La Famiglia (Battaglia Mafia Series) Page 14

  “No,” Giovanni said abruptly. “It’s not that serious. And Lorenzo isn’t the marrying type. He’s having his fling and tending to business in Europe.”

  “Okay,” Mira shrugged.

  They continued on the path lined by roses. A breeze travelled with them and she loved the comfort of his body heat. The walk lasted longer. She moved slower. The boys were up doing the hokey-pokey in her belly. She struggled with masking her discomfort. If he thought she was tired or in need of rest he’d delay his plans for their excursion, and she needed the freedom to be out and about. It helped with her anxiety. They argued less. Mira felt another sharp pang of guilt over how she’s treated him. He was such a good, attentive, caring husband. How did she ever get so lucky?

  When they returned to the villa they were greeted with silence. She saw a few of his men but they barely spoke. And then she heard her daughter crying. Giovanni stopped and kissed her head. “I’ll join you in a minute. Need to make a few calls.”

  “Okay. I’ll see to Eve and then shower. What should I wear?” she called out to him as he walked off. He threw up his hand as if it didn’t matter. She smiled and went in search of her baby.

  Later –

  Giovanni put his face in the palms of his hands. He calmed himself before he spoke.

  “How much is gone?”

  “I assure you, Gio, I have everything under control,” Santo said through the speaker system on the phone.

  Giovanni wiped his hand down his face. He sat back in his chair. “If you had it under control why did I hear this from someone other than you?”

  “Domi—”

  “It wasn’t Domi!” Gio shouted. “There’s nothing you do for this family that’s beyond my knowing!” Giovanni believed forty percent of the truth was missing from Santo’s tale. “The Mottolas have taken over Chiaiano,” Giovanni said. “It happened under your watch. Now answer the fucking question. How much is gone?”

  There was a brief pause before Santo cleared his throat. “The urbanization project. Francesco Mottola now says the region is his and so are the deals we’ve made. He has several villagers signing over their land to him. I had intended to meet with him to settle the matter, civilly. To challenge him will raise the brow of the other clans. The Camorra is the priority here.”

  “Mannaggia! Don’t lecture me on the Camorra.” Giovanni rocked back in his chair. “Che disastro! You had your chance and you fucked it over. You fucked me over.”

  “Gio, maybe I should come there. We can sit down and talk about this reasonably. Give me the opportunity to make this right with Mottola without your intervention. I can fix this.”

  Giovanni looked at Renaldo who stared back, waiting on an order.

  Giovanni bit down on his lip. “No one takes from me. For now do nothing. Let Mottola make his move. I expect to see you in two days. Bring me Giuliani.” Giovanni ended the call. The news came from an informant in the Mottola clan. The seizure of Chiaiano happened thirteen days ago and Santo hadn’t said a word. Which either meant the work he thought they were putting in to settle disputes over the rival clans’ thirst for drug trafficking had fallen through, or Santo had another agenda.

  “Call in Marco. He’s to shadow Santo from now on, and to make sure Giuliani comes to Sicily.”

  Renaldo stood and walked out. Giovanni checked his watch. He’d been distracted. He’d also been a fool to believe vultures like the Mottolas would not see his generosity as weakness. If he gutted Mottola then that meant he’d inherit his business, drugs and whores would fall under the name Battaglia. That pollution was the very last thing he wanted in his business. He picked up his pen thumping it against the note pad. Lorenzo’s warnings against legitimizing the family echoed in the recesses of his mind. His father’s hatred of heroin and how it divided the Mafia remained at the forefront of his mind.

  “Hi?” Mira knocked on the door. She had changed into khaki brown shorts and a lemon yellow halter maternity top. She looked refreshed from her shower.

  “I thought we were leaving?” she asked. “Eve’s with Nico and Cecilia. They are taking her to the beach so we can sneak out and she won’t see us.”

  “Yes. Yes.” He rose from his desk. “Let’s go.”

  5.

  There was a homey sense of familiarity with Mondello. Sweet memories of their motorcycle ride through Chianti, Italy surfaced as she and Giovanni travelled off their land on a single lane highway. Still in two days Sicilia had not replaced Sorrento in her heart.

