Queen of Secrets, page 3
My throat tightened.
“In those days, when your family’s connected, it’s helpful to merge with other families for power and safety. Marriages bonded families together. Frank was a high-ranking member of the Molanano crime family. For my father, my marriage to him was nothing more than a business deal.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Being married to one of the biggest gangsters in the US taught me many things. It provided me money, protection, respect, and power. But it also robbed me of freedom, independence, and the love of myself and others. That’s the price you pay for the benefits. I didn’t have a choice.”
Her words about losing love of herself and others resonated with me. I realized that Ms. G. and I might have had more in common than I’d originally thought. I wanted to hear more. “Do you regret marrying Frank?”
“Yes, but I didn’t have a choice. There’s a difference between being in love with someone and living in fear of them. Our relationship became familiar, and I did what was expected of me. When you live in this world for as long as I have, you learn to accept your limitations. Some things just don’t work when you’re in love with someone else.” She touched the gold St. Anthony’s charm that dangled from her neck.
“Saint Anthony, huh? I have Saint Christopher.” I pulled it out from under my shirt.
“Saint Christopher? You a Catholic?”
“No, ma’am. My last patient gave it to me. To protect me.”
“Protect you from what, exactly?” Her eyebrows drew in together.
“From falling over bikes.” I pulled my sleeves over my knuckles.
“Yeah, sure. Bikes.” She shook her head at me.
“Go on.” I leaned forward.
“Gaetano was everything. I’ve never told anyone the whole truth. The story I’m about to tell you is a long and complicated one and should be kept between us. Let’s just say it would cause problems if certain people found out.”
“Yes, your niece made me aware of that when I got the job. I won’t tell anyone.”
“They’ve probably forgotten about me by now, but if you were to tell the wrong person . . . I’m not sure I could protect you. But I’m no rat,” she said loudly. “With everyone dying around me, I have no one who understands anymore.”
“Do you mean they’d hurt me?”
“The Mafia won’t just hurt you. They’ll make sure you’re never found again. And if that isn’t enough, they’ll go after your family next. That’s how it works.”
My heart went from first gear to overdrive. Fast. I stood.
“Excuse me for a minute. I need to use the restroom,” I mumbled as I walked quickly to the bathroom.
I cupped my hand under the faucet and took a sip of water to quench my dry throat. What had I gotten myself into? Kill me and my family? No way would I let that happen. Maybe I should leave? Yes. I’ll grab my medical bag and leave. I’ll tell her I can’t do this. But do I know too much already? Clearly, her extended family still had ties to this life. If they knew I’d left on my terms, maybe they’d think I’d go to the cops and kill me, anyway. How did I get myself into this? My stomach flipped upside down, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to speak with a cherry-sized lump in my throat.
I took deep breaths and thought about my kids. Ms. G. said that sometimes you have to sacrifice for your family. So, without further thought, I marched back into the living room, ready for whatever she would throw at me.
“You okay, dear?”
“I’m fine. I think.” I clutched the charm at my neck. I hoped it worked. “Okay, Ms. G. Tell me what happened with Gaetano.”
“Ah yes, my beloved Gaetano. My Guy. I loved him so.”
She sat back in her recliner and crocheted.
“I met Gaetano Sanna the summer of 1939, while picking prunes on Antonelli farms. My love for him is where my true sacrifice to the Mafia began. But what followed was so much more than I could’ve ever imagined. I don’t regret one second with him—not one. He’s the reason I survived it all. We were like two natural forces, always trying to get back to one another in a world where duty to family meant more than your own life. Every choice has a consequence, and I paid every one of them.”
The Visitors
San Jose, California
Summer 1939
Violetta
I drew my mother’s handmade curtains aside from our tiny bedroom window. Heat from the glass warmed my palms, and it was only 7:00 a.m. It would be another blazing hot June day, and I dreaded going back to the farm. My normal summer routine—picking prunes at Antonelli Farms—was sweaty, backbreaking work. But it meant more money for my family. Any chance we could make a little extra cash, we did—illegal or otherwise. Even with my father helping the Molanano family, tending to wise guys and such, residual effects of the Depression had everyone spooked.
