Queen of Secrets, page 9
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about . . . Alzheimer’s. Sounds like something you read out of a quack magazine. I’m not slow. I could make fifty trays of lasagna, drive a hundred miles, even climb a mountain, for Christ’s sakes,” she said. “Do you know they took away my license? I’ve been driving these hills all my life, and I can’t even get to the market.”
“I can take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Yeah, yeah, but there’s something about driving how I want and where I want. I used to love driving. I feel trapped.”
My heart ached. I’d seen other clients struggle to find some control and independence. In Ms. G.’s case, her loss of independence absorbed her pride, and old age was the villain.
“Well, I won, so you have to tell me more about Gaetano,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “How could you marry someone else after you met someone as wonderful as Gaetano? I don’t know if I would’ve had the strength to walk away from the love of my life. How’d you do it?”
“Man, you are a one chiaccherone. Aren’t you?”
“A chicha what?”
“Someone who likes to talk a lot.” She rolled her eyes.
“Well, okay. Maybe you’re too tired,” I said, challenging her feisty spirit. “I never thought you were a welcher.”
“I’m no welcher! And I’m not tired either. Don’t you listen? Or do we need to get you a hearing aid too? Maronn . . . tired, she says. I wanna go sit in the living room. This hard chair hurts my ass. It’s damn near numb.”
We both laughed. I put the cards away and followed her to the living room. She sat and jabbed her crochet needle back into the yarn.
“So, what happened to Gaetano?”
“Where’d I leave off?”
“You’d just gotten the last letter from Gaetano, and you met Frank at your graduation ceremony.”
“Oh yeah . . . Frank.”
“How could your father make you marry Frank?”
“I never wanted to marry him. Frank came straight to my father about his interest in me. Frank and my father positioned our marriage to Consigliere Rapino as a way to unify the East Coast with the West Coast. Deep down, Frank wanted to be a boss out here, but the deal also guaranteed my family’s survival, which is why my father agreed to the whole thing. It wasn’t that my dad didn’t love me, but sometimes in this lifestyle, it’s business over pleasure. From that day forward, I was a pawn.” Her lips pressed together, and she stared off into space.
“What’s a consigliere?”
“Like an advisor to the boss. See, the Mafia has a hierarchy. There’s the boss, Don Molanano, the underboss, who at the time was Frank’s father, Frank Di Natale Senior. Then the caporegimes—they’re the managers—and then you have the soldiers. When I met Frank, he was a soldier, but he moved up to capo because of his father.”
“You said Frank was hiding. Why was he hiding?”
“They don’t tell the women much in this life. Everything is hush-hush. But after some time, I learned Frank was sent to stay with us because he was accused of murdering a guy by the name of Mario Cantoni, who was linked to the Sambino family. Frank came to stay with us to hide from the cops. Along with getting a place to hide, he got an added bonus—me. In exchange, my father got protection from the cops and connections all over the country, from lawyers to politicians—you name it. They were all under the mob’s thumb and were at our disposal.”
“Why was Cantoni killed?”
“The man was a poor earner, and the Sambinos had planned to whack him for a long time. He had a falling out with the Sambino family and tried to come work for the Molanano family. Molanano didn’t trust him from the start, but because Cantoni was friends with one of Molanano’s nephews, Don Molanano agreed to take him in. But because Cantoni switched sides, Don Molanano thought he might be a flip-floppin’ rat. He never gave him any big jobs. This pissed Cantoni off, so he started doing stuff on the side and not sharing the profits. A boss doesn’t care how you make your money, so long as you give them a taste. When he found out Cantoni lied, he gave Frank the order to kill Cantoni. That’s the day Frank became a made guy. Cantoni’s body was found in an alley with two shots through his chest.”
“So, Frank never got caught?”
