Destino (33 page)

Her eyes flashed open again. “Mmkay.”

She dressed after using napkins to clean herself. He hadn’t intended to take her to
Villa di Luce
when they embarked on a visit to his family’s winery. Her request to know more about his mother threw him. But now he wanted to share his history. For the first time since his parents’ death, he felt okay with explaining to a stranger why he was who he was.

As she packed their lunch and he folded the wine soaked quilt, he cleared his throat. “What’s your mother’s name?” he asked.

“Melissa, everyone called her Lisa,” she said confused by the turn of the conversation.

“How did your mother die?” Giovanni asked. She froze, her gaze lifting to him from her crouched position. She stood with the basket. “She died from an overdose of heroine.”

Giovanni couldn’t imagine that to be her mother’s fate. Mira shied away from him, busying herself with tidying up the space of their brief picnic. He ached to comfort her, to tell her it was nothing to be ashamed of. But he declined. He hated what drugs did to those he knew and cared about over the years. Men he trusted as brothers who wasted away.

They headed up the cellar stairs through the old barn and out into the fresh air. Her mood seemed to lighten under the noon sun. He dropped his arm around her shoulders and walked at her pace, answering her questions about the land and the products sold there. He loved her curious nature, though it would prove troublesome if she didn’t understand and appreciate the times when he would need to remain silent.

Zia, having seen them through her front windows, came to the door to watch their approach, all of which was pointed out to Mira by Giovanni. His aunt wore a forced smile. According to Giovanni she’d never seen him bring a woman to their vineyard for a visit. His visits were always alone; only Lorenzo knew of his need to come to the vineyard and disappear at times.

In the past Zia had set him up on many ambush dinners with local girls. Other than sex, Giovanni had no time for romance. Her lingering stare on Mira was uncharacteristically critical. However, his Bella was uncharacteristically different. Still Mira was gracious and polite. He couldn’t tell if it mattered to her that others regarded her with suspicion and scorn because she was different than them, just as his mother had suffered the same looks of contempt over her red hair and ice blue eyes.

Zia spoke with her limited English. She invited them both for dinner. Mira looked to him expectantly. Her smile indicated that she’d be willing to stay. He passed on the temptation before he lost his nerve. They would visit his mother’s villa, and he’d face his demons with her.

“No.” Giovanni simply stated and his aunt glared at the lack of respect. To refuse her, was an insult. He had no time to explain his intentions. Mira would be his and only his this evening.

Zia took Mira by the hand and told her she would refresh their basket with food from her oven. Mira appeared enchanted with his aunt’s tiny kitchen. She found a way to communicate as they packed away a fresh basket of thinly sliced meats and cheeses for the wine, along with pasta he knew his aunt hand rolled.

“She’s a beauty.” Rocco said in Italian. “Is she yours?”

Giovanni understood the reference. His uncle had leered at his woman since they arrived. He wanted to know if she was his mistress or plaything. He chuckled. “No uncle, she’s an American friend.”

“You said girlfriend?”

“
Si
, an American
raggaza
.”

Rocco leaned to the left to get a clear look at Mira in the kitchen. Giovanni shook his head and let it pass. The women returned and Mira allowed Rocco’s farewell embrace, though it lingered too long with polite kisses to her left then right cheek before he brushed his lips over hers. Giovanni put a hand to his shoulder to remind him to show respect. Zia shooed him away and kissed Giovanni goodbye.

“Your uncle felt me up. Twice! And he kissed me on the mouth in front of his wife!”

“I apologize. He’s harmless.”

“Well he’s fresh, really fresh.”

Giovanni chuckled. “I’ll talk to him. It won’t happen again.”

Once outside he walked her over to his motorbike. Mira stopped. Her eyes registered shock, but she didn’t question him. He took her basket and secured it in the back hutch, then put a helmet on her pretty head. He couldn’t wait to feel her pressed against him as he drove out of Chianti.

“So are we dating now Giovanni?”

He slipped her a sly smile and eased on his sunglasses. Giovanni climbed on the bike first and got it started. Mira used his shoulders to climb behind. “My dress, it’ll fly open on this thing.”

“Keep your thighs close to me and sit on your dress.”

She tucked the center of her dress hem under her and between her thighs. Her arms circled his waist and he again felt more alive than he had in months. Soon they were racing out of the vineyard toward a new destination. He could feel her nervous energy in the way she clung to him. He tried to tell her he’d be extra careful, but she wouldn’t lift her face from his back.

The road to his mother’s villa turned into a long one-way stretch of dirt, paved, and then cobblestone strips mowed through browning grass. After travelling for over thirty minutes he relaxed on the speed, and Mira lifted her head to look around.

“Where are we now?” she said loudly.

“Fiesole,” he answered dryly. “There it is!” he pointed ahead to the aged block shaped lemon yellow building trimmed in plum colored purple, over the hill. The tall grass had rose red wildflowers blooming. Giovanni drove the jeep up to the front of the villa and parked. “This is where Mama lived after we returned from Ireland until Catalina was two. I was fifteen when we were brought here. Catalina wasn’t born until a year later. After that Mama stopped running.”

“Running?” Mira asked into his ear, holding him again tightly around the waist. “What do you mean running?”

“Papa would have preferred to have her in Sorrento, but she resisted this for a while. She was kept here under guard. Here he could have access to her without interference. He couldn’t be separated from her.”

“But why, did he do it by force?” Mira asked.

“Let’s go inside.”