“Bye, Vinny.” I patted my little brother on the top of the head.
“When can I go with you guys?” Vinny asked.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t like it, kid. You’re lucky you’re too young. See you tonight. Ciao.”
“Andiamo, Violetta,” Pop yelled from the truck.
“Coooom-iiiiing,” I yelled. Ugh. I fastened my shoes and hopped in the truck bed beside my sister and two other brothers.
“Jesus, Vi, move over,” Carmela said, then pushed my legs to the side.
“Just because you’re the oldest, Carm, doesn’t mean you get to boss me around. There’s no room,” I fired back. “Paulie, move over!”
“Shut up, Vi,” Paulie said.
“You know you’re a real stunad sometimes, Paul,” I said as my lip curled up on one side.
“Stata chett! Shut up,” my big brother Tony yelled. “We’re gonna be there in a few minutes. Quit complaining already.”
We rode along the dirt road to Antonelli’s. Dust clouds rose from the truck’s tires, making it hard to see. Familiar sounds of water boatmen whistling in the trees got me thinking about how many summers we’d been doing this. My father met Antonelli not long after he and my mother moved from their hometown of Tricarico and bought land here.
Pop wanted to give our family a better life. He, like many other families, inquired about a newspaper ad that a local farmer had placed in search of people to help harvest prunes. Three cents for every forty-pound box. Pop was one of the first applicants to seek a contract with ole man Antonelli. Over the years, he and Antonelli had become good friends and confidants at a time when allegiances meant everything.
With so much weight in the back, the truck lugged past the giant metal gates at the farm entrance. Acres of trees reminded me how much I hated prune season. I rubbed my knuckles and fingers. My hands would ache when I got home tonight. On a Friday, there were only two things I looked forward to: the soda pop and the quarter we’d get at the end of the week. I guess my father thought money would keep us motivated. The faster the hours went by, the faster I’d have a cool drink in my hands and hear a jingle in my pocket.
Rewards or not, the day would drag. I couldn’t wait to go home.
From the moment I started for the trees, the day felt different. Antonelli called my father over. The old farmer was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair. I didn’t know what they talked about, but their faces looked serious. They shook hands, and Pop came back over to us.
“Signor Antonelli have people he wan us to meet. Dey coma from a town call Bosa, in Sardegna. Dey stay wit Antonelli dis summer to help.”
“Where’s that? At the top of the boot or the bottom, Pop?” Tony asked.
“No in da boot. Itsa island.”
“An island in Italy?” I asked.
“Si. He ask me if we canna make dem feel lika home. Tony maybe you canna talk to da oldest son. I ma sure he woulda like to make a fren.”
“Sure, Pop. When can we meet ’em?” Tony asked.
“Right now. Letsa go. Antonelli get dem to introduce.”
We followed my father to the front of the property. With sweat pouring down my back, I blistered in the sun, ready to hear from Antonelli. A slender man and his wife came before us with two little girls who were so shy, they wouldn’t break away from their mother’s skirt.
“Ello, everbadi, I wan you to meet da famiglia Sanna. Dis is Signor Efrem Sanna, hisa wife, Conchetta, and children, Gina and Christina and da oldest son, Gaetano,” Antonelli announced.
A taller man stood behind them, backlit by the sun. He took a step forward into view.
“Sono Gaetano Sanna,” he said, then waved to us. Soft, dark brown waves spilled down his forehead when he moved.
“Gaetano. GUY taaanno,” I said under my breath. I loved the way it rolled off my tongue as the sound bounced between my ears. At first glance, he looked like one swell guy to me. Something about him got my attention. Maybe it was the way he shot me a half-crooked smile when he waved to us or the way his wavy hair crested gently behind his ears.
I was instantly drawn to him.
He looked like no one I’d ever seen before: tall and muscular, but not like a boxer type; thick and defined where it mattered; distinct facial features where his neck and jawline framed his face perfectly, like Michelangelo himself had worked away at him. But his eyes grabbed my attention the most. They were a mixture of chocolate and honey. His dark, silky eyelashes blinked slowly when the sun hit his face, giving him a relaxed and dreamy appearance.
