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As my initial shout fell on deaf ears, I quickened my stride again. Then tentatively, raised my voice louder, trying hard to keep the temper I was well known for in check.
Oh, Alessio!
‘Alessio… Romeo, STOP!’ I tried again, as I released the other seashells I’d collected onto the soft, damp sand beneath my bare feet and balled up my now empty hands into fists. I’d allowed my voice to grow louder in my anguish, as I hoped that the single word I’d shouted would be enough to reach them both, but on tenterhooks as I anticipated whether it had been loud enough to alert the adults above us.
Truthfully, I understood that I shouldn’t have bothered to try to separate them. It was evident on both of their faces, as they attacked each other with very precise and deliberate anger, that I wasn’t going to be able to get them to stop. This wrath between two of the ruling Calabrese families had been passed down the generations and I knew no matter how much I wanted it to be different for us, I didn’t carry enough power to make it so.
But still, my feet carried me nearer on instinct. In my peripheral view, I watched my younger brother Dante take hold of Mia’s hand. Together, the younger siblings of our two families moved themselves further away, scared to be implicated and possibly punished. I knew we barely had minutes before Alessio and Romeo were ordered to present themselves in front of our respective fathers and Romeo’s dominating grandfather. Knowing their punishments, and mine for being anywhere near them, would undoubtedly be harsh, I looked towards my eldest brother, eighteen-year-old Zeno, for help.
‘Zen, please stop them. They’ll get into so much trouble if they get seen.’
‘That’s their problem,’ he answered and straightaway looked away and went back to practising flicking and then sheathing the hideously shiny switchblade that he had been fixated on for the past couple of hours. Uncle Enzo had bestowed the knife on him as we’d left our church, Our Lady of Polsi, earlier today. I had seen the revulsion written all over our mother’s face as she’d watched the presentation, though I’d noted that it had quickly been replaced with her worn out look of acceptance.
‘You’re the eldest here,’ I implored him as I opened my arms out wide, desperately trying to convince him to take some ownership of his first-born status and hoping to spark him into some sort of action. Dumbstruck by his lack of consideration and what was now his typical behaviour, I looked on as he shrugged his shoulders at me just the once and I knew, as usual, he couldn’t have cared less. His eyes flicked back up to mine and the miniscule amount of concern he had for anyone other than himself, was wiped away by him simply closing his eyes. When his eyes reopened, the brother I thought I once knew was nowhere to be found and anger that we meant so little to him swept through me.
Never had I, as the daughter of Alessandro and Rosemary Giordano, felt anything more than one-hundred-percent English, and I’d hidden behind that, comforted by its confines. I was often told that I was the very image of my English-born mother, with my fiery temper, dark brown hair and my turquoise coloured eyes. My papa described them as the exact aqua colour of the sea that surrounded our home here in Italy. As I’d got older, the knowledge of just what my papa’s family were had become more evident. And the more I knew and understood about his culture, my Englishness was something I’d fully embraced, hoping somehow it would protect me and allow me to remain on the outer edges of my Italian family.
But now, the feeling that I was by blood part of the proud history of the beautiful place we visited as often as my papa’s business in England would allow, consumed me and I felt my Italian blood course vehemently around my body. Suddenly, being English felt too restrictive to explain the pure and unadulterated hatred I had for my brother when I understood that Zeno’s concern for us, his siblings, was so easily extinguished. In those few seconds, I packed away my Englishness and allowed my passionate Italian heritage to rule over me and as it did, the small amount of love I still held for my eldest brother evaporated.
Alessio falling deliberately to the ground with a thud, as he took Romeo De Luca with him, redirected my anger.
‘ENOUGH!’ I screamed at the two of them and for a millisecond they froze, before the anger they felt for each other consumed them once again.
The ferocity enclosed within my voice was only matched by the roar of a motorbike I had heard many times over the years. But today was different. Today it was travelling down the well-trodden path that led to my family’s private beach; the beach that I had spent the majority of my time in Italy flying down to at every available moment to seek escape. I’d wanted to distance myself from what I understood went on in my papa’s world, when I now understood that all those flights of freedom had been in vain.
I was Alessandro Giordano’s eldest daughter, his princess. I had worked out a long time ago, that how my future panned out would be my papa’s decision, and not my own. I could either embrace it, end my life right here and now, or make a stand and be counted. Briefly, I glanced out to the open expanse of water that had always been there to comfort me, hoping it would help me take the correct fork in the path in front of me. What I was expecting, I wasn’t sure. Did I expect a sudden wave to come in to consume me, forcing me into the darkest depths of the sea? I didn’t know, but when the waves continued to gently lap at my feet, I quickly worked out that my life wasn’t meant to end yet and so I forced myself to stand taller to face the consequences of two teenage boys’ actions.
The recognisable throaty roar of the bike came closer.
He’s coming down.
At that thought my heart accelerated, sprinting away from its regular rhythm and the bare skin of my arms and legs began to tingle with what felt like anticipation.
The two of them rolled over and over, only feet away from me in the nearly white sand, all the while raining punch after punch at any part of the other’s body that came into range. Their best clothes, which had only minutes ago been beautifully laundered white shirts and smart trousers, grew dirtier by the second and as Romeo split Alessio’s lip, making him swear in Griko dialect, I watched in slow motion as droplets of blood left his mouth and showered my bare shins, below the white dress I had been instructed to wear for church.
As I looked at the blood on my legs, I became aware that the motorbike had stopped. My heart was beating nervously in my chest at the thought of finally being able to look on the face of a man I’d been conscious of since he was a boy. I identified that the three of us had seconds left and swallowed down my fear, like only a Giordano could.
‘Get up,’ a deep, reverberating voice commanded, not more than one second after the engine had relinquished its last roar and was unceremoniously dropped onto its side in the sand. As its owner strode over to us, my body reacted to his proximity. I rubbed my hand over my opposite forearm as I tried to extinguish my response. Still staring hard at my brother, I saw as immediately, and annoyingly, the two boys fighting at my feet released their hold on each other.
I stared intently at Alessio and shook my head gently at him.
With a look of concern on his face, accentuated by the scuffs, scrapes, and blood trickling down his chin from his split lip, Alessio at least had the decency to find my eyes with his own and mouth his apology. Then he swallowed down his shame and, like the man our papa demanded that all my brothers should be, he brushed the sand away from his clothes, tidied himself up as best he could and stood taller, ready to meet whatever punishment he was given.
‘So, you were fighting?’ Amusement threaded through the man’s tone and my anger flared at the fact he thought our situation so funny.
‘Yes,’ Alessio answered him truthfully.
‘At least you’re honest, that’s more than I expect from a Giordano.’
‘And just who are you to be reprimanding us?’ The question slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. Biting hard into my bottom lip to avoid getting into more trouble than I was probably already in, I forced myself to look up from the disturbed sand and my blood-spattered shins to find a man I’d seen many times before, but only ever from a distance. He swept his dark, salt-caked, unruly hair away from his face with one hand and even at my young age I recognised, like I had many times before, that he was beautiful, and a burning blush hit my cheeks. If he had any idea of my thoughts regarding the way he looked, his face showed no sign. Instead, he kept the same poker-faced expression he’d arrived with.
‘My name is Salvatore.’
Salvatore?
His name told me everything. It was a De Luca family name.
How?
