“Well, I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Gennaro, because you're one of the nicest persons I've met so far!” The old man burst out laughing and, before I could react, he gave me two more kisses on the cheeks and disappeared again into the vineyard, returning to work.
“Would you like me to show you the vineyard, Daisy?” Fabiano's invitation surprised me, but it filled me with joy. Mainly because of his friendly expression.
“Of course!”
Fabiano put his sweaty cap on my head and guided me carefully through the vineyard, and I soon realized that this wasn't going to be much of a guided tour. He took me to Gennaro, and they both gave me a lesson on how to prune vines. I helped them as best I could to finish a few rows, feeling the sun bite my skin on my arms and shoulders.
Two hours later, we were done, and to my great relief, Fabiano didn't give me any more work. Instead, he guided me back to the road that divided the vineyard and took me on foot to the land adjacent to the villa.
It seemed that Camillo's property extended far beyond the house and vineyards. Far beyond what Luca had shown me.
Fabiano took me on a tour of land covered with olive groves as far as the eye could see, others with orchards full of orange trees, others that were part of the hills I ran through at night. At a certain point, Fabiano took pity on my unaccustomed legs and took me with him in a pickup truck. He showed me more and more of the land until he parked in front of a huge building.
“You're going to see the olive oil mill and the wine press.”
And so it was.
Fabiano explained that they were not yet in operation in July. They would only start working in the mills in September. Even so, I was allowed to taste both the Vicari olive oil and the wine, which finally allowed me to understand Europeans' obsession with bread and olive oil.
Real olive oil, not the kind we found in American supermarkets, didn't need seasoning or anything else. It was thick, fruity, delicious.
We left the mill and Fabiano drove up a hill, making me pray to the good Lord for my life at one point. He took us down a winding road, flanked by a steep rocky abyss, and I only didn't curse him because, right after that, he stopped the car in front of an impressive landscape, sculpted by human hands.
“What you see here is what made the famiglia Vicari rich,” he said, slamming the door of the pickup truck.
I followed him, paying close attention to what lay ahead. A road stretched to the other side of the land, and on either side ofit, the earth sank, carved out by what I believed to be decades of hard work. The excavations had created hollows large enough to house several villages. You could see the fiery orange and white tones of the clay mixed into the soil. In some places, low-lying brush had already grown.
“It's... impressive.”
“Sì.” I noticed the pride in Fabiano, who watched everything with his hands on his hips. “Giuseppe Vicari's eyes discovered a pocket of precious stones in these lands you see. But it was my famiglia, the Mancuso, who began to excavate them. We started out as employees, then became friends, and finally partners.”
“Partners?” So Donatella hadn't misled me. They really were all mobsters.
“Sì! We get a small percentage of the stones that come out of these hills. And another percentage on the olive oil and wine. But we're not the only ones!” He said, turning to me with a huge smile. "All the families who work here get a percentage, however small. Some barely pay for a coffee, but it gives a man a good reason to work. The wages alone pay the bills and are good wages. But knowing that there's a little bit that's ours is different..."
“Wow... I didn't know Camillo was that generous,” I said, genuinely surprised by what I was hearing.
Fabiano gently placed a hand on my back and led me back to the pickup truck.
“Signor Camillo acts as his famiglia always did, but this wasn't his decision. The division of business percentages beganwhen Giuseppe Vicari gave part of his business to my famiglia. Then, other descendants followed in his footsteps. But it was Signor Camillo's grandfather, Don Patrizio, who gave a little of what he had to those who worked for him.”
I was silent for a few seconds as the car started up again. “He seems to have been a good man,” I finally murmured.
“He was. Many people miss him. And Don Gaetano, Signor Camillo's father, too.”
“Mrs. Donatella Condello told me that he died in a car accident in my country.”
Fabiano sighed, his hands firmly on the steering wheel.
“Sì. Their car fell off a bridge.” So, I hadn't been mistaken after all. The mafia family Olivia had told me about, the one that had died in a police chase, was indeed Camillo's. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the words I heard next: “Signor Camillo's wife was to blame.”
My breath stopped and shame began to gnaw at my bones.
Camillo was married?!
There was no sign of her, or any other woman, in his room, but I was forbidden from entering the east and west wings of the house. Was there where they stayed? Or did she live in a separate house, which was why he tended to disappear?
My good Lord...
