Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,13

of the window at some areas of land filled with more trees at the foothills. “It is called sciara.”

Nunzio drove us down an old dirt road that had worn-in tire tracks. Men and women walked the fields with straps around their necks, red buckets at the ends. Some were in the distance standing on lava rocks, balancing as they reached for the fruit along the branches. More workers walking along the road stopped and watched as we passed.

“The festival will take place in October this year,” Tito said. “Fabrizio appreciates the help. His family has owned this land for generations. It is passed down.”

“His last name?” I said, watching as a large villa in the distance grew closer. It was tan stone with green shutters and a dark, wooden front door.

“Pappalardo,” Tito said.

I didn’t even ask if Fabrizio Pappalardo knew why I was here. Tito knew better than to tell him. There were a few people who would pay a lot of money for the information.

Tito pointed behind the main villa. “There are places for the workers to stay during the collecting months. You will take an apartment.”

“We must stay close,” Nunzio said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Sì.” Tito nodded, his wide-brimmed cap dipping with the motion. “I arranged this.”

“Can we eat the pistachios?” Adriano stared at all of the buckets filled with the green gold of Sicily. “Or are they like olives straight from the tree? Tried that once and spit it clear across the field after I fucking did. Big, huge, mistake.”

“Life is a gamble,” I said.

Fabrizio Pappalardo was waiting in front of the villa as Nunzio pulled up and parked. Pappalardo was around my age, maybe a little younger, and in work clothes. He was pointing at a bag filled with pistachios that had “Pappa” stamped to the white fabric in red, telling one of the workers to bring it somewhere.

If he noticed what kind of men we were, he didn’t outwardly show it. I was here for a reason, so I blended, leaving the suits and ties in New York. But when he saw Nicodemo, who never left the suits and ties at home, I wondered if he would take notice and start to ask questions. Then again, being connected to Tito could come with its questions, too.

Or not.

If Fabrizio had lost a few workers due to illness or accident, Tito was the kind of man who would recommend men he knew needed the work.

After Nicodemo stepped out of his car, he shook hands with Fabrizio, so they seemed to know each other. Nicodemo nodded at me before he entered the villa.

“Fucking bum,” Adriano said underneath his breath as he watched the door close behind Nicodemo. “I stink. Imagine. I buy the best shit there is.”

Adriano was pissed at Nicodemo, who had told him that he stunk and would attract flies out in the heat once he started to sweat.

Fabrizio cleared his throat to get our attention. He was all business. He directed us to a man named Fabio, who put us to work at once. We were all given buckets and gloves and told not to let the fruit drop, if we could help it. After we filled our buckets, we were to report to Fabrizio and the buckets would be poured into a bag. We were to keep picking until the day was over.

It wasn’t easy work. Some of the rocks were steep, and the trees grew at an odd angle, so it took balance to keep from falling over or dropping the fruit. Sometimes branches would fall between the crevices, and I would have to stick my hand between to retrieve them. I always checked for snakes before I did.

I was quiet as I did my job, getting lost in the rhythm of it. Sometimes I would study the workings of the trees. They seemed to have deep root systems, usually with short trunks, and long, resinous branches. The leaves were like velvet and leather. The pistachios were about the size of olives and grew in pink clusters. The men called the plants scornabecco, and the shell after it had been separated from its husk tignosella.

It was easy to forget about the issues in New York while I got lost in the work. I could’ve been a different man— a man with regular problems.

Other times, the need to take care of the Scarpones only grew with the silence that consumed my mind. It wasn’t even words that came to mind but a