for all of her life, francesca felt overpowered by the men around her. it all started when she still was a child: being the youngest and the only daughter in a family with four children wasn’t the easiest thing. she was the first girl after four generations of strong and short tempered men, and her mom always had to drag her away from her brothers and cousins, locking her in the kitchen and promising to teach her the best recipe. if she closed her eyes and forgot all her problems, she could pretend she was at the kitchen table, cutting vegetables and trying to not frown in front of her mother. sing me something, cessa, the older woman always said, with a thick italian accent and in such a powerful tone that she started to singing without thinking about it.
then, she grew up a little and realized how wise her mother was to insist that she should stay in the kitchen. in this world, the easiest way that a woman could rule and control was using the traditional and expected devices. the figure of a housewife was underappreciated, and dangerous for that same reason. she felt sorry and prayed for the girls in school who preferred to rebel against the norms and do whatever they wanted to: their life would be so much harder than it needed to be in the future! why complicating yourself so much? that’s why she kept her mouth shut and her modest dresses impeccable, trying to attract the best man possible. young francesca believed that a true woman could, should and would shape a man, something that she intended to do soon.
she fell in love with angelo as soon as she knew he wanted her. attemptive eyes, malicious smiles, tender hands; he became everything to her too easily for her own good. he called her francis and caressed her cheek, talking about how beautiful their children would be and asking her how she always imagined her wedding. he brought her tangerines every morning and kissed her hands, asking her to not look at any other boy in school. he seemed to adore her, his little angel. cuore mio. dolcezza. stellina. fooled by the feeling of the first love and wanting desperately to be his, she started to think of herself as francesca castiglione even before he oficially discussed a marriage proposal with her father, willing to become his wife in an almost religious way. she never expected to actually love her husband, and god surprised her by putting such a good man in her life that she had no choice but to be devoted to him. her mother bragged with family friends about how good francesca’s future husband was and jealouness appeared in her friends faces every time she mentioned angelo. it didn’t matter that his family was involved in dirty things, it didn’t matter how he would spend a long time away from home: her children would have his eyes and he would be hers. what else to wish for?
five children later, most of her worries were about her children and her duties as a loyal wife, and she took pride for that. the castiglione parties were always beautiful, angelo’s mom was gentle and kind to her, and the kids were doing fine. her husband was short tempered just like her father and her brothers, more focused on his business than on his husband duties, but she preferred to ignore that. she knew what she was going into when she decided to be his wife.
still, sometimes she feared for her family. italian men were naturally impulsive, and angelo was no different. not his angel only in an affectionate meaning, francesca had a way of predicting his actions and softening the consequences before he could even think of getting his gun. think about our babies, bello, she would softly whisper whenever he found his way to her arms, while caressing his hair and make him feel like the most important man in the world. you didn’t marry me to make me a widow so soon. you don’t want this family to be ruined. calm down.
acting like a mother to her own husband could take its toll on any woman, but till this day, nobody knew how much she influenced him. a strong family needed a strong matriarch, and even if she didn’t expect to get involved in the feud with the vespasiano family, she was happy to be useful in a bigger manner. “men… sometimes they don’t seem to think.” she said in a gentle way, facing eleonora. after resolving all the problems, the women were sent to the kitchen again, something that she got used to after so many years. “can i offer you something? i made a lemon pie just before you arrived. the kids love it.” she pointed to gianna and romeo playing outside, laughing a little too much. talking about children and pie seemed trivial after what they just had done, but she felt a little umconfortable in the presence of the other woman. the castiglione and the vespasiano families weren’t exactly friends, so they didn’t actually know each other.
they were very different women, francesca and herself. she saw it in the way the other carried her own figure, the way her dresses wrapped around her body so very modestly and even the sad smiles that sometimes slipped between one of her words and the other. she was beautiful, all the way stunning, and had a soul of a deepness that eleonora couldn’t help but wish to read into like a book. the vespasiano matriarch hadn’t ever been that delicate, that much was known.
an excerpt of the epilogue of her life : oldest of her siblings, once the disgrace on her family’s lineage, the woman learned early on her years that this role would never belong to her. no, she wasn’t made for ruling or holding the last word, not in her family house and most certainly not in her married life. her mother had three other children after her; two boys, one little girl. eleonora looked after her like a little doll; dressed her up, cleaned her, fed her, took her out to play and taught her all the things she learned. how to behave, mostly, for even in all her years she couldn’t convince herself that there were things she simply shouldn’t do. when a disease took her little ludo from her, that’s when she first noticed how very well grief seemed to suit her.
her first chapter only ever began with the introduction of his figure, tall and clad in black, the ever so charming giorgio vespasiano. oh, he was a man of a single kind. nora liked to think they were drawn to each other for a reason; she liked the mystery, the danger, and he liked the defiant pair of beautiful eyes that spoke back to his remarks. giorgio looked at her like a man stares into the abyss before jumping, and she loved it when the man called her mio enigma when she laughed and kept her head high after he offered to turn her life into a fantasy. oh, she loved that man; for who he was, and for the way he loved her without asking her to be less of herself. giorgio allowed her to believe she wouldn’t be his number two, not like she was her brothers’ number two, not like she’s been her entire life. in their household, eleonora would be number one - as long as in their household only.
