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“Yes,” Violetta answered quietly.
“Then why not marry me?” Franco asked, anguished. “We could be so happy together. Why be apart?”
“I’ve made up my mind.” Violetta’s lips pursed. “Now, I’d better go.”
“Why? Where? To makeerbanetti?”
“Yes.” Violetta rose.
Franco stood up. “Then I’ll buy yourerbanettievery month, for the rest of my life.”
Violetta paused. “Franco, if you do, you won’t see me. It’s sold on the wheel in the entrance hall. We’ll have no further contact.”
“I know. I’ll buy it anyway.”
“Why?”
“I’ll know it came from you, that it’s your touch. A taste will be a kiss.”
Violetta smiled sadly. “Goodbye, Franco.”
Franco couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye. He held back tears while she closed the shutters.
Franco bought hererbanettithatvery day.
And every month until hedied.
PART THREE
Mafia is a way of thinking, a way of life which is peculiarly Sicilian.
—gaia servadio,mafioso
Mafiais the consciousness of one’s individuality, the exaggerated conceit in one’s strength, which is regarded as the sole arbiter of every dispute, of every conflict of interest and opinions, which results in an intolerance of anyone else’s superiority, or worse still, anybody else’s power.
—giuseppe pitrè,usi e costumi, credenze e pregiudizi del popolo siciliano, vol.ii
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
Mafalda watched the sun send its final rays through the lemon trees, as she rested her head on her daughter’s chest. Lucia had grown into a beautiful young woman, and mother and daughter had survived together, having only each other.
“Mamma, are you comfortable?”
“Yes, I’m comfortable.” Mafalda wondered if her daughter knew it was their last day. They were each other’s worlds, so Lucia probably knew it before Mafalda herself, in the way that daughters can sometimes be wiser than their mothers.
“How’s the pain?”
“It will go soon,” Mafalda answered, truthfully. The pain had started in her stomach a few years ago and spread throughout her body. She was wasting away, no matter what she ate. Her shirt and pants hung on her, as they dressed like men for safety, in clothes stolen from a laundry line.
“You can sleep now, Mamma.”
Mafalda closed her eyes. Tears formed under her lids, but she didn’t shed them. She wasn’t sad to leave this life, knowing there was a better one in heaven. But she was heartbroken to leave her daughter, whosecompany she loved so much. Lucia’s birth had changed Mafalda’s life, and the change had been a blessing in every way.
“Mamma, I like it here, don’t you? I smell the lemons.”
“Yes, it’s lovely.” Mafalda breathed in the fragrance, so gentle and naturally sweet. They’d stayed in the Conca d’Oro because thegiardiniwere so pretty and the irrigation canals were a reliable source of water. They could drink their fill, and Mafalda had to bathe, often sick in ways that embarrassed her.
