Her arms tightened around my neck and her face buried itself in my shoulder. Suddenly, her rapid breathing was replaced by heartfelt sobs, and I knew, my knees buckling, that this was far from a hallucination or a fantasy.
Daisy was there. In Italy. In Calabria. In my arms. Again.
“Please, don’t send me away…” she whimpered, her soft accent lapping at my soul. “Please, I can’t go.”
I fell backward and sat there on the ground, with her locked onto me like a stubborn koala. I lifted my face to the sky, tryingto find the strength to reject her. To send her back. Instead, I felt my lips tremble, and the tears came without remorse or shame.
No, I couldn’t send her away, and that was perhaps my gravest crime.
Taking a deep breath, planting a flurry of kisses on the curve of her neck, I pulled her back just enough to see her face and tucked the strands of hair behind her ears. Her little ferret face was pinched with sadness and her beautiful peridot eyes were reddened by tears.
“This is a death sentence, Piccola Furetta. In my world, only bullets are guaranteed.”
Her tiny hands rested on my jaw and her lips pressed a quick kiss to mine, bringing me back to life. “And what am I supposed to do? Stay in Mississippi and pretend we never met? That what we lived through meant nothing? This is my world, Camillo,” she gasped against my lips, taking what remained of me. “This isourworld.”
“I missed you so much, Dolcezza… Every single day,” I groaned and captured her lips. I lost myself in that kiss, savoring the sweetness of her, knowing she tasted even better than I remembered.
“Don’t send me away. Never again.”
I laughed as tears rolled from my eyes. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to,” I admitted and pressed my lips to her forehead. Then, I whispered what my soul had wanted to shout for months: “Grow old with me, Piccola Furetta.”
“Does that mean…?”
“Marry me, Daisy Parker. In this life and every one after it.”
She smiled. A deep, slow, tranquil smile, and her peridots locked with my jades. “Let not even death part us.”
Epilogue
Camillo Vicari
2028
Sicily, Italy
Three years later
Sicilians were exuberant by nature. While the 'Ndrangheta demanded discretion, the Cosa Nostra preferred to be flashy. This party was living proof of that.
In a mansion overlooking the sea, lined with columns that would put ancient Greek temples to shame and a red marble floor so polished it mirrored the depths of the ocean, guests drifted back and forth in their opulent attire. There were men in suits of every cut and fabric, children adorned with jewelry far too valuable for their age, and women dressed either in clothes so minimal they bordered on lingerie or as if they belonged in a convent. I raised the champagne flute to my lips, responding mechanically to the men beside me.
Don Finisterra chattered about the latest issues that had united the Cosa Nostra and the 'Ndrangheta. The fight against human trafficking had become a kind of matter of honor for some of the famiglie, and flesh merchants were being treated accordingly, most of them ending up at the bottom of the sea. I observed the new Don Zaccaria, still appearing somewhat hesitant in his position. Don Ettore's death had weighed heavily on all of us, even though it had been peaceful: in his own bed, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends. The entire 'Ndrangheta had come together to support his successor, and so far, he had not disappointed.
Marco Zaccaria was not a son, but one of Don Ettore's grandsons. He was a little older than Filippo Barone and me, which suited everyone. As the saying went... not too young to screw up, not too old to pick up a gun. Especially because, with the enormous power he had inherited, it was in everyone's best interest that he remain in power for many years to come.
I sighed as I watched him talking to Filippo and Don Finisterra, realizing how different he was from his grandfather. Don Zaccaria was irreplaceable, and my wife would know. Daisy had been one of the old man's closest friends on his deathbed, and to this day I still wondered how she had managed to win the fierce friendship and affection of old Zaccaria.
Well, maybe I actually knew... After all, Don Zaccaria valued honor, tradition, and, above all, loyalty. Those were the very reasons he had once respected my Mamusia, for the way she had defended the Vicari against everything and everyone. Andsomething told me that was the exact reason Don Zaccaria respected and liked Daisy so much.
A buzz began to spread through the room like wildfire. I followed the direction of the collective gaze, and a smile spread across my face when I found her.
Madonna mia.
At the top of the grand staircase that descended into the immense hall of the Finisterra mansion, Daisy surveyed the room with the austerity of someone who loathed being the subject of gossip. Her dress was long, a dark green like a rare emerald, crafted from the finest silk. I knew it well, as I had given it to her myself. The square neckline and thin straps showcased the peridot necklace around her neck, and her hair was swept back to reveal matching earrings. She no longer wore bangs, and her hair was longer than ever. I loved it when she wore it down, but I was thankful she hadn’t for this party.
I couldn’t bear the thought of other men feasting their eyes on what was mine.
Two small figures in three-piece suits the same color as her dress appeared behind her. Her graceful hands opened, taking their small hands between her fingers, which were now decorated with Ferrari-red stiletto nails. I smiled as her heels clicked against the marble, slowly descending with a boy on each side.