Page 31 of My Mafia King

She glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes reflected the warm late afternoon sun, and I froze in place, studying them as if I’d never seen eyes in my life, and in a way, it was true.

I’d never looked at someone’s eyes the way I looked at hers.

They were green and golden and occasionally dark.

They took after the weather, reflecting whatever was happening behind me as the sun glided toward the horizon.

Even the sun wanted to glimpse more of her, and because of that, it lingered a little longer, weaving its light into her hair while dripping golden tears into her eyes.

And then she smiled.

She smiled at my stunned expression, I think.

She smiled because I looked defeated, unable to tame her hair.

Or maybe she smiled because I was so stubborn and determined to tie her hair back with that crimson scarf.

Later, she praised me for my effort and admitted her hair had never behaved. To make things sweeter and bearable for me, she invited me to sit next to her.

A blanket was packed in that basket, and we pulled it out and laid it on the ground before sitting down and talking.

My Italian was good, and her English wasn’t bad, and we made it work somehow.

As she talked, I realized her voice was exactly how I’d imagined it.

Soft, melodious, calm, and lined with faint smiles from time to time. She never gave me a bright smile. Never. Her grins were subtle, subdued––tiny stories in themselves.

Some were sad, and some were tender, and I was ecstatic when she said she wanted to know more about me and my life in New York.

I was convinced I had a few good stories to tell, and she enjoyed them fully.

Later, we resumed working and continued to chat.

We talked about Sicily and olive trees.

How some of them were a thousand years old or more.

How olives needed to be used within days from harvesting––ideally three days––before oxidizing and going sour.

I learned a lot about olives and that girl that day.

I studied how she conducted herself and tilted her chin when she wasn’t convinced I was telling the truth, although it had never crossed my mind to lie to her.

And then how she narrowed her eyes and smiled.

She sucked me into her world so quickly that by the end of the day, I was ready to move to Sicily and spend my life over there, picking olives and listening to her stories.

Her mother was grateful for all the help her daughter had gotten and invited all of us to have lunch at their place after church on the following Sunday.

My parents were happy that I’d done something useful and nice for once instead of busting someone’s face in at the school or in the neighborhood.

I wasn’t a bad kid.

It’s just that I couldn’t stand fools, and there were plenty where I lived.

After finishing eating outside that Sunday, the adults remained at the table and chatted for a while as we, the kids, moved around.

The girl I was smitten with had showed me around the house before inviting me to follow her outside.

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