Page 8 of Marcello
Before I sent it, I stared at the photograph Fausto had given me – the picture of the three of them eating gelato and laughing.
The asshole’s words echoed in my memory:
If you contact any of your family… terrible things will happen. I’ll start with your little sister. Your first infraction will merit a broken arm. You don’t want to know what the second punishment will be. Understood?
This email was the only thing my mother would ever get from me… the only closure she would ever have.
I hoped it would be enough.
As the train rolled into the station, I tucked the picture inside my jacket pocket…
Finally pressed ‘Send’…
Closed my laptop…
And shut the door on everything I’d left behind.
Ten minutes later, I stumbled out onto the streets of Naples…
And into my new life.
3
As I stood outside Garibaldi Station, it finally sunk in just how much my life was about to change.
Naples was nothing like home.
Living in the historic center of Florence was like living in an outdoor museum. There were 600-year-old statues everywhere you looked. All the buildings were centuries old. The side streets were from the Middle Ages – just big enough for a horse and cart – and were pedestrian-only.
In contrast, Naples had wide boulevards filled with non-stop traffic.
The buildings were relatively new – maybe 80 years old, with lots of five-story apartment buildings.
I could smell the salt air from the harbor half a mile away.
And there was graffiti everywhere. That was the thing that threw me the most.
If Florence was an outdoor museum, then it was kept up like a museum: clean and tourist-friendly.
Naples looked like they didn’t give a damn if you spray-painted anything you wanted.
I’d never been to New York City, but I’d seen it in American movies.
Naples reminded me of New York, just with a lot more beige buildings.
Dirty –
Crowded –
Alive.
There was an energy to the place I’d never felt back home.
Florence was old Italy –
Naples was new.
And now that I was here, it was time to figure out what the hell I was going to do.
