Medusa | Part One

Canicatti, Sicily | July 6th, 1943

Rosalie’s feet, calves, and thighs burned from traversing the uneven ground. A small part of her wished she had taken one of the bicycles, but she was glad she didn’t. The hour-long walk beneath the moon and stars, provided her with enough time to allow her mind to freely roam the universe. Allowing the solitude to provide her with the pleasure of peace, and calmness — which she used to keep her violent anxiety at bay.

She had always hated being alone, and loneliness was always one of her biggest fears, but the quiet stillness of the summer night enveloped her in a comfort that no human being could produce.

She thought about Miceli, and how cruel life had been to him from such a young age. She thought about her father, and how a man who claimed to love his family could be so absent for so many years. She thought about her mother, who sacrificed her career to provide her children with the means to have successful lives of their own. She thought about Corrado, and how proud she was of him for having prospects of one day owning his own musical instrument repair shop. She thought about herself, and her lofty dream of becoming a restaurateur. She thought about the last time her family was all together, and the night her parents left for Africa, and never returned. She thought about the funeral, and how her and Corrado were going to have to bury their baby brother on their own.

She cried. She laughed. She screamed.

The long, lonesome walk proved to be excellent medicine for her broken heart because it helped her cycle through all of her volatile emotions, which would have been quite dangerous to do if she were riding a bicycle.

The final half-mile of the dirt road that led to the vineyard grew with a decent incline. She continued to pump her sore legs forward, until she reached the top of the hill. From her perch, she could see the vast expanse of the vineyard, which stretched on for miles in all directions, as well as the rolling, emerald and yellow hills of Sicily’s beautiful countryside.

She took a moment to appreciate the view, and how lucky she was to live in a place that resembled what she thought heaven looked like. Her brown eyes swelled, and tears fell down her rosy cheeks. These tears however, were not tears of sadness, they were tears of joy. Miceli was gone from her world, but she knew that he now had an eternity to explore this majestic land without any limitations. A stunning smile began to break across her face because a strange, yet illuminating thought infiltrated her mind. A thought she didn’t think she would ever accept.

Miceli was free. His tremors no longer existed, and he didn’t have to suffer through any more pain. She felt tremendously happy for her baby brother. She missed him like crazy, but she came to accept the idea that he was finally in a better place.

She found where the fingernail moon hung in the sky, then followed a visual path down to the ground beneath it, and marveled at how Milici Vineyards bathed in the enchanting silver moonlight.

She brought her right hand to her lips, and blew the vineyard the largest kiss she could muster. She giggled, let out a deep sigh, then began to jog down the backside of the hill.

At the bottom, she turned left and waltzed down a narrow road lined with eight foot grape trees. About a quarter mile down, the road flowed into an enormous dirt courtyard, flanked by two, ten foot, hand-carved, semi-circular stone archways which showcased the entrance to the vineyard, and the impressive two-story stucco winery with a white marble finish.

Since it was Sunday, she knew that the only people at the winery were her three bosses, who each lived on the top floor inside of their own, six-hundred square foot private residence. The bottom floor of the winery was one giant restaurant separated by a massive marble partition. One side was reserved for locals and tourists who desired to partake in one of Canicatti’s most elegant, five course dining experiences, while the other side was reserved for those, mainly tourists, who yearned for Sicily’s best wine, cheese, and meat tastings. The basement was lined with thousands of red, and white wine barrels, new and finely aged, and had numerous rooms where the cheese was kept, and prepped, as well as where the meat was stored, smoked, and cured.

The rear entrance to the basement led out to a wooden gate, which flowed into a mile-long path lined with adolescent olive trees. The path ended at an olive, and citrus grove, overflowing with aromatic plants, where guests could partake in sensory games, and create their own, personalized bouquets to take home. Beyond the groves, were miles and miles of grape vines, as well as multiple pens where guests, and their children could visit the vineyards' most cherished wildlife.

Horses, donkeys, goats, chickens, geese, and rabbits all thrived in their luscious Sicilian hills, providing the vineyard with its incomparable personality. During operating hours, guests could feed the chickens, and hens, milk the goats, walk with the donkeys, and pick their own grapes. The tour guides would provide the guests with delicious snacks along the way, which consisted of homemade breads with honey spread, olive oil, cheese, salami and fresh juices. Once the farm, and grove tours were concluded, the guests would be ushered back inside the winery to begin their wine tastings.

Before Rosalie entered the winery’s basement, to help Vicenzu prepare the large order of wine to ship to Messina, she decided to take one last detour. Walking around the winery, she found the path that led to the groves, and danced along it until she reached the farm. For the next twenty minutes she mingled with the horses, and goats, stroking their manes and feeding them carrots. She frolicked with the chickens and hens, making sure they had plenty of food and water, then finished her visit by filling two pails of milk from a couple of her favorite goats.

The vineyard may have been closed, but the work helped her distract her mind from Miceli, and they always needed fresh milk for the cheese, which was Rosalie’s favorite item the vineyard had to offer.

As she made her way back down the path, towards the winery, making sure to not spill any of the milk, she heard elevated, muffled voices coming from inside of the building. Thinking nothing of it, because she knew that the three brothers lived on the second floor, and that they loved to argue with one another, she continued her slow walk beneath the Sicilian stars — stopping along the way to pluck olives and oranges from the trees.

With her pails, and pockets filled with milk, and fruit, she quickened her pace towards the winery, because her arms were getting numb from hauling the weight.

