Read Bella Fortuna Online

Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

Bella Fortuna

Bella Fortuna
ROSANNA CHIOFALO
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For my parents,
Francesca & Giuseppe Chiofalo
I vostri sacrifici non furono vani.
 
And for my husband,
Ed Aponte
Your love is my
bella fortuna
.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people to thank for this book becoming a reality. First, I'd like to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio. John, you are not only an editor extraordinaire, but also a dream maker. For you made my childhood dream of becoming a published novelist come true. Thank you for believing in me and in my novel. I'd like to thank Steve Zacharius, President and CEO of Kensington Publishing, and Laurie Parkin, Vice President and Publisher of Kensington Publishing, for not only publishing my novel, but also for all the efforts you have put forth behind a first-time author. The entire team at Kensington Publishing has gone above and beyond, especially Kris Noble, who designed the gorgeous book cover for
Bella Fortuna
. Kris, you captured the very essence and special beauty of Venice perfectly. And a cover would not be a cover without clever copy. Thank you to Tracy Marx, Copy Chief at Kensington Publishing, and especially to Lorraine Freeney, who wrote the beautiful jacket copy on
Bella Fortuna
. For the entire Kensington marketing department, especially Lesleigh Irish-Underwood, Shannon Gray, Michele Santelices Dragon, Katie Chan, Sakina Williams, Alex Nicolajsen, thank you for the outstanding marketing/promotional efforts on my behalf. They will never be forgotten. A special thanks goes to John Masiello, Creative Director of Advertising/Promotion. Thank you for the gorgeous designs you created on my ads and promotional pieces. Thank you to the entire production department, especially my production editor, Paula Reedy, who treated this book as if it were hers by ensuring all of the production on
Bella Fortuna
went smoothly. A book's backbone is without a doubt a strong copyeditor. Thank you to Monique Vescia for copy-editing my novel and for being so thorough. I truly valued your suggestions and comments. I'd like to thank the entire publicity department at Kensington, especially Karen Auerbach and my publicist, Vida Engstrand. Vida, your name is synonymous with brilliant. Thank you so much for all of your hard work and for your creative publicity ideas. A very warm thank you to the entire sales team at Kensington, especially David Lappin, Helen Dressner, Doug Men-dini, Darla Freeman, and all of the outside sales force. A special shout-out goes to Meryl Earl, Director of Sub Rights, and Jackie Dinas, Foreign Rights Associate: Your enthusiasm for my book and diligent work to secure foreign rights for
Bella Fortuna
were greatly appreciated.
Thank you to my family for your unconditional love and support. As you will see when you read the pages of
Bella Fortuna
, many of the characters are named in honor of you. And for those of you who do not see your names, I promise they'll make an appearance in the second and third novels. To my parents, Francesca and Giuseppe Chiofalo, this book is as much yours as it is mine. If it weren't for my mother and all of the sacrifices she has made in her life, this novel would never have happened.
Ti voglio bene, Ma. Non ti dimenticare mai.
And if it weren't for my father instilling in my siblings and me a love for education, none of us would have received the success we have in our careers. Nothing was more important to my father than receiving a good education. Though sadly, he did not receive the same encouragement in his own academic pursuits that he gave to us, he had the wisdom to know how important education is and to fully bolster our academic careers.
Grazie, Baba.
I'd like to thank my brother Anthony Chiofalo for nurturing my early love of reading by buying books that many considered “too difficult” for a child my age to read. I always proved this theory wrong by not only finishing the lengthy books, but reading them in a record amount of time. To my brother Mike Chiofalo, thank you for introducing me to the power of music and lyrics that have influenced my writing. And thanks for letting me hang out with you in your room when I was a kid just so that I could listen to my favorite Blondie albums over and over again! To my sister, Angela Chiofalo Mansfield, thank you for being a friend in addition to being a big sister. Your friendship and company were two of the things I missed most when I lived in Austin. To my nephews and nieces whom I'm so proud of: Joseph Chiofalo, Nicholas Chiofalo, Michael Mansfield, Brandon Mansfield, Kyle Mansfield, Olivia Mansfield, Samantha Prosser, Gregory Prosser, Megan Prosser, Melanie Prosser, Brandon Aponte, Colin Aponte, Rebecca Aponte, and Ben Jacquez. To my mother-in-law, Raquel Aponte-Carroll, thank you for all the love, friendship, and support you have given me these past eight years. A woman could not ask for a better mother-in-law. To my father-in-law, Juan Aponte, thank you for your love and for all the laughs you have given me. To Ralph Carroll, my stepfather-in-law, I've taken your advice and words of wisdom to heart. Thank you to all of my sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law, Raquel Aponte, Tania Prosser, Louise Aponte, Susan Cardenas, Juan Aponte, Greg Prosser, and Bill Mansfield.
