That was one thing my father had accomplished magnificently. First, although he didn't use a stool, he really had to stand on tiptoe to kiss my Mamusia. Then, my brother and I were, in fact, as he had intended, the first generation of the famigliato surpass five feet seven in height. I was six foot five. My brother was six foot one. We were as tall as our mother, who, in her elegance, stood way over six feet tall. We had also inherited her green, wolfish eyes. Mario's were a deeper shade, with a central heterochromia that tinged the green witha beautiful amber. Mine, on the other hand, were closest to my mother's: very light, like jade.
Unfortunately, the generosity of her Polish genetics ended there.
Neither Mario nor I had our mother's red hair, or anything similar to it. Ours was raven-black like any other Vicari's, our complexion had a brown tone that deepened in the summer, and we were, to quote my mother, noisy animals.
The teasing went a little longer. When we were served a new round of drinks, I saw my cousin Lorenzo enter the room with a document folder in his hands that was far too stuffed for my liking.
I arched an eyebrow.
“Porca miseria!” he cursed, throwing it onto the middle of the table, receiving a disapproving look from Nonno Patrizio. “Scusa,Nonno.”
“What happened, ragazzo?” Grandfather asked, and I noticed how alarmed my uncle seemed.
Lorenzo rubbed his hands vigorously over his face.
“There are going to be changes in Rome, and Bernardi has been dismissed,” he declared, and we all shifted uncomfortably.
“Was he ‘dismissed’, or did he receive a gift?” Zio Ricardo inquired, sniffing something in the air. “New blood always wants more.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “Discretion issues.”
Our grandfather inhaled sharply, signaling for more drinks. “Let's deal with the famiglia matters inside the famiglia house.”
The subject died there, as it always did whenever Nonno invoked his authority. And I realized I had one more thing to add to my nerves.
A new round of drinks was served, and we thanked the waiter, Francesco. I watched him walk away, his bald head gleaming. He was forty-seven years old, yet still worked for his father, Signor Marziano, who refused to leave the small restaurant he had founded more than fifty years ago here, in Castello dell'Fiero. I wondered if that would be my fate as well, as the youngest in the famiglia. If, twenty years from now, when I turned forty-eight, I’d still be working for my Nonno or my Papà, without questioning anything and bowing my head at the slightest command.
“So, Cugino? Is today the day you finally put a ring on the attorney's finger?”
I smiled at Lorenzo, and ignored the drink in front of me. I'd had enough alcohol for the day.
“Today's the day!” I declared, taking the velvet box out of my pocket. I opened it, allowing the light streaming through the restaurant windows to reflect off the stone and fill the space with a hundred sparks. “What do you think?”
Lorenzo whistled, picking up the ring, turning it with careful fingers. “I think it's worth three houses, that's what I think. How many carats? Four?”
“Five,” I corrected, proud of my achievement. Lorenzo wasn't wrong, that diamond was worth a fortune.
“What's the clarity grade on this, Camillo?” he asked, still examining the jewel, lifting it up to his nose so that the sun shining through the window behind me would fall directly on the diamond.
“FL. And before you ask: D color, Portuguese cut.”
Lorenzo raised his eyebrows and quickly put the ring back in the box. When he handed it back to me, I noticed that my grandfather was glaring at us and my father was signaling for me to get ready.
“The Vicari women's ring is much prettier than that thing.” There it was, the comment that had been going on for six months, ever since I told them I was planning to ask Valentina to marry me. “It's old, it has history. That thing only has money.”
I shrugged. “But this is the kind of ring Valentina likes, Nonno.” I reminded him.
I knew the value of the famiglia ring, which before belonging to my Nonna Renata and my Mamusia, had belonged to dozens of generations of Vicari women. I also knew that it was tradition for the first son to marry to keep the ring. But Valentina didn't like the jewel.
When my Nonna Renata told her the story of the ring's succession without going into detail, at the time we weren't even thinking about marriage, she whispered to me right after how happy it made her that I was the youngest and she didn't have to inherit, in her words, ‘that old, boring thing.’ I never explainedthat the ring was passed to whoever got married first, nor would I. My goal was to make her happy, even if it meant breaking a centuries-old tradition.
“I hope the woman is worth the disservice you're doing us,” spat Nonno Patrizio, and I rolled my eyes.
“Valentina is lovely, Nonno!Give it a rest!” My brother interjected, smiling awkwardly. “Besides, let him, I want Mamusia's ring for myself...”
We laughed and that seemed to cool my grandfather's dissatisfaction.
We paid a few minutes later, leaving for the villa. When we arrived, everything was ready for dinner. The men had lined the vineyard with torches and were already lighting them. As soon as I entered the house, I saw that the maids had already placed the bouquets of red roses everywhere and the table was set to welcome us.