My insides shook, and my pulse became erratic.
“Dis is da famiglia Sanna,” said Mr. Antonelli. “Dey will stay wit us for a while. Please get to know each udder.”
With a nudge from my father, my brothers swarmed the young man. In his thick accent, he tried hard to communicate. When he quieted, my brothers spoke Italian to make it easier.
I moved next to Carmela and studied him. His height made him look confident, but when he tipped his head down in between handshakes, he seemed shy and full of humility. His brief moments of silence made me want to know what thoughts lay behind those dreamy eyes.
Out of respect, he introduced himself to the rest of us. When he drew near to shake my hand, more sweat beads formed on my lips and brow. He stared into my eyes and grabbed my hand delicately.
“Guy tano,” he repeated.
My insides quivered.
I should have tried to speak to Signora Sanna and the girls, but I was too interested in what my brothers and the young man talked about. Gaetano put his hands on his hips when he listened. When he spoke, his long eyelashes pinched together as he smiled between words. Like most Italians, he used his hands to weave a story. Veins swelled through his muscular arms as he moved them around to explain about his life in Italy and how stressful it was to migrate here. And every now and again, he shot me a stare that made my knees weak. He had power over me, and I wanted nothing more than to get to know him.
After introductions, Pop, Signor Sanna, and ole man Antonelli went into the house to talk business while the rest of us went to work. I spent the rest of the day following Gaetano. Where he went, I went. Watching his every move, I’d find him tinkering with various equipment and talking to people. Then I’d find an area to pick where I could keep an eye on him, until Carmela started yelling my name.
“Vi, where are you?”
“What, Carm?” I returned with my half-empty tray.
“What the hell ya doin’, huh? You haven’t been working all day. Every time I look for you, I find you somewhere else with hardly no fruit in your tray. Stop screwing around and act your age. You’re almost eighteen. I wanna go home just as bad as you do.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel well. Must be the heat,” I lied.
“Well then, get water and get back to work,” she said, picking up the leftover fruit that had fallen to the ground. Out of fear that Carmela might figure out my newfound interest, I complied and started picking again.
My new distraction made the hours feel longer than normal. I couldn’t wait to finish so that I could go find the island boy.
“It’s quitting time. Let’s pack it up,” Tony said as he handed me my soda and money.
I grabbed my box of prunes and followed my brother to the front of the farm. Pop motioned me over.
“Violetta, vieni qui,” he said as I came over to him. “Antonelli ask me if you canna drive da Sanna family to town tomorra? I gonna be busy writing da contract. Signora Sanna say she needa buy material to make da girls soma clothes.”
“Sure, Pop. I’d love to,” I said, hoping to get to know the dreamy-eyed man better.
“Okay. I tell him.” His face hardened, and his tone became serious. “Pick dem up early and only take dem to places where we know da owner. And have dem back early.”
“Yes, Pop,” I said as he walked away. “Hey, I was thinking . . .”
He turned back toward me. “Tinking what?”
“I can teach them English if they want. I do pretty well in school. Please, Pop? I’d love to do it.”
He eyed me cautiously. “I willa talk to Signor Sanna and you mama. But it canno interfere with you chores and when you go back to school.”
“I had perfect marks last year. I’ll be the first one to graduate high school. I can do it.”
“I tink about it, Violetta. No promises. Time to go now. I meet you in da truck.”
“Okay,” I said optimistically. I looked forward to tomorrow when I’d see Gaetano again.
My pulse raced. I wanted to see him one last time before we made our way home. I scanned the fields, but he was nowhere to be found. I decided to check the main house.
“Hey, Carm, I gotta use the bathroom before we go.”
“All right, but make it quick. I wanna get home.”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
Once Carm was out of sight, I ran to the main house and looked inside the kitchen. Gaetano wasn’t there. I went to the back of the house. No sign of him there, either. It wasn’t until I exited the house that I saw him talking to his father. From the strong heat, he wore only his undershirt. He glistened in the sun from the sweat that dripped from his neck and chin. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his face. Even with all the sweat and dirt on his face, his eyes dazzled me and held me in place. Spellbound, my heart jumped when my father approached.
