Page 57 of Enzo's Vow
Lucio grinned as he complied, his easy-going nature always shining through.
I leaned forward, slipping my hand over his shoulder, and whispered, “thank you.” My throat constricted.
With one hand on the wheel, he squeezed my hand gently.
“So, where are we headed if not Tommaso’s house?” Lucio rubbed his hands together.
“Tonight isPasseggiate Dei Giganti.” Enzo met my gaze in the rearview. “We won’t hear the end of Carina’s nagging anyway, so let’s enjoy our freedom while we can.”
Lucio winked my way. “What do you say, Gemma? Sound good?” There was something in his grin, an easy warmth that went beyond simple politeness. It wasn’t explicit, but it was there: a feeling that, unlike his mother, Lucio didn’t automatically disapprove of me. It was a small comfort, a flicker of acceptance in the face of Carina’s coldness.
“I’m in.”Passeggiate Dei Giganti. Walk of the Giants. I’d heard about the festival from my father, but never attended. Now? I’d travel to space if it meant avoiding Franco.
Road closures forced us to park blocks away. We joined the throng on foot, shoulder to shoulder with strangers. A mixture of sweat and cheap cologne hung in the air. Every step was a fight for space, each breath a desperate inhale of warm, stale air. Any minute now, someone would trample my feet. The idiom felt so relatable; we were sardines in a tin can. I squeezed Enzo’s shoulder, raising my voice. “Is it always this insane?”
“Every year it gets bigger!” He yelled back, his grip tightening on my hand.
A sharp grin touched Lucio’s lips as he rocked slightly on his heels, his eyes gleaming. “Here come the giants!”
We nudged through the crowd, ignoring the rapid-fire Italian rebukes. August heat and the press of bodies glued my blouse to my skin. The urge to bolt to Papa’s florist, to immerse in the cool air of the walk-in refrigerator, intensified. An open gap appeared, or maybe the crowd sensed the two intimidating men flanking me and gave way.
Two colossal statues on horseback lumbered down the street, hauled by miniature trucks that seemed ridiculously small in comparison. Draped in crimson and standing at least twenty-six feet tall, they depicted a fair-skinned woman on a white horse and a dark-skinned man with curling hair on a dark brown steed. They looked like vintage plastic cake toppers, blown up to gigantic proportions. The crimson fabric rippled in the breeze, catching the fading sunlight like pools of blood. A low rumble emanated from the trucks hauling the statues, a dissonant counterpoint to the festive music in the air. “They’re huge,” I breathed. I tilted my head back, the figures so immense, I felt strangely small, insignificant. Plaster and wood… how could something so towering be made from such simple materials?
Hundreds of people swayed and twirled to the procession, clad in vibrant Sicilian folk costumes. The men pounded drums and squeezed accordions, while the women shook tambourines decked with colorful streamers, their voices blending in joyful harmony. A Carretto—the famous Sicilian horse and carriage—followed. I’d seen a tiny replica of the colorful horses my mother kept as a souvenir, but never the real thing up close.
As the statues pranced past, we moseyed toward the heart of the celebration. The Piazza Duomo pulsed with the vibrant strains of Sicilian folk music, rendered byorganettisand tambourines. The crowd surged toward the center. A band on stage belted out‘Ciuri Ciuri’, the singer—clad in custom black pants, vest, ascot hat, and a red bandana—dancing and clapping on the wooden platform. Food stalls ringed the piazza, their enticing aromas of garlic and basil making my stomach rumble.
Enzo purchased three steaming bowls of pasta. I dug in, the rich, tomato-basil sauce exploding on my tongue, a comforting flavor drawing a blissful moan from my throat. Around us, people devoured crisp-crusted croquettes, their fried aroma mingling with the scent of sizzling arancini. Laughter from adults and the delighted squeals of children as they raced past, painting streaks of color from their waving sparklers and glow sticks, filled the air. A young man dipped his girlfriend for a romantic kiss, earning a round of applause. People shouted“Hey!”in time with the music, clapping and swaying to the beat of the drums.
Enzo nudged Lucio, who kept eyeing a brunette in the crowd. Even from this distance, I could see the girl’s laughter was bright, lilting, almost like a melody, something that seemed to capture Lucio’s complete attention. The young woman flushed crimson every time Lucio glanced her way. As for Lucio, he bit his lip, amused by her shyness. “Don’t mind me.” He patted his brother’s back with a wink. “I’ll catch up with you two later.”He sauntered toward the bashful brunette, leaving Enzo and me chuckling.
A tug on my pinky made me jump. A little boy, no older than five, tugged insistently, swinging side to side. “Balla con me.”
Enzo’s smirk stretched into a full-blown smile as I waited for him to translate. “He wants you to dance.”
My eyes widened, and my hand flew to my chest in an unconscious gesture. “Me?” How could anyone say no to this little charmer?
“Per favore.” The boy’s small hand clutched mine, and he yanked me into the dizzying swirl of the dance floor. A wild folk melody erupted from the musicians, the beat so infectious it seized my feet before my brain could protest. I had no idea what I was doing, and judging by the boy’s exuberant jumps, neither did he. He tugged me into a clumsy circle, and a laugh—a real, unburdened laugh—bubbled up and escaped my lips.
Soon our little circle of joyful chaos became contagious. One couple, then another, abandoned their graceful steps to mimic our awkward, joyful movements, their laughter mixing with ours until the entire floor was a beautiful, stomping mess. From the edge of the crowd, Enzo let out a shrill, piercing whistle. I shot him a playful glare, my cheeks hot, but the little boy beside me simply beamed. He gripped my hand tighter and, as the song crashed to an end, took a deep, theatrical bow to the applauding crowd. “Prego, prego!” he yelled, absolutely reveling in the spotlight.
Heat crept up my neck and flushed my cheeks. I managed an awkward smile and mumbled, “Grazie.” Then, I gently pulled my hand free from the adorable little boy and scurried off the dance floor. He blew me a kiss as he darted through the throng, his laughter echoing behind me.
Enzo claimed my hand and spun me around. “You’re the star of the show now.”
I pursed my lips to hush him. “Let’s keep the spotlight on the giant statues, okay?”
He leaned closer, his spicy cologne wrapping around me like a promise. “Do you know of the legend behind this festival?”
I shrugged. Other than knowing it happened every August, thePasseggiate Dei Gigantiwas a blank slate.
He traced a slow circle on my wrist with his thumb, sending a shiver up my arm. “Grifone, a giant of a man, led an army to conquer the city. During his raid, he stumbled upon a beautiful, fair maiden named Mata. He fell madly in love and begged her to marry him, but she refused because Grifone wasn’t Christian.”
“Rightly so,” I interjected, raising a brow.Go Mata.
He chuckled, lacing his fingers through mine. His green eyes held me captive. “Grifone didn’t take it well. He rampaged through the city, plundering everything he could find. Then, he kidnapped Mata and forced her to become his wife.”
I bit my lip at the irony. “Typical.” His smirk dimpled his cheeks. “To win her love, he repented, converted, and dedicated his life as a man of faith.”
