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Rafaella insists on saying ‘our world’ all the time, she speaks as if the mafia were not just armed men who use violence to get what they want. It's almost like it's a lifestyle, and every time I ask her to explain it to me, I never understand and I don't know if it's because I'm too ignorant, if she's so immersed in the context that she can't explain it clearly, or if she just doesn't want to do it.
But the fact is that until Vittorio crossed my path, the mafia was just a Hollywood story to me. The Don watches me closely long enough that I think he's not going to respond to me and I go back to eating.
I finish my bread and coffee, and start with cereal, pour some yogurt over it, and then some fruit. I'm in the middle of sighing with satisfaction after the first spoonful when Vittorio speaks.
“The word that defines the mafia is tradition.”
“Tradition,” I repeat.
“People often single us out as nothing more than criminals, and yes, lawlessness is an indisputable part of our lifestyle, but that's only because we're not willing to hear that the space we want can't be ours.”
“It sounds selfish.”
“It's selfish. But why is this a problem?”
“You hurt people,” I justify.
“And people hurt us, Gabriella. This would happen regardless of what we did. You are a clear example of this,” he says without caring about the damage his words can cause, and the black box vibrates inside me.
I look away, Vittorio isn't wrong, the monsters that made my life their territory never cared about how selfless I could be. Maybe that was the reason why Fernanda was so selfish after all. Maybe she understood, long before I did, that the world wouldn't be kinder to her just because she was kinder to others. Kindness generates kindness. For whom?
“Our values may not be understandable to outsiders, but they are honored by us and passed down from generation to generation,” he says.
“And how would an outsider become part of this?” I ask, and Vittorio raises an eyebrow.
“Interested?” My cheeks flush.
“Curious.”
“Maybe I should avoid meeting you at the table. Always with so many questions...” I look away, feeling my neck and ears heat up, because his words aren't enough for me to lose the desire to ask all the questions flooding my mind now. “Men can apply and, if accepted, they are initiated.”
“Initiated?” The smile on the corner of the Don's lips tells me he's not going to answer that. “And the women?”
“Only through marriage.”
“Are there no female soldiers?”
“No.”
“That's sexist!” I exclaim immediately, and Vittorio throws his head back in a loud laugh that moves the muscles in my face, stretching them into a smile, even though I'm vexed.
“I tell you that we are an organization that spares no means to get what it wants, and you act as if that is understandable, but when I say that women cannot be soldiers, you are outraged. You're funny, Gabriella, very funny.”
“Why can't women be soldiers?”
“Tradition.”
“A sexist tradition.”
“Most of them are happy to stay where they belong. They are raised to be wives, not soldiers,” he says, and it's impossible not to remember Rafaella. She is not at all happy about being a wife.
“And the ones that aren't?”
“They conform.”
“Couldn't they be something else?”
“Being a mob wife is very time consuming, believe me.”
