As soon aswe landed in Catania, the sun was starting to fall. As we made it into the fish market, the fishermen were just making their way back from their daily fishing trip. They carried their catch of fish in a wheelbarrow. Italian men of all sizes and ages yelling at each other from their food stands. My Italian was so rusty I couldn’t tell if they were taking food orders or throwing insults at one another. Beautiful cuts of different breeds of fish were stacked on ice and methodically placed on beds of ice. Lorenzo placed his palm against the small of my back and led me past the food stands as we walked further towards the city center through the market. Antonio followed closely behind us, his ear never leaving the phone he was talking on and his eyes never leaving Lorenzo.
“Are you hungry?” He asks me.
“No, I’m okay.”
An older man’s voice from beside us, “They do have pistachio crepes.”
“I’ll have to try it,” I say.
“Bonjourno,” Lorenzo greets the man.
“My name, Salvatore,” the villager said, his English very minimal and his accent thick.
“Ciao, Salvatore. I’m Amelia Marcelli,” I say.
His eyes go wide and starts to point at me. A look of familiarity crosses his eyes.
“Marcelli,” he whispers.
“That’s me.”
“We had a famous Marcelli family here,” Salvatore says.
“There was a Marcelli family here in Catania?” I ask.
“Si, si. Are you related?”
I look to Lorenzo and his face remained blank before quickly shooting me a sly and half-smile.
What was that look?
My mind raced at the new information and Lorenzo’s sudden change of behavior.
“Do you think I could be?”
“There is always a possibility. We will look into it,” Lorenzo offers casually.
“There was a daughter to the Marcelli’s. I believe her name was Carla,” Salvatore says, his voice trailing off as he tried to remember back so far.
“Carlotta?” I ask.
“Carlotta, si!” He exclaims.
“That’s my Nonna,” I whisper.
Antonio walked over in a rush, “We have to go,” he says firmly.
“Ciao,” we say in unison.
Salvatore nodded to us and waved a small goodbye as we walked further through the market. Lorenzo’s large hand gripped the side of my hip as he escorted me through the crowded market. He did not say a word. He didn’t even look at me. He just looked stoically straight ahead.
My mind can’t process the man-child attitude of these men beside me. I can only process the possibility of my Nonna being raised here. Could this be the birthplace of my family? Could this be the place that held every secret that died with my grandparents?
Lorenzo’s grip with his rough fingers tightened against the fabric of my jeans. His other hand strokes his beard uncomfortably.
“We’re going to the club,” he seethes.
“For fucks sake,” Antonio says.
“Which club?” I ask.
“Ready to strike out Sicily on the passport, princessa?” Lorenzo asked.
Antonio stops the man beside me by placing his hand on Lorenzo’s broad chest. His gaze turned black and cold.
“You have to see your father,” he said.
“And I will,” Lorenzo said, his gaze pointed directly at the man in front of him.
Two police officers walk past us slowly. I watch them nod pointedly at the men in front of me. An unspoken conversation takes place in the time it takes for them to pass us. Lorenzo’s stiff posture didn’t go unnoticed by me as I watched them carefully. Their eyes never leaving one another as the officers walk past us.
“You two are in the mafia, can’t convince me otherwise,” I joke.
I released an amused snort from my mouth and start walking in the direction of the city center once more.
“I will see him, but right now I need this, brother,” Lorenzo says.
“As soon as you’re done, you come home. I can’t hold him off much longer,” Antonio says.
Lorenzo whistled loudly behind me and stopped to face him. As he wraps his forearm around my shoulders, I noticed an agitated Antonio with his hands in his trouser pockets defensively.
What am I getting myself into? What did I let you talk me into?
* * *