  Mira adjusted the seatbelt. It fastened a bit snug over her middle. Giovanni didn’t drive like a man transporting his pregnant wife. Every time he braked, cursed and made gestures at slow moving drivers with his hands, the seatbelt tightened. Several times she grabbed the handle of the car door as he passed a slow moving vehicle or rode the bumper of another.

  “Can you slow down please?”

  He glanced her way. She couldn’t see his eyes because of the reflective lens of his sunglasses, but she noticed a sly tilt at the corner of his lips. That expression of his said: I’m having fun, baby, don’t question it. So Mira held her tongue and endured his driving for the moment.

  “First we visit Porticello near Palermo,” he said.

  “Really, is it like Mondello?” Mira asked. She stared at the sailboats. Several drifted on turquoise blue waters.

  “It’s a small fishing village, yes. Not as beautiful as Mondello.”

  The car veered off the steep cliff down to an open two-lane highway. For twenty minutes they travelled with the sea to their left and the rocky edge of the mountain to her right. And eventually Porticello crept up on them. She gaped at the approaching little market town. It looked like something from a picture book. The buildings were all stone structures of cream, lemon, melon and shades of pink. With plants and laundry hanging from the windows. Old men sat around card tables gawking at their shiny black sports car moving through their town. A few local men carrying fishing nets stopped to observe.

  “I guess the tourists don’t venture here huh?” she asked.

  “They do. The villagers recognize my car,” Giovanni said, and cast her another sly smile.

  Mira should have known her husband’s infamy would be felt here. She placed her hand to her belly. She swallowed down the hunger bug when she saw the quaint little eating spots and the open sidewalk produce market. Giovanni navigated the narrow cobblestone streets by taking one-lane alleys. Mira fiddled with a radio station until she found one with music that was pleasing. Of course it was in Italian.

  “Do they have festivals here?” she asked.

  “Mondello has a few. A windsailing festival that many people love.”

  “Windsailing?” Mira frowned. “Is it like sail boating?”

  Giovanni cut his gaze over to her. “Something like that, but more personal. It’s just a man, his sail, his board and the sea. You will let me teach you to swim?”

  “First the gun, now swimming,” Mira chuckled. “Yes, we’ll try it after the babies are born.”

  “Speaking of, your gun is in your vanity drawer. I made sure Leo put it there for you. Keep it on you if you go out to the beaches.”

  “I’m not carrying a gun to the beach.” Mira scoffed.

  “Then you won’t be going to the beach alone,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  They drove around the market square of the town and travelled down a very steep hill into the countryside. She was almost ready to ask how much further when the car veered off to what looked like private property. Ahead of them was a wood and stone farmhouse situated upon a hill. Through dense foliage, the upper level of the cottage could be seen. From her limited view the place looked older than Villa Mare Blu.

  “Does someone live here?”

  It was a valid question. So many historical cathedrals and stone structured buildings were in Sicily.

  “My father called this place Acqualiquida Rosa which translates to liquid water rose. In the spring all that you see surrounding here ar
e beautiful pink roses. Nowhere else in the countryside do these roses bloom but here. My dad’s sister was named Rosalie because she was born here instead of Bagheria. She was born outside of my grandfather’s marriage.”

  Mira found it distasteful to hear that another Battaglia man had forsaken his vows. But she decided to not harp on it. “Your father was close to her?”

  “He was, he raised her.” Giovanni continued to drive slowly up to the cottage.

  “Is there a reason why?” Mira asked.

  “He considered her, Rosalie, his sister I suppose,” Giovanni shrugged. “Family.”

  “No. I mean is there a reason why he was so big on roses?”

  “You think he was big on roses?” Giovanni scoffed.

  “They’re everywhere in your life.” Mira smiled. “Oh c’mon, baby,” she reached over and touched his thigh. “Tell me? Why did the great fearless Don Tomosino Battaglia like pink, purple, and blue roses? And don’t tell me that crap that you do it all for the pussy,” she laughed.