Approaching the gate to the winery, the sound of shattering glass stopped her cold in her tracks. She craned her neck to see the cause, and as her eyes peered upwards, they locked onto a flailing, screaming body falling from the second floor balcony.

The body slammed hard into the solid earth ten feet in front of her feet. Dark, crimson blood began to heavily pool from the head, and chest, staining the dirt. The limp figure was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and she noticed the Trinacria tattoo, a three-legged Medusa head, flanked by three wheat branches and an olive wreath, etched into the left forearm. She instantly knew who it was. Taviano Milici, Vicenzu’s youngest brother.

With the glass window now shattered, she could clearly hear the cacophony of various voices coming from inside of the second floor of the winery. She recognized two of the voices, because they were her two other bosses, Vicenzu and Pietro, but the others, even though they spoke Italian, sounded foreign. She was unsure of the accents, but she knew that they were definitely not Sicilian.

With Taviano laying dead in front of her, and the overlapping screaming coming from inside, Rosalie dropped the two pails of milk, and rushed inside of the basement to conceal herself from the threat. Someone had just murdered Taviano, and his brother’s could easily be next. She needed to act quickly, if she had any hope of saving her bosses.

She knew the winery like the back of her hand, and could maneuver throughout it without ever being noticed. The cover of night also provided her with enough shadows to remain hidden from any wandering eyes that lingered where they should not.

She made her way across the basement, and stopped at a series of locked wooden doors. She reached into her pocket, and retrieved the skeleton key that Vicenzu had given to her a few weeks ago. One by one, she inserted the key into each lock, then disappeared into the rooms for minutes at a time.

Once she was finally finished with the dark rooms, she had emerged with a long-barrel rifle slung over her shoulder, a chest holster with two pistols latched into sheaths, and a curved hunting knife dangling from her waist. She looked like she was ready for war, and she was. Rosalie was more than familiar with the weapons she now donned, and was an extremely accurate, and deadly shot.

Gathering the strength to leave the basement, Rosalie slowly made her way up the clay stairs to the main floor’s restaurant. With the only illumination coming from the moon, and stars, she easily stuck to the shadows as she hustled through the dining hall, through the back kitchen, and finally through the wine tasting event space to the private staircase that led upstairs to the brother’s residences. Standing outside of the door, she pulled the skeleton key from her pocket, and inserted it into the lock.

A faint click told her that the lock had been released. She replaced the key into her pants pocket, gripped the handle, and began to pull the door open.

Easing it open, making sure not to alert the people upstairs of her presence, she was suddenly forced to shut it when the sound of descending stomping boots blocked her path. She ran back into the cover of the dark kitchen, concealed herself behind a prep station counter, then carefully propped her head above its surface. She removed one of the loaded pistols from her chest holster, and waited to see who exited the door.

A moment later, the door to the private residences exploded open. Vicenzu was the first to appear, as he crashed to the floor with force. Behind him, two soldiers in dark gray uniforms, holding assault rifles, emerged from the staircase laughing and taunting Vicenzu as he tried to crawl away from them. The next body to emerge was Pietro. Unlike his older brother, his hands were bound with thick tape, his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and a thick rope was tied tightly around his neck. Behind him, another soldier in a dark gray uniform emerged with his hands tightly clenched around the end of the noose, yanking and pulling on Pietro’s neck like a dog. The last figure to emerge was a tall, skinny man with oval glasses, also dressed in a dark gray uniform. He appeared to be wiping blood off of his knuckles onto his neatly kept shirt.

Rosalie studied the men, and their uniforms, and was able to decipher who they were. They were Nazis.

What the hell were they doing in Sicily?

Rosalie knew about the war brewing in northern Europe, but she had no idea that Hitler’s eyes roamed this far south. She also knew about Mussolini, and how he had become a supporter of the Nazi party, and that he was ruining the reputation of all of Italy. She just never thought that Sicily would become placed in the vice of such monstrous evil.

She remained silent, kept to the shadows, and watched as the men shuffled the two brothers through the dining hall, and out into the dirt courtyard.

Keeping her presence a secret, Rosalie hid beneath one of the opened, stained-glass windows to the winery. From her position, she could easily keep her eyes on everyone, as well as hear everything that was being said. She slung the long rifle around her shoulders, and held the barrel tight, resting her right index finger next to the five pound trigger.

“Look at the worm trying to escape,” said the fattest soldier to Vicenzu, as he laughed, and spat onto the back of his head while impaling his size twelve combat boot into the man’s rib cage, “You’re a feisty little maggot.”

“I want to see him squirm,” said the officer with the scar across his cheek as he pulled a pistol from his hip holster, firing multiple shots into the dirt on each side of Vicenzu’s withering body.

“He’s getting away,” said the shortest officer with slicked back blonde hair, and rolled up sleeves that showcased black lightning bolt tattoos on both of his forearms, as he used his combat boots to kick Vicenzu in the groin, while keeping his right hand tightly gripped around the end of Pietro’s noose.

The three soldiers all broke out in a harmonious orchestra of monstrous laughter. The tall man with the oval glasses remained in the background, leaning up against one of the stone archways, smoking a long cigarette, watching his men have their fun with their gracious hosts. His middle-aged face was creased, stoic, and showcased zero emotion. His blue eyes fidgeted beneath their oval frames as the silver smoke from his cigarette slithered beneath the lenses. When he was done smoking, he flicked the cigarette into the roots of a nearby olive tree, rose from the archway, and addressed his men.