Page 45 of The Sicilian Inheritance

“How far back does this go?” I asked.

“This book is from 1890 to the Second World War,” Fina said, carefully turning pages until she landed on what she wanted to show me. “First, we have Serafina’s earliest record. Right here. You see. She was christened Serafina Forte in 1893.”

The cursive was barely legible. She flipped forward a few pages. “And in 1908 she was married in the church to Giovanni Marsala.”

I did the math in my head and gasped. “She was only fifteen.”

“Very young,” Giusy said. “Even younger than was common then. Most girls did not marry until after their sixteenth birthday.”

Fina continued. “And here is the baptism record for her first child, Cosimo Marsala. Same year. Four months later.”

It took a moment for the dates to click into place. “She was pregnant when she got married. Very pregnant.”

“I imagine that the rumors about her began early because of this.” Giusy cocked her head as she thought about it. “The whispers about when the baby was made and what that said about her honor.”

“What else is there?” I reached out to touch the book again, but Fina swatted my fingers away.

“The pages are fragile,” she warned. “I could get into much trouble for bringing this here. But I think it will help you.” She wanted me to know she was doing me a favor and I wondered what I would eventually owe her for it.

“Then there are two more children,” Giusy said. “They come quickly. Both boys.”

“Three kids before she was twenty?”

“Three was not very many then. Most women had six or more. But her husband left for America, remember?”

“But what about my aunt Rose?”

“There’s no record of her in this book.”

“Why not?”

“We have to assume that she left before she was baptized.”

I had no idea whether that was true or not, but it did beg some questions. “And Serafina’s husband had already gone to America?”

Giusy nodded. “He could have returned for a visit. We do not know.”

“And what about Serafina’s death?”

“It is also not in here. Which must mean there was no funeral. Remember these are only events that happened in the church, not civil records.”

No funeral. She had never been buried. But the priest must have read something between the lines, or known another piece of information about her that had made him so intensely angry.

Fina kept turning pages. “Look here. These are records of the location where someone received their last rites. There is no listing for Serafina. But there would not have been last rites for a murder. When I was trying to find it, I noticed something else. Look here; all of these. Hundreds were on your land. It really was a clinic. It proves the stories about Serafina treating the sick there.” Fina’s eyes were shiny with a childlike wonder and satisfaction at piecing together a puzzle.

“Won’t you come to say hello?” A male voice wafted out from somewhere behind a wall.

“We should pay our respects to the chef.” Giusy headed toward what I assumed was the kitchen. I grabbed a hunk of the bread and swiped it in thick green olive oil before following.

The kitchen was as well-appointed as the dining room. Steam rose from terra-cotta tagines perched on a massive industrial stove top. A long silvery tuna was laid out on a butcher block in the middle of the room and behind it a man wielding what looked like a razor-sharp machete was preparing to slice off its head and tail. He had his blade raised high in the air, blood already spattered across the lemon print apron on his belly. His hazelnut skin glistened with sweat and oil. When he looked up at us, I was nearly undone by his wide, sensuous mouth and eyes the color of a pond after a fresh rainstorm, light brown with a hint of moss at the edges. His facial features could have been chiseled in stone, made all the more delicious by his lazy smile. He met my gaze as his blade sliced clear through the fish’s neck and the severed head fell to the floor.

“So dramatic, Luca. And I thought I knew how to make an entrance.” Giusy strolled behind the butcher block to kiss the man on both of his cheeks. My pulse quickened and something shifted inside me as I walked closer, wanting to be near enough to smell him and inhale the air around him.

“Sara Marsala, meet our friend Luca,” Fina said, making a little flourish with her hand.

“I wasn’t much older but I used to babysit him,” Giusy bragged, ruffling his hair.

He was definitely an adult now, maybe a few years younger than me. With another swift slice of Luca’s blade, the fish was filleted from neck to tail, revealing its bright red, ribbed muscles. I was suddenly seized with a desire to feel the heft of Luca’s knife in my hand.

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