A special thanks to all of my friends, especially Tiziana D'Angelo, the little sister I never had but had in you; Maria Colletti, who's cheered me on 100 percent; Ingrid Yardeny, whose unwavering friendship has stood the test of time and with whom I've shared so many special memories as we grew up together (You always knew I'd be a writer someday. Thank you for having faith in me.); “Bensonhurst,” who's been so loyal to me in the fifteen years we've known each other (You are my brother in addition to my friend, and as you always say to me, “Astoria, we're cut from the same cloth.” I'll never forget everything you've done for me and will always cherish our friendship.).
There are a few people who never lost faith in me and my writing—even at times when I'd lost the faith. To the amazing and hugely talented Libba Bray, thank you for always believing in my writing; you've been a huge inspiration to me. To Charlee Ganny, thank you for always reminding me that “We could do it too!” To Paul “Gramps” Dinas, thank you for the words of advice you gave me on writing that took me years to fully grasp, but I eventually did. To my high school writing teacher, Ms. Davies, thank you for setting such high standards in your class and for giving me the courage to pursue creative writing by expressing how much you liked my writing. To my college creative writing teacher, Carolyn McGrath, thank you for believing without a doubt that I would become a published author someday.
And to my husband, Edgardo “Ed” Aponte, thank you for your insights as I was working on the novel. Thank you for one of the best author websites that's out there, the phenomenal author photo you took, and all of the promotional work you've done for me. Most of all, thank you for being my #1 fan, my best friend, and my soul mate. I couldn't have done this without you. I love you!
1
Unlucky 13
I
've never considered myself very lucky. Maybe it has something to do with my being born on Friday the 13th and one day shy of Valentine's Day. For a long time, I've been convinced that my birth date is the reason why I've been so cursed in love. And my being named after the patron saint of love, St. Valentine, when I've had nothing but
agita
in romance just makes it more painfully ironic.
Agita
is what Italians call grief of the worst kind. To top it off, my mother is very superstitious and believes in the dreaded
malocchio,
or evil eye, even though it's 2010.
Malocchio
is when someone puts a curse on you. And many Italians are fervent believers in the mighty power of the
malocchio
. But none of that matters anymore since I've finally met “the one.”
Thinking about this and how my luck has changed, on this cold Sunday morning, I walk out of church. January in New York City is definitely not one of my favorite months. But as every New Yorker knows, the frigid temps don't stop you. The streets are the quietest on Sunday mornings, my favorite time to be walking through Astoria, the Queens neighborhood where I grew up and still live.
The attendance at the eight a.m. Mass at Immaculate Conception is usually low—too early for most people to get up on the weekend. Even though it's a drag to get myself out of bed, I still go through this weekly ritual. It's meditative for me. It's not often one can go somewhere in New York City without running into a crowd so you have to grab your quiet moments when you can. Sunday mornings are when I can hear myself think best. Even though it's just slightly above the freezing mark, I take my time walking home.
The shops that do open on Sundays are slowly coming to life. Several joggers pass me on their way to Astoria Park. Dogs are trotting along, immune to the nip in the air.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I love to people-watch, and New York City is a great place to do it. Probably nowhere else in the world will you encounter as many people from different ethnic, socioeconomic, and religious backgrounds—well, except for at an airport!
The aroma of fresh baked bread from the Italian bakeries reaches my nose. Through the windows, I spy a few old men already sitting at the bakeries' tables, sipping their
cappuccinos
and reading
La Corriere della Sera
newspaper. As I step through the doors of Antoniella's Bakery, I spot Paulie Parlatone's S-shaped receding hairline behind his newspaper.
