Page 114 of Mafia Kings: Valentino

“Yeah, but – ”

“Did theyspecificallytell you not to stop anywhere along the way?”

“No, but – ”

“Then what happens in the car, stays in the car.”

Paolo shook his head glumly. “I’m gonna regret this. I just know it.”

All my life, I’d heard that Rosolini was this fairytale-like town: charming, quaint, beautiful beyond compare.

My grandfather died before I was born, so I heard all the stories from my father. He told me that my grandfather had left behind his and Nonna’s beautiful home in Sicily to come to Florence, where he could create a better life for their family.

Back in Sicily, my grandfather was a small fish in a small pond. But in the wide-open waters of Tuscany, he made a name for himself – and created a kingdom for his family.

My grandfather had spoken of his old town reverentially. My father told me it was true – that Rosolini was more beautiful than anything Florence could offer.

It was always curious to me why he never took me and my brothers there to visit.

I was about to find out.

Paolo pulled off the main highway and continued down a road towards the town.

I could tell things weren’t going to match the fantasy when I saw all the graffiti along the way.

The outskirts of the town had a decidedly industrial feel – storage facilities and warehouses – and the older buildings were crumbling. Weeds choked the side of the road.

Things’ll get better,I told myself.

Even Florence is ugly in the new part of town. The Old Quarter is where it’s beautiful.

And itdidget better.

And itwasquaint… and kind of charming…

But not nearly as good as my father had made it sound.

All the satellite dishes poking up from all the roofs didn’t help.

We reached a huge square in the middle of town. Paolo parked, and I got out and looked around.

On one side was an old sandstone church, probably four stories tall.

The church was fairly impressive, over twice as tall as any nearby buildings, with a couple of statues of saints on top of the roof.

But once you’ve seen St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, or even the Duomo in Florence… let’s just say Rosolini’s suffered by comparison.

I looked around the rest of the square.

There were no fountains or statues – just a few lampposts.

Everything else was kind of bland. Beige two-story buildings.

The whole place felt old – but not like a medieval town, where you could feel the centuries in the cobblestones.

More just… worn out. Tired.

I could imagine it 60 years ago when my grandfather was here – during a festival, with a thousand people in the square and brightly colored decorations on the buildings. Old-timers sitting in street cafés, drinking coffee and wine as children ran past.

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