  Giovanni looked over the top of his sunglasses at her. She smiled and he smiled. “Roses represent love. I suppose love is the strength of the family. Love is what we Battaglia men need.”

  “Fair enough. A beautiful rose reminds me of love too.” Mira gazed upon the cottage. A closer look changed her opinion. It definitely appeared to be lived in. There were clothes on a line flapping in the wind.

  “Rosalie died at thirty-three. She died in childbirth. The place has been kept in the family,” Giovanni said. “Funny I never met her child, never knew what it was. I believe her husband moved with the child to England some say America.”

  “Who lives here now?” Mira asked.

  Giovanni parked. He turned in his seat. He put his arm around her headrest and looked at her again over the top of his sunglasses. “My father’s wife is from Porticello. When they were married she loved the place so he gave it to her. They stayed between here and the family home in Bagheria. I’ll take you there next. My uncle Vito, Rosetta’s father, he and the rest of the family live there now.”

  “Okay?” Mira said returning her gaze to the cottage. The grass so tall it nearly swallowed the car. “But who lives here?”

  “Esta asked me, after his death, permission to be allowed to live out her days here. I think it holds some fond memories of their time together.”

  “You have a relationship with her?” Mira asked in surprise. Giovanni nodded his head yes. “Does she stay here by herself?”

  “Her younger sister who is in her late sixties stays here too. I make sure they are provided for. My father made no provision for her in his will.”

  “Why didn’t he? Nothing against your mother, but why did he treat his wife Esta so horribly?”

  “You know how this goes, Bella. Don’t make me explain it again.” He looked back to the cottage. She stared at it as well when he answered. “She considers me her son. I consider her nothing more than a burden. One of many my father left me.” Giovanni sighed. “I intend to make this visit short.” He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the front pocket of his shirt. Mira reached over and grabbed his face with both of her hands. She kissed him, twice.

  Giovanni gave her a slight smile and then threw open his car door. Mira emerged from her side of the car. Her gaze landed on the window to the front of the cottage just as the curtain fell back. “I think they know we’re here.”

  “Of course they do,” he said and took her hand into his.

  Together they approached by walking across the unkempt lawn. At the door he knocked twice. Mira heard one lock, two, and then three disengage. The door slowly opened, but only an inch. A petite grey haired woman peeked out at them through the dingy lens of her eyeglasses. After a brief pause she opened the door wider.

  “Benevenuti,” the old woman said with a curt nod. She wore a white and blue floral housedress, and slippers with socked feet.

  “Ciao, Fiona. Dove è Esta?” Giovanni greeted the old woman with a pleasant tone. Mira watched as he kissed her on both of her cheeks.

  “Bene,” Fiona stepped back to allow them to enter. Mira smiled before she stepped inside. There was a brown cloth sofa and loveseat in the living room with a coffee table in between. Newspaper was scattered and stacked with books and magazines on the floor and chairs. Across from the sofa was a TV on top of a piano. There was no rhyme or reason to the way the house was organized.

  “Fiona, this is my wife Mirabella Battaglia,” Giovanni said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mira said. She extended her hand. Fiona looked at her hand for a second as if it weren’t attached to Mira’s body. The old woman reached for it, shook it briefly, and let it drop. Mira was surprised to see her wipe her hand against the side of her dress as if in disgust. “Esta is upstairs, you can go right up,” she answered before she shuffled off to what Mira suspected was her kitchen. “We’ve already eaten so I can’t offer you anything,” Fiona said.

  Giovanni led Mira by the hand to the stairwell. She felt a very personal sting of anger pierce her gut. The woman was unnaturally dismissive of her husband. She’d only seen people show Giovanni respect. And to Mira’s surprise she had grown to expect the humility from others when they were in his presence.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Mira whispered.

  He winked. “Of course.”

  A sour stench greeted them as they entered the hall. There were only three doors upstairs. Esta’s door was the first they arrived to. He knocked and then pushed the door open. He stepped in first and she followed. The room reeked of bleach. Putrid and unrelenting she bit back a wave of nausea. Mira instinctively put her hand to her mouth and nose to resist the urge to puke.