He drove them to the door and held the bike steady while she got off. Giovanni dropped the kickstand and collected the basket and wine. He watched her stroll toward the doors removing her helmet. Giovanni had forbidden Catalina and others from going to the once dilapidated cottage. Just recently he’d had the place painted and the roof replaced. He had to admit he missed his mother intensely whenever he dared to venture here alone. Mira waited for him at the steps. She accepted the basket while he fidgeted with the old lock and forced the wooden door to creak open. Immediately they were overcome by the strong pungent odor of stale air and mildew. To his relief Mira set aside all that was in her hands, drew the curtains back, and opened the dusty windows to allow fresh air in.

When Mira turned he walked away with a large ball of sheets trapped in his strong arms. Every piece of furniture including the mirrors was covered. She brushed the pads of her fingers across the film of dust on the mantle and wondered how long the place had remained untouched. It was then she noticed a portrait in a large silver frame on the mantle. Giovanni continued to open windows on the lower level. She could hear him groan and struggle with a stubborn latch.

Careful of the delicate silver frame she handled it with one hand and wiped the dust off the glass of the frame. The man in the picture had to be his father. He was a strikingly handsome man with jet-black wavy hair that greyed at the temples, and a perfectly shaped mustache that reached his chin. He had hard eyes. They were so dark the irises appeared black in the portrait. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and a blue tie on top of a white shirt. In front of him sat a beautiful woman with paler skin, dressed in a matching blue dress. Her hair bright red, long and wavy hung past her shoulders. She had kind eyes. Clear blue like Giovanni’s, there was such a sweet beauty to her. Though the portrait was aged she could see the details of her dress, the freckles on her cheeks and the sweet baby in her arms in a christening gown. To her left stood Giovanni as a teenager, no more than sixteen, wearing a pensive look.

Giovanni spoke behind her, and she jumped. She turned and revealed what had her so mesmerized. He accepted the frame from her. “Papa was so happy when we took this photo. He had a local artist transform it into a painting. It hangs in Mondello now. Mama placed the replica here.”

“You don’t look happy,” Mira said.

“My mother never spoke ill of him, but I was a teenager at that time this picture was taken. I had no delusions of who my father was.”

“It’s hard relating to our parents as teens.”

“More than hard, Bella.” His gaze lifted to hers, the blue had dissolved to a soft violet and she could see tears glisten. He blinked and the illusion of tears cleared, but the beauty of his eyes remained. “Mama took me with her when she fled Sorrento and hid with her cousins in Ireland. Her mother and father wouldn’t have anything to do with her, because of me, but her cousin took us in. She was happy for a short while. We were dirt poor, and she was happy.”

“You weren’t?”

“I knew nothing about poverty. As Don Battaglia’s son I always had the best of everything. I didn’t understand why we had to eat scraps from the dinner tables of others, and wear the rags. Mama could barely make enough to keep us fed through winter with her washboard. Still she acted as if we were free. I felt like we were in hell.”

“You were a boy, confused.”

“After two years in Ireland my misery got the best of me. Kids that I didn’t fit in with taunted me. I defied my mother and called Sicily for my father. I told him where we were.”

Mira held her breath, transfixed by the story. “What happened?”

“He arrived. Our little one bedroom cottage door opened one day and he and his brothers walked in.” Giovanni smiled, but there was no pleasure in this smile. “My mother knew immediately that I had betrayed her. I’ll never forget the look of pain and hurt on her face. It haunts me now. He walked in and kissed her, told her to collect our things. She did as he said without objection. We were immediately taken back to Italy. Soon she was pregnant, and the fight in her was all gone. She never tried to leave again.”

“I don’t understand. He was her husband. Why did she leave him?”

“I told you they were never married.” He said bitterly. Mira realized he had shared that truth with her, but she didn’t find it scandalous. He spoke of it as if their love was some mortal sin. She opened her mouth to apologize and he shook his head. “Don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cross.”

“Your mother made a sacrifice for you. For your sister?” Mira asked.

“Yes.”

“She loved you.”

“She had no one but us. Even in Ireland she was treated with scorn.” He sighed, dropping on the sofa. Mira sat next to him. “My mother arrived in Napoli with her parents at the age of fourteen. Her dad wanted to open up his textile business there, and hearing that they could prosper better than in poverty stricken Ireland, he relocated the family. At the time my father had gained prominence within Mussolini’s Republic. He had a lot of influence.” He ran his hand through his hair and sucked in a deep breath as if the weight of the tale constricted his breathing. Mira ran her hand across his chest to soothe him through the telling.

“I don’t know when he first laid eyes on my mother, but he did. He said once that he’d never seen hair so red on the head of an angel. He said he fell in love at the sight of her.”

“She was a child, only fourteen.”

Giovanni wiped his hand down his face and slouched in the sofa seat. “Yes, she was a child.”

“I understand, you don’t have to—.”

“I’m not done.” His tone was flat but assertive. “He commanded a lot of respect.”

“As do you?”

Giovanni glanced over to her with a curious frown.

“You helped me with opening the doors to my boutique when we were closed down. Seems that your family’s influence extends through southern Italy.”

“It does.” Giovanni chuckled. “To insult a man of my father’s prominence is a grave mistake. The McHenry’s didn’t know this. My grandfather challenged Papa openly for touching his daughter inappropriately during a visit to their store. He threw him out. My father left without any complaint. This part of the story was told to me by my cousin, as part of my shame.”

“Why is it your shame?”

Giovanni stared down at the picture. “My father ordered his brothers and men to leave the McHenry’s alone. No punishment was to be extended for the insult. It confused them all. One thing Don Tomosino wasn’t was a charitable man. But he had other plans for the family. He had other plans for her.”

“What did he do to your mother?”

“The unthinkable. He raped her.”

Mira froze. Had she heard him right? He used the word rape as casually as a man would say the word love. She looked down at the picture of the family with a renewed understanding. It pained her to hear the fate of an innocent girl by the hands of a lustful, calculating man twice her age.

“How did he get her alone?”