But there’s a dark spot filling me up, one fueled by terror and anxiety. Here we are, folding laundry and singing old songs, when Zio—a man so allergic to showing weakness he didn’t shed a single tear when he almost cut off his thumb—was just sobbing on the floor upstairs with a terrifyingly powerful man towering over him.
I clear my throat carefully. “Zia. I’m worried about Zio.”
Zia stops humming and lets out a slow, heavy sigh. She folds another towel into a neat rectangle with sharp corners before finally speaking. “He’s taking care of men’s business.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’re two sides to this world, and if you’re lucky, you’ll have a man to deal with the cruel one.”
“Cruel? Do you mean—”
“Mammà?” Zio’s voice trips down the basement stairs. He sounds strong. Like whatever happened in his office was a figment of my imagination. “Are we ready for lunch?”
He sounds so calm. So normal. Like this was any other day and he wasn’t just kneeling on the carpet at the king’s feet. My stomach turns to stone, and I don’t know if it’s fear or relief that weighs it down.
“Come, patatina.” Zia pats my hand with a warm smile. “Let’s feed your poor zio.”
I grab the basket of folded clothes and follow her upstairs. Zio sits at the head of the table with a newspaper covering his face. While Zia tends to lunch, I take a quick peek in the office. It’s empty. Santino is gone, but like a shadow, the smell of gunpowder and liquid iron remain.
Zio flips the pages as if he wasn’t just a cowering mess.
Zia makes lunch as if she wasn’t playing blind and dumb to the cruelties in her own house.
Santino’s shadow is still in the dark corners. He was never just a man. He was always more. Re Santino. Re means king, though of what? What had he done to earn the awe of the neighborhood? There are whispers, sure, but what human man can be as powerful as they say he is? He’s accused of—and admired for—crimes that happened before he was born, given credit for universal mysteries, and assumed mythological status whenever the younger women among us talk. A man can be strong and powerful, but those claims are always prefaced by, “He’s Re Santino so…”
I know one thing for sure.
I never want to see him again.
2
VIOLETTA
The hot eye of the sun burns a glorious tan into my pale winter skin. Trying to figure out if its gaze is protective or malevolent, I look right into it with the ocean breaking in the background and a cold drink sweating in my hand, but the sun isn’t talking.
Fine. I can wait. It’s the most beautiful day of my life. I have all the waves and fruity drinks a girl needs, and none of the boring obligations. No school, no family, nothing. Just me and the beautiful outdoors. I could live in this moment forever.
In the distance, a group of guys with fine, well-oiled muscles play volleyball with an open cooler and blaring radio at the base of the net. I reposition myself so I can watch them against the backdrop of breaking waves. Scarlett will kick herself stupid when she realizes this is what she gave up to go to freaking Iceland.
“Violetta!”
The hottest of the group, perfectly blonde and tanned, calls to me. I shouldn’t be able to see his piercing blue eyes from that far away but I can discern the webs and flecks of hazel at the center. I’m walking toward him before I wonder how he knows my name. Maybe the name is more common in Greece than back home, and he’s calling someone else. Still, I play coy and tighten the knot in the side of my bikini bottoms. I may not be the Violetta he wanted…but I could be.
“Violetta!”
A seagull screeches my name. That’s strange. Maybe too much alcohol under a malevolent sun conspired to make me hallucinate.
I’m coming, I’m convinced I call to Mr. Dreamy Blue Eyes, even though I can’t hear myself.
“Violetta!” he says in a woman’s voice, and the sun is gone. The sand disappears beneath my feet. I’m back in my bed, in Secondo Vasto, USA—which lies a hundred realities away from my pristine beach. Sleep clings like wet sand between my toes, but firm hands shake me awake.
“Come now, lazy girl,” my aunt’s voice urges. Definitely not Mr. Dreamy Blue Eyes. Damn. “I need help in the kitchen. We have guests coming.”
“Five more minutes, Zia,” I plead with a groan and bury my head further under the pillow. I don’t want to be here. I want to be back in Santorini, surrounded by gorgeous sun-kissed men and frosty drinks. I’ll even take the talking seagulls if it meant I was there rather than here.
“You had five more minutes. Up, up.” She claps twice with the urgency of an impatient drill instructor.
Protests die on my tongue—when Zia needs me in the kitchen, there’s little room for argument.
Seeing I’m awake, Zia pats my arm and leaves me alone to brush my teeth and throw on sweatpants and a tank top.
Downstairs, I hear the familiar hum of Nana Angelina and dishes banging. If Nana’s cooking, that means the guests are important. We’ll eat in the proper dining room that’s kept spotless and unused, entertain in the actual living room with the uncomfortable velvet couch, and cook in the extra kitchen in the basement.
There is little I love more than cooking big meals. The basement kitchen takes up half the footprint of the house. Tables for rolling dough, a six-burner stove for simmering sauces, the walk-in pantry full of dried herbs and baskets of tomatoes. My stomach urges me out of bed faster than my aunt.
When I get to the upstairs kitchen, the door to the basement’s open, and Nana’s voice comes up the stairs, singing an old Italian song I can understand. The savory aroma of oregano and garlic greets me long before my family, and I inhale deep. If I wasn’t so set on becoming a nurse, I’d want to be a chef. All those dishes dancing together, flavors mixing, the groans of pleasure from everyone eating.
Come on in, hunky, blonde beach boys. I know the way to your heart.
“What is she doing down here?” Zio demands before I can even get a piece of bread in the raw sauce. At five-eleven, he’s tall for a southern Italian, broad and muscular from years of contracting work, with a ring of ear-to-ear gray hair around a bald dome. He never got the nineties-era memo about moustaches, and keeps his trimmed and full as a beat cop.
“Helping.” Zia comes out from the kitchen, apron temporarily starched and clean. She’s bone-thin and fighting arthritis with sheer will. Even putting her hair up every morning hurts her fingers. When Zio took back a comment he made in his twenties about short-haired women being unattractive, she wouldn’t cut it. “What else would she be doing?”
“She needs to be studying.” He gathers one thick hand into a fist he’d never use on his wife.
“She finished the test, Guglielmo.” She only uses his full name when she means business.
“Madeline.” Zio’s frown is as wide as the old scar on his arm. “She has a list of books to read for the summer.” He turns to me. “Right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Right.” He points to his wife. “When your sister gets here, you’ll have enough cooks in the kitchen.”