uncle, Zio Rocco.
We moved to Providence, Rhode Island. I was four.
I spoke little English and missed Sicily fiercely: the scent of lemons in the air, the cobblestone streets still warm from the day’s sun, and the songs drifting from open windows at night.
Papa put me in the best schools. I learned fast. I played soccer. I became the best striker in the Northeast. He kept the mafia world away from me—for a while.
When I was a teenager, my training began. Papa told me I was to return to Sicily one day and take my rightful place as head of the Cosa Nostra.
But then… I met Eleanor.
I was sixteen. We had a soccer match in Newport. I stepped off the bus, and there she was. The sun broke through the clouds right as the breeze caught her hair. I swear I smelled strawberries. And then… she turned. Just once. Like fate told her to.
I couldn’t breathe. I was gone. I knew I’d marry her—or that she’d destroy me.