  An old woman lay in her bed propped up by pillows. A crocheted blanket covered a patchwork quilt that was tucked around her. She was as still as a corpse.

  “Esta?” Giovanni said.

  The woman’s sagging lids parted to reveal murky grey cataract eyes—a steely pair that fixed on Giovanni. Time had been unkind to her. She had to be well past the age of seventy. With very wrinkled skin dotted with moles, her hair was thick, silver, long. She wore it parted down the middle with two braids. Maybe in her hay day she was striking, but Mira saw no evidence of that beauty now. She reminded Mira of the witch that gave the poison apple to Snow White. And like the old woman, Esta’s mouth twisted with displeasure over the sight of Giovanni’s new American wife.

  Mira gaze switched to the silver picture frame at the side of the woman’s bed. The strikingly handsome man who looked like Giovanni had to be his father in a dark coat and fedora. He stood next to an expensive car. Beside Tomosino’s picture was one of the Pope, and above the bed a wooden cross was tacked to the wall. No other furnishing besides a portable toilet and a dresser with a television propped on top was in the room.

  “Giovanni? That you? I had hoped you would come.” Esta’s voice was very soft, almost meek. It surprised Mira. The woman extended her arthritic hand and welcomed Giovanni into a hug from her bed. He kissed her on both cheeks and said something to her that Mira couldn’t hear. The woman actually managed a smile. And then those cool eyes fixed on Mira once more.

  “Esta, meet my wife Mirabella. We have a daughter Eve and she’s pregnant now with twins. Sons. I will be a father again soon. With sons,” he said in a single breath.

  Mira blinked at him confused by his hurried introduction. “Nice to meet you,” Mira said.

  “You’re different,” Esta replied in English. “But beauty and babies often make wives out of whores.”

  “Now Esta, I will only caution you once about your manners,” Giovanni said in a tight voice.

  Esta quickly added, “I meant no disrespect. You and your father have always had a thing for the exotic. I’m happy to meet you, Mirabella.”

  Giovanni spoke. “How’s your health?”

  “The same, the doctor treats me horribly. Fiona said you must be skipping payments on my bills. Why else would the doctor be so unc
aring about my suffering?”

  “Not true, Esta. You know me better than that.” He picked up one pill bottle then the other, which Mira was sure he paid for. “How about we get you a private nurse?”

  “No!” Esta snapped. “No nurse. I won’t have strangers in my home.” Esta’s cold eyes switched to Mira. She caught Mira staring at the photo of Tomosino near her bed. “That is my husband, Don Tomosino Baldamenti. The family took on the name Battaglia when they left Sicily and started up with that godless Camorra. They all did. His brothers, everyone. But he is a Baldamenti! He was a great man. A powerful man,” Esta boasted. “They have an entire village named after him.”

  Mira didn’t know how to respond. So she kept quiet.

  “Will you stay for dinner, Gio? You haven’t spent time with me in awhile,” Esta said in a voice wavering with emotion.

  “Maybe we should go. Let her rest,” Mira blurted. The last thing she could stomach was dinner with these ladies. And she didn’t like the odd relationship Giovanni had with this woman. Something about it felt unnatural. The truth of his devotion soon unraveled before Mira’s eyes. He wasn’t caring for Esta in the way the old woman needed. He forced her into this isolation with this meager existence to torment her. Mira was almost certain of it.

  “You go. I want to speak with Gio alone.” Esta answered in a sharp, brisk tone.

  “Esta! Basta! One more word of disrespect to my wife and I will leave. I came to check in on you. To make sure you were okay but I won’t put up with it.”

  “But I’m so lonely Giovanni. No one comes to visit Fiona and me. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I didn’t get an invitation to your wedding,” she whined.

  “You weren’t well.” Giovanni reminded her.

  “The doctors said I was. I sent word that we could come. I was told—”

  Giovanni put up a hand and Esta silenced. The wrinkles in her face creased deeper with anger. Mira cringed at the hatred she saw boiling in the old woman’s glare. It made her even more uncomfortable that her husband enjoyed it.