“Hmmph,” she said as her top lip curled up. “I wish I was that lucky. That would have changed everything. On the night Frank killed Cantoni, a witness walking his dog informed the cops they saw Frank at the scene of the crime and that he could ID him in a lineup. To protect one of his soldiers from going to prison and further implicating the family, Consigliere Rapino called my father and Frank was sent to us until they got a handle on things. From what I’d read in the newspapers, the informant’s body was later discovered, cut up in pieces behind a pizzeria owned and operated by the Sambino family,” she said with a coy smile on her face.
“Cut up in pieces! Really?”
“Yep.”
“What about the witness protection program, or didn’t they have that?”
“Things were a little different back then, but remember there’s always someone on the inside and everyone has a price.”
“I can’t believe it. It’s just like the movies.”
“Horror movie maybe, but no—this was real life for us. The mob doesn’t leave loose ends. So, Molanano ordered the hit and because of the bad blood between the families, this got the cops off the Molanano family and onto the Sambinos. Because the Sambinos didn’t off this guy when they had the chance, Don Molanano felt like the Sambino family should have taken out their own trash. Feds were thrown off the trail because they thought that Cantoni was still working for the Sambinos. It was the perfect diversion. The order killed two birds with one stone. It steered the feds away from any Molanano involvement, and Frank was no longer a suspect.”
“I never realized just how treacherous these men were.”
“Oh yeah. When they come, it’s too late.”
Her story reminded me of how I felt the first day I signed the NDA with her niece, which felt like ages ago. But it was stories like these that I had to keep private, or it might be too late for me. My pulse raced and left me lightheaded.
“Hey, you okay, kid? You don’t look too good.”
“I’m fine. I still can’t believe it,” I croaked out with a tight throat.
“See, that’s what happens when you have a lot of friends. You get away with stuff like that. That’s the story, but hell, I’m no rat.” The flicker of a faint smile crossed her cheeks. “And that’s how I met my wonderful husband, that lousy piece of shit. To think that some stronzo named Mario Cantoni had the power to change my life the way he did makes me sick. I never even met the guy, but he’s responsible for ruining my life and putting that monster around me. Hell, I wish I’d had the satisfaction of killing the son of a bitch myself. Maybe then things would have turned out differently.” She yanked the yarn with force and jabbed the crochet needle back into her work.
“Don’t get so worked up, honey. We don’t need your blood pressure to rise. It’s in the past.” I patted her on the shoulder, knowing that my own blood pressure felt high.
Her body stiffened, and she looked me straight in the eye. “When you’re as old as me and have a brain like mine, everything’s in the past.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. G. We don’t have to talk about it anymore if you don’t want to.”
“No. I want to talk about it. Words are my only power now.” She took a deep breath. “Now, where was I?”
“You talked about why Frank came to you that summer.”
“It wasn’t long after that maniac arrived that I found out what it meant to be the daughter of someone connected. This was the first time I learned about my arranged marriage—a true sacrifice and call to duty for the cause. It was a life of loss and regret. They owned me, and then they owed me,” she said with an edge in her voice.
“What did they owe you?” I asked, stunned.
“The mob owed me for a few lives they took.”
Duty
East San Jose Foothills, Giordano Estate
June 1940
Violetta
I focused on the barn outside my bedroom window. Memories flooded. Nine months had passed since I’d seen my grape grower. We’d spent so much time there, yet so much had changed since summer. Time and separation felt like a thousand paper cuts to my soul, leaving scars and ambiguity. The Sanna business flourished, and Gaetano had settled in his new home and made new friends. I wanted to be happy for him, but his absence had blown out my heart’s candle, leaving only smoke.
I was at the start of my adult life. I’d finished school, and everything was in place for me to take the reins, but what kind of life would it be without him? He’d said he’d visit soon to ask for my hand in marriage, but I’d heard nothing for weeks. My father’s voice pulled me out of my memories.
“Violetta, coma here.”
I walked to the kitchen.
“Bring Signor Di Natale a plate of pasta.”
“Do I have to? Why can’t he come and eat at the dinner table like the rest of us? Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day.”