giorgio had business of his own; it wasn’t unknown to the public that the vespasiano family wasn’t one you’d like to mess with, but that’s not what the woman was doing. she was becoming it. that surely couldn’t be as violent as crossing ways with that dreadful name. her first pregnancy gifted her with two children; giorgio wasn’t around when they were born, so very busy on his way out of town and towards one of his business matters, but made sure to hurry back home as soon as word was out that eleonora would have his children. a little girl was the first one she delivered, and she came into the world without crying, without noise. it was almost as if that whole thing was familiar, and looking into those little eyes, nora saw familiarity too. she’d call her ludovica, like her little ludo before, and watch her grow the way she couldn’t watch her little sister do. moments later, a little boy came into the world. that one, giorgio would call dante. when her husband arrived, she had both their children asleep in her arms, hair glued to her face very much like the proud smile of a new mother. ( which one is our first born, tata? ) he asked vividly, caressing the babies’ heads with both of his hands. she’s been there before; she’s taken the toll of a woman who’d never be allowed to be first. looked into his eyes, ( it’s your decision . ) --- and he announced dante as their oldest child, proudly, loudly, and no one would ever deny it. into her daughter’s ear, eleonora would whisper; you’re my number one, tatina. always you.
she supposed her days were marvelously doomed to such thing, then. looking after their children, making them clothes, hugging her man from behind and enjoying the scene of them together in the mirror before he left once again. what he did was his business, but his business were hers too. that was her family, her name, her blood. ( careful, my darling -- what is all of this about ? drowning me in agony ? ) and he’d turn around to face her, hold her face in his hands and kiss her so passionately that he’d believe she had forgotten about her worries. she swallowed them everytime, but the taste of her concerns never left her tongue. he left for weeks, sometimes a month, and always came back as galantly as when they met back in their days. he came back like the winner he was, like a champion bringing the woman he loves a trophy he earned to make her proud, and eleonora was glad to accept it, no matter how stained in blood it was.
he disappeared for a month, but always sent his brother to look after his family. nora called him giorgio’s middle man - served him a coffee so strong he always thought there was a drop of bourbon in it, and the woman never denied it. they’d laugh about it, and sometimes, only sometimes their eyes would linger together for more than just a moment. secretly, he’d tell her about whatever his brother was doing, and she’d listen and collect thoughts, quietly denoting all of the steps of his plans that could go wrong. one afternoon, she locked the door to giorgio’s office after they entered the room. and what happened then, her and giorgio’s children playing outside, in that room that smelled just like her husband -- she could never forgive herself. and she tried to, year after year.
when giorgio came back at the end of that month, she seemed to be sick already -- but, undeniably, of a sickness she knew all too well. he fell to his knees as soon as he saw her figure, knowing that glow on her skin had one meaning only. kissed her stomach so passionately for she was the perfect woman that just kept on gifting him with heirs, and god, how he loved her. nora cried and he wiped her tears thinking they carried happiness. they carried the guilt of a woman who’d look into the mirror from that day on and see nothing but a monster.
bernardo was born in the spring, and for the first time in forever giorgio refused to leave her side from the moment she started to feel like their child could be due. he was there all along, holding her hand as their twins stood in the corner with joint hands and curious eyes. eleonora never told him; she’d pay for it with her life, there was no doubt, and perhaps her own guilt could be enough torture to make her pay. that, and the fact that she could never gather the courage to let her husband know that child he so vividly adored could not even be his own.
her guilt allows her to do nothing but be the mother of his sons to this day; and she excelled at it, that is for sure. that quiet figure in the corner, always observing, always making notes and always with that little tilt of bitterness behind all words. but she melted right away whenever her children, now practically grown ups, would call her mamma and lay their heads over her legs like they did when they were little. she spends those days in the corner of the living room, lights a candle for her husband and one for each of their children, and lets it burn out as she whispers prayers while embroidering into the most difficult fabrics. when a bad thought crosses her mind, she bites on her cheek and pinches her fingertips with the needle until they go. and when her husband comes home to kiss her, hair turning grey from the springs they’ve spent together, she kisses him so passionately that it convinces herself it’s all been a terrible bad dream.
out of all things, she lives with it. loves her family with a holy devotion, and loves them so much that she has no choice but to do things like this. her man was one of a single kind, yes, but by default men like himself weren’t the brightest. he acted with his temper, refusing to listen to nora when she pointed out there were things bigger than winning. or even, that there were better ways to win. it’s why she acts on her own, this type of treason perhaps worse than the one she’s familiar with. she gives francesca a sweet smile, that almost seems to deform her features. ❝ they seem like boys with their little trucks ; ❞ offers eleonora, a sort of compassionate malice coming from her voice, ❝ they just think of clashing and making a big scene ; then we have to go after brand new trucks for them to play again the next day . ❞ it’s almost like a loving remark, a soft laughter. ❝ lemon pie sounds good , thank you . you seem like a very loving mother ; a very delicate woman . ❞ as displaced as it sounds, it’s the sweetest compliment nora could offer. she had never been like that, and admired it the most. ❝ and your children are a delight . mine are practically men with minds of their own now ; that happened too quickly . ❞ she wasn’t great at keeping a small talk, but even sounding superficial, she meant every word. francesca intrigued her the most, how the matriarch of such different family - a woman of such different costumes - seemed to think the very same as herself. sometimes, it is up to them to take charge of things.
