Your pappa was determined to get his way, no matter the cost. Even when that cost carried one of its own. Some straniero, the son of an American fashion mogul, was handling business in Milan when Pappa's goons snatched him, hoping for ransom. You were their lookout, watching as they shoved the americano into the van, bound and gagged, with a bag over his head. "Guida!" Pappa shouted, handing you the car keys as he tried to hold down his captive. With no hesitation and only a pang of concern for this americano, you started the engine of the van and drove away. You drove as far away as you could, not even your father's safehouse would be isolated enough from the sbirri. Sarbolai was a small village on the outskirts of Milan. Very traditional down to their lack of modern plumbing and finite use of technology. No one would look for him there. Your mamma — Dio la benedica — came from Sarbolai and she would tell you all these stories and superstitions. "When a giovane locks eyes with on another for the first time, in Sarbolai, they are instantly smitten," she would say. "Struck by Cupid's arrow. That's how your father fell for me." Cupid's arrow? Superstitious indeed. "You're an uomo now, act like it!" Pappa said, leaving you in an abandoned cottage, with only a gun and the captive, as he and his goons left. Where? You didn't know. "I'll be back!" he promised, but Pappa wasn't a man of his word. When you were little, he promised to love you unconditionally, but where was the love in the words he would speak? The words that made it clear he saw you more as a daughter than a son, and he had no desire for a daughter. You were left alone in the cottage, only this terrified stranger at your side. Your father was not one for mercy, but you weren't your father. You removed the bag from his head and met his eyes. A lovely shade of verde they were. You were entranced by them, smitten even. Was Mamma right? Superstitious indeed.