Paulie is known as “the Mayor of 35th Street” or
“Il Sindaco”
for his meddling in everyone's affairs on my block. He has no idea he'd been christened with this nickname, just as he has no idea that he talks too much. The irony isn't lost on everyone that his last name, “Parlatone,” means “big talker” in Italian. Paulie will stop you in the street and grill you to the point where you finally surrender and tell him your personal business just so you can end the conversation more quickly.
The worst is when he shows up at your house unannounced. He often comes to my home right after dinner, asks my mother for a toothpick, and makes himself just as comfortable as if he's sitting in his own house. While he talks to us, he picks his teeth with the toothpick. And no matter how well you hide your dirty laundry, nothing gets past Paulie.
I quickly walk by Paulie's table at Antoniella's, praying not to be noticed.
“Valentina!”
I keep walking, pretending I can't hear amid the din in the crowded bakery. Already there's a line of customers, waiting to get their Sunday Danish, croissants, and
biscotti
. I try to hide behind the Shaquille O'Neal dead ringer who stands in front of me on line. But not even the man's tall figure disguises me. A finger taps me on the shoulder.
“Valentina! Didn't you hear me?”
“Ohhh, Paulie. I'm sorry. I'm a bit preoccupied, and with the noise in here, I guess I didn't hear you.” I give him a faint smile.
“Always thinking! That's been you since you were a little girl. Remember the time you almost hit me while you were riding your bike? You were staring right up at the clouds. I had to whistle to get your attention.”
Of course I remember that day. It's true, I did like to daydream a lot as a kid. Sometimes, I wish I had hit him—nothing too serious—just enough to shut him up for even a second.
“Well, enjoy your day, Paulie.” I return my attention to the pastry display case, pretending I still haven't made up my mind as to what I'm ordering.
Paulie doesn't seem to notice or care.
“So where are you off to?”
“I'm going to the shop.”
“You're open today? Sposa Rosa's never been open on a Sunday. Are you losing money?”
I picture myself on my childhood bike, hitting him head on—again and again.
“No, business has actually never been better, especially after the feature
Brides
magazine did on us a few months ago. I have to finish my wedding dress, and with the store being as busy as it is, the only time I get to work on it is late at night or on Sundays.”
“Of course! Of course!” Paulie slaps his forehead. “How could I forget? Our little Valentina is finally getting married. You know I was beginning to get a little worried for you.”
Oh, how I wish I were on that bike right now—no, make that a car instead.
“Paulie!” I laugh through gritted teeth. “I'm not the only woman in New York to have waited to get engaged until she was in her thirties!”
“I know. I know. But I just couldn't understand why no one had snagged you sooner. You're such a pretty girl with a good head on your shoulders.”
Apparently, Paulie's definition of shoulders is different from mine since his eyes rest on my breasts. I forgot to mention that Paulie is also a perv. He rarely misses a chance to ogle a woman's boobs.
“I was just picky. There aren't enough good men out there.”
“May I take your order, miss?”
The salesgirl saves me.
“It was nice talking to you, Paulie. 'Bye!”
I place my order for
Palline di Limone biscotti
and even throw in a few assorted mini Danish so I can talk to her longer, hoping Paulie will leave me alone.
“ 'Bye, Valentina.”
It works! Paulie walks away.
“Hey, Valentina!” He stops, returning to my side.
“Have I told you I can't wait to spin you around the dance floor at your wedding? Oh, wait! You're getting married in Venice. That's too far. I won't be there.”
Thank you, God, Mary, and all the blessed saints in heaven!
I nod sadly, belying my true thoughts of elation. Then I look down into my purse as I search for my wallet. I know I'm being rude, but I don't care. Paulie has been rude toward my family countless times. He finally leaves the bakery, picking up one of the complimentary toothpicks on the counter.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Choosing to get married in Venice was the best decision I ever made. I put Paulie as far away from my thoughts as possible, and focus on returning to the meditative, blissful state I was in before I ran into him.
After leaving the bakery, I pass Anthony's Salumeria. My mouth waters as I spot Anthony slicing
prosciutto
—my favorite Italian cold cut. Unable to resist, I walk into the deli and order half a pound of the salty meat along with a block of sharp provolone.
“Good morning, Valentina!”
“Hi, Anthony! How are you?”
“Can't complain. I'll be out of here by noon. The Giants are playing so I've got that to look forward to.”
Anthony always gives me the first slice of meat to sample even though I know he carries nothing but the freshest products.
“Hmmm! Still the best!”