My father’s eyebrows pulled together. “He no coma home last night? I no like it.”
“Probably out drinking again. He already drank two cases of beer since he’s been here. And there’s a few bottles of your limoncello all over the porch of the big house.”
“That isa none of you biziniss. Be a good girl and go bring him his dinna.”
“All right.” I grabbed a heaping plate of pasta and meatballs. “Have any more letters come for me?”
“No more letters. Itsa time for you to concern yourself with udder tings, Violetta. Go bring dat boy da food before it get cold. And be nice to him. He a nice boy,” Pop said.
“Fine. But there’s something strange with him, Pop. I feel it in my bones.”
His eyes widened. “What you mean, you bones?”
“He looks at me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”
“Hmm . . .” Pop raised one eyebrow. “Maybe he just wanna be nice. Now go.” He pointed to the backyard.
I rolled my eyes and marched to the big house.
“Mr. Di Natale? Mr. Di Natale, you here? Hello? I brought you something to eat, sir.” I banged on the door.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Frank mumbled through the door, his voice groggy.
The door swung open. His hair stood in heaps on top of his head. He studied me with bloodshot eyes. It looked as though he’d slept all day.
“Come in, beautiful.” A lit cigarette flickered up and down on his lips, spilling ash on the floor.
“My father asked me to bring you dinner.” I handed him the plate.
He took a whiff of the pasta, then shoved the plate back in my hands, ran past me, and threw up all over my mother’s rose bushes.
“Yeah, my mom does use a lot of garlic in her gravy,” I said with a private chuckle.
“No. I’ll be all right,” he choked out as he coughed and groaned between gagging.
While he retched up the contents of his stomach, I peered into the big room. A small mattress cluttered the ground. What had been the dance floor was covered with empty bottles and cigarette butts. The room smelled like sweat, smoke, and liquor.
He wiped the remains of his stomach on his undershirt. “Sorry about that, doll. I had a long night. Your father’s limoncello packs a punch—that’s for sure. You wanna come in? I’d like the company. Gets boring in here.”
“I’d rather not. You haven’t been in here all day. I see you coming and going all the time.”
“I have friends showing me around.”
“Not that it’s any of my business, but are you sure that’s smart? I mean, with your situation and all.”
“What do you know about my situation?” He tilted his head to the side and examined me.
“Not much. Only that when guys come and stay with us, there’s usually a good reason for them to keep a low profile.” My eyes narrowed.
He smiled. The slightest laugh came through his dry lips. “Your name is Violetta, right?”
“Yes.”
“Violetta, what would you say if you and I went out sometime? I bet you could show me places. Maybe secret places . . . private places. You know, somewhere we can be alone, and I won’t get spotted. Maybe you can even show me around this ranch. Looks pretty big.” He tried to smile through his sweaty, pale cheeks.
“My father wouldn’t like that.”
“Really? Maybe I should talk to your father. We’ll see if you’re right. I got a good feeling he’d be okay with anything I tell him.” He picked at leftover food particles in his teeth.
“I should get back. It’s getting dark. Good night, Mr. Di Natale.” I turned to go.
“Hey, Violetta?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be a stranger. My door’s always open for you, gorgeous.” He licked his pasty lips.
The wind kicked up around the rose bushes. A stench of hard liquor mixed with vomit surrounded me and spun around like a cyclone of bad choices and desperation, leaving me queasy and disgusted.
I ran back to the house to get as far away from Mr. Di Natale as possible. I longed for the one voice that calmed me. When no one was around, I mustered up the courage to pick up the phone.
“Yes, Operator, please connect me to the Sanna Winery in Napa Valley,” I whispered into the phone.
“Hold, please,” the operator responded.
Seconds of waiting felt like hours. Sweat beads formed on my upper lip and forehead. A voice answered.
“Sanna Winery, ello?” A woman’s voice greeted me.
“Um, yes. Hello, is Gaetano Sanna available? Signora Sanna, is that you?”
“Si. Who dis?”