“Minchia. What da hell you doin’?” My father grabbed my arm and ushered me toward the truck. “You tell Carmela you go to da bathroom, and you just standin’ here. Letsa go! I gotta get da money pickups ready.”
Gaetano stared at me as my father forced me to the truck. My cheeks blazed. He didn’t laugh at me. He looked concerned.
“Okay, Pop. Stop,” I fired back and pulled my arm from his grip. “I’m a girl, and sometimes it takes longer to go to the bathroom.” Playing the girl card nearly always gained his sympathies.
With softer eyes, he said, “I ma sorry. Letsa go.”
I climbed into the truck bed and wrapped my dirt-covered arms around my knees. My stomach was in knots from the day’s events, and I felt mortified by Pop’s actions in front of the new man.
Overcome, my eyes welled up.
The farm shrank on the horizon as dust lifted from the motion of the tires. I put my head between my knees to conceal my face. As much as I hated picking prunes when we arrived, I didn’t want to leave.
Once the rooster crowed, I fixed my hair in a French braid and threw on one of my nicer church outfits. As a finishing touch, and because it made me look grown up, I brushed Carmela’s rouge on my cheeks and curled my eyelashes. I had eyelashes on the brain now because of the island boy. So Carmela wouldn’t tease me, I carefully placed everything back on her nightstand.
Pop let me drive his black Ford pickup on occasion. It had a big bed in the back for moving stuff and for hauling the family around when we went places. He didn’t mind me taking the truck because he had another car sitting in the driveway: a brand-new Cadillac LaSalle. He only took it out for church and special occasions.
I was the only girl in my household who knew how to drive. My mother was too scared to drive, and my sister never had time to learn. Pop taught me because there were times when he needed me to go and run errands for him. At first, I hated driving the truck. It had a long gear shift and stalled out all the time. After a while, I got the hang of it. On days like today, I was happy I’d learned because it meant I’d see the boy with the dreamy eyes.
With Gaetano’s face still lingering in my brain, I zipped through the hills on my way to Antonelli’s. I remembered his gorgeous eyes and the soft but strong way his voice tickled my eardrums.
A huge tree loomed in front of me.
I turned the wheel sharply left and slammed the brakes. The truck skidded on its tires. Tiny rocks from the dirt road flung through the air and made clanking noises as they bounced off the heavy metal frame. The fender stopped within inches of the fat oak.
“Oh my God,” I screamed. I sat there for a moment, trying to catch my breath. “Damn it. Get it together, Vi. Keep your eyes on the road and not on him. You need to be alive to see him again.”
I gathered myself up and pressed on the gas. With the orchards in the distance, I continued down the road toward the open gate.
Signora Sanna stood in front of the main house with her two little girls, but no Signor Sanna and no Gaetano. My heart sank to my stomach. Where was he? Maybe ole man Antonelli kept them back to work? Defeated, I parked and waved them to the truck. I’d committed to Pop that I’d take them, so I did what was asked.
“Buongiorno, come stai?” I asked while searching for the boy.
“Buongiorno,” Signora Sanna said, leading the girls to the back of the truck.
Our drive to town was quiet. Signora Sanna didn’t talk much, even in Italian. The silence was awkward. At traffic stops, I’d smile at her. She kept her head down. To escape the uncomfortable quiet, I kept my eyes on the road into Goosetown. A left turn onto Bird Avenue brought us to an Italian market where they had prints and various cheap fabrics.
After I parked, Signora Sanna grabbed both girls by the hand and whispered something to them. They all lowered their heads. Were they praying? Even the way Signora Sanna was dressed seemed strange. Despite the summer heat, she wore a dark silk scarf around her neck and a big hat. Maybe she was sensitive to the sun, or maybe that’s how they dressed in Italy? I didn’t know what it was, but something was wrong with this family.