Anthony smiles. Sometimes, I think he goes through this ritual more for his own sake than mine. He just can't resist hearing his cold cuts praised.
Although I am used to the sights and sounds of the neighborhood that has been my home since I was a child, they seem more vibrant today. The bread at Antoniella's Bakery smells particularly heavenly. The froth threatening to spill over from the patrons'
cappuccinos
looks thicker, and the
prosciutto
at Anthony's is the sweetest ever. Even my three-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring sparkles brighter today.
Yes, it's the start of a new year, and finally I feel like this is going to be my year. After designing and sewing wedding dresses for other lucky brides-to-be for so long, it will now be my turn to shine in the spotlight. In just five months, on June 14th to be precise, I'll be marrying Michael Carello in my favorite city in the world—Venice.
I had secretly admired Michael since I was ten years old. Michael was thirteen, but even though he was three years older than me, he always said hi and tried to make me laugh. Popular at school and in our neighborhood, Michael and his family lived around the block from me, so I often saw him playing football or hockey with his friends on my street.
He has blond hair and blue eyes, defying the dark southern Italian stereotype. He takes after his mother. Iva Carello is beautiful even now that she's in her late fifties and is often told she resembles the deceased Princess Grace of Monaco in her twilight years. His father, Joseph Carello, also poses a striking figure, with intense black eyes and a full head of hair at sixty. He always wears a suit, and on his days off from work, he still wears trousers with a button-down shirt, minus the tie and jacket.
Michael has definitely inherited his parents' sense of style. Even as a kid when he wore jeans or got dirty playing sports, he always looked good. It's hard not to notice Michael. But what really branded my devotion to him was when he had come to my defense at Li's Grocery Store when I was a kid.
I passed Li's Grocery Store every day on my way to school. My mother sometimes bought a few groceries there. It wasn't a real supermarket in the sense that you could get your week's worth of shopping. Mr. Li, a Taiwanese immigrant, owned the store and never had a smile for his patrons. Maybe that, along with its limited stock, was why hardly anyone frequented the store. But Li's did have an aisle full of cool school supplies like pretty binders with flower or fairy patterns, spiral notebooks with sparkly glitter covers, Hello Kitty pencil cases, and my favorite—Strawberry Shortcake erasers that smelled like strawberries, of course.
Every afternoon when I walked home from school for lunch, I would stop by Mr. Li's to eye the stationery I couldn't afford. I always politely greeted Mr. Li, who acknowledged me even if it was just a stern “Hello.” So I was shocked when one day he yelled at me as I was leaving the store.
“You! Yes, I talk to you. What you have in pocket?”
I froze as if he had a gun cocked right at my head.
“I say what in pocket? Take hand out.”
I took my hands out of my powder-blue, faux-fur-trimmed coat, holding my palms up to show him they were empty as I whispered, “Nothing.”
“You come every day. No buy anyteeng. Why?”
“I was just looking.”
My heart was beating as fast as my cat Gigi's after my mother had thrown her heavy clog at him for stealing food off our table when we weren't looking.
“Hey! Leave her alone! She didn't take anything!”
I hadn't even seen Michael and his best friend, Sal, standing at the register. Utter humiliation washed over me as my face flushed, resembling the color of the half-rotten pomegranates that lay in the boxes at the front of the store.
“She here every day. Hide in back. Teenk I no see. I no idi-uht. She never buy anyteeng. She steal.”
“I know her. She would never steal a penny. It's a free country. She can come in here and look without buying anything. Just because she doesn't buy your crummy stuff doesn't mean she's stealing.”
Mr. Li frowned and glanced at me again. I lowered my eyes to the floor.
“It's okay, Valentina. Come on, let's get out of here.”
Michael placed his arm around my shoulders, leading me out. I could feel Mr. Li's gaze burning a hole through the back of my head as if he was trying to read my mind, still questioning if I'd somehow stolen something and had cleverly hidden it.
Once outside, Michael turned to Sal. “Give us a minute. I'll catch up with you in a second.” Sal nodded his head and walked toward school.
Michael removed his arm from my shoulder and bent his head lower so his eyes met mine. I stared at the ground, wishing I could shrink to the size of the ants that were crawling around the broken pieces of bread that someone had thrown to the pigeons.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded my head. “Thanks,” I managed to mutter in a tiny voice.

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