“It’s me, Violetta Giordano, Giuseppe’s daughter. I hoped to speak with your son.”
After a long pause, I heard Gaetano’s voice in the background. My heart jumped in my chest. I was seconds away from hearing Gaetano’s soothing voice. I had so much to tell him.
“Hello . . . Signora, you there?”
“No. He no here. Sorry,” she said, then abruptly hung up.
I couldn’t breathe. Gaetano was right there. I was so close. Why wouldn’t she let me talk to him? What had I done? They didn’t seem to mind me being around Gaetano when I taught him English.
And then it hit me: Signora Sanna, walking through the streets of Goosetown with her head down, avoiding eye contact, not talking to a single soul; the way she cried to my mother in our kitchen when Signor Sanna told my father what happened to their family. She didn’t want her son mixed up with us.
My hope diluted. I tried to bat away the one question I couldn’t ignore.
Was I the enemy now?
For fear of any further miscommunication on my part, I decided to wait a few weeks before I’d write again to confirm if my suspicions were true. I hoped Gaetano would still receive my letters. I feared this was the reason I hadn’t heard from him. Maybe he didn’t get my letters? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Powerless, I dragged myself to my room, where I’d endure another restless night of sleep.
After a few days of ruminating in self-pity, I committed to staying busy. I did extra chores to pass the time. I ironed all the linens and swept the porch.
A black limousine pulled up to the front of our house.
The driver opened the passenger door. A strange-looking gentleman in a black suit and a black hat emerged. He was short and walked like a penguin, but he looked Mafia.
Pop walked straight to the limousine to greet him. They shook hands, and Pop escorted him to the front door.
“Dis is my daughter, Violetta,” he gushed to the stranger. “Violetta, dis isa Consigliere, eh . . . Signor Salvatore Rapino.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” I stared at his thick glasses while he examined me.
“So, da rumors are true. She isa beautiful, Giuseppe.”
I stared at him quizzically. What did he mean the rumors? What rumors? I never met this man before in my life. How did he know me?
“Itsa nice to meet you, Violetta,” he said, then took out his handkerchief to dry the sweat under his hat.
“Letsa go in da back where we talk privately. You like limoncello? I make my own. Itsa good,” my father said proudly.
“Si. Itsa been a long day of da travel. I could use a drink or two or three,” he said.
They both laughed.
“Coma in, coma in.” My father ushered Signor Rapino to the big house in back. The two men didn’t return until late that evening for dinner. Surprisingly, Frank joined us. He was all cleaned up and dressed in a suit and tie.
My father, Signor Rapino, and Frank all sat around the table, laughing and serving themselves seconds of gnocchi. The older men reminisced about the time they met in Sicily. Frank went on and on about how great Brooklyn was and how he missed it there. I couldn’t wait for Signor Rapino to leave. Frank seemed to be trying to impress him and Pop even brought out his best imported cigars. They smoked while Carmela and I cleared the table. I was ready for the night to end so that I could dream about Gaetano.
“It was nice meeting you, signore, but I have an early morning, so I’m off to bed,” I said.
“Oh. I’m sure you’ll be seeing plenty more of her soon, Sally Boy,” Frank said as he smiled at me with a wicked grin. Confused about Frank’s comments, I eyed him suspiciously. “Get sleep, doll. You have a big day tomorra.”
“Huh?” I asked Frank directly.
“Good night,” my father interrupted.
“Good night,” I mumbled, still wondering about Frank’s words. I shut the door to my room, took off my clothes, and hopped into bed. I closed my eyes and made my way for dreamland, where I hoped to see my Guy.
I woke up the next morning and went straight for the kitchen. Warm scents of my mother’s hotcakes with browned butter and the sweetness of maple syrup tickled my nose. My mouth drooled as I loaded my plate. Mama and Carmela were busy working the dough for ravioli while Pop sipped his coffee. I had just poured myself milk when Mama and Pop exchanged strange looks.
