Follow Your Heart

By Frederick Russo

Follow Your Heart is a blend of Italian history, culture and religion intertwined with the American way of life. Nico Cirillo, born out of wedlock, was raised in an Italian household with his mother and maternal grandparents. He is trapped between his mother’s past and his Grandparent’s hidden and guarded secrets. His desire to locate his biological father occurs after his Mother and Grandparents pass away leaving him all alone except for the father that he never met. He initiates a search for his biological father and soon discovers that the journey is full of twists and turns. It sends him to his grandparent’s ancestral town in Italy but delivers him to the place where his journey first begun. You are guaranteed to laugh, cry and get angry at times as the story evokes a rollercoaster of emotions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684717194

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Follow Your

Heart

Frederick Russo

Copyright © 2020 Frederick Russo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1722-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1719-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020900615

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture texts in this work are taken from the New American Bible, revised edition© 2010, 1991, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Washington, D.C. and are used by permission of the copyright owner. All Rights Reserved. No part of the New American Bible may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 01/25/2020

Acknowledgement

In 2015 I decided to write a novel that would be totally different from the type of books I was accustom to reading. My favorite genre is espionage. Ian Fleming is still my cherished author.

I resurrected the uncompleted book in 2019 upon the advice of a special friend.

Having spent 42 years of married life in a household of women (wife and three daughters) I wanted to reveal an emotional side of me that was rarely seen.

Words are very powerful. They can make a person laugh, cry or get angry depending on their use.

The storyline and main character are really a compilation of my thoughts, feelings and emotions coupled with events that I have experienced throughout my lifetime. Each chapter reflects a part of me.

Follow Your Heart is dedicated to my three daughters Kimberly, Kristen and Kara and especially to my beloved wife Mary who was the compass in our marriage and the heart of our family and now soars with the angels above. GBWY!

Pace e Amore

Chapter 1

New Haven, CT, 2014

I’m not sure I can do this, Nico said to himself as he exited his car and headed toward the old house. Domenico Nico Cirillo was more than just a little familiar with this place. He spent the first thirty-one years of his life living there with his grandparents, Santino and Maria Cirillo, and his late mother, Teresa Cirillo, who had died when he was twelve. He affectionately called his grandfather Nonno and his grandmother Nonna. They were Italian terms of endearment.

The house seemed a lot different back then. Four years earlier, Nico had been convinced that it was time to move into his own apartment. He needed some privacy, and he definitely needed to develop a social life, neither of which lent itself to living with his grandparents.

As he looked around, he recalled that the planting beds in the front of the house were always filled with a variety of colorful flowers each spring, thanks to his nonna. Since her death two years ago, the flower beds had lain unattended. There were a few perennials that sprung up on their own, but the landscaping was, for the most part, overrun with weeds and crabgrass.

Here, Nico, bring these beautiful flowers into the house and have your mother put them in a jar of water, he recalled his Nonna saying to him when he was a young boy.

The backyard had a grapevine that sprawled over a seven-foot-high wooden pergola. His Nonno would sit under it in the summer, drink homemade red wine, and shade himself from the sun. There were also the remains of a few fig trees that Santino Cirillo had planted years earlier. They once bore both white and purple figs that grew to the size of golf balls before they were ready to be picked. Nico remembered how each summer his grandparents planted rows of plum tomatoes as well as an herb garden. Nonna would make her Sunday sauce with the tomatoes and season it with the fresh herbs.

Nico, come and pick some figs for you and me. They are ripe and ready to be eaten. Hurry before the birds get them! his grandfather would say to him as they spent the rest of the summer afternoon in the backyard together, talking and relaxing under the grapevine.

His grandfather would tell stories about his childhood in Italy and his voyage to America with his parents, Pasquale and Rosa Cirillo, and other families from the same village who traveled with them almost seventy-five years earlier from the old country..

Because the fig trees had not been covered and protected from the winter snow and ice, they had withered and died. The only remnants of the tomato plants were the three-foot-high stakes still in the ground that the plants had been tied to prevent them from toppling over.

Nonno had grown the biggest and best San Marzano tomatoes in the former Italian neighborhood. As Italian immigrant families prospered and their children were educated, they eventually moved to the suburbs. Santino and Maria Cirillo never moved. They had been one of the last Italian families that remained.

The house looked much smaller than he remembered. He never considered its actual size. Taking a long, slow look, Nico realized that it wasn’t much wider than a four-car garage. By today’s standards, it might be considered an oversized bungalow rather than a single-family house. It didn’t matter. Nico had wonderful memories as a boy growing up and celebrating holidays there with his family.

Just being there at the house flooded Nico’s mind with fond memories.

Nico, look what Nonna made especially for you for Thanksgiving—your favorite pasta, rigatoni. I made the meat sauce just the way you like it, with the meatballs, the sausage, and braciola! he remembered hearing his grandmother say as if she were standing next to him.

She made a turkey as well, but that was not the main course of the day. The turkey was the side dish. Their reasons for giving thanks were too numerous to mention, but Nonno found the time to list each and every one of them before each dinner began.

Nico, you sit next to me, your Nonno. The men always sit at the head of the table. Don’t you ever forget that, Santino would remind his grandson before each meal.

Santino Cirillo had house rules, and everyone was expected to follow them. The meal did not begin until Santino sat down, blessed the food, said a short prayer of thanks, and recited a list of reasons to be grateful. Only then did he declare that it was time to mangia. Eat.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, bless this food that we are about to receive. Amen. This was the way dinner commenced each day.

Holidays and Sundays were always the same. There was too much food, accompanied by lots of conversation. Dinner began at 12:30 p.m. sharp and usually consumed most of the afternoon. Whatever wasn’t eaten on Sunday became leftovers for the following week.

Nico closed his eyes and remembered his grandfather reassuring his mother about her son at the dinner table. Teresa, you got a good boy, that Nico. We are all blessed! Nonno loved Nico as if he were his own son and treated him as such.

More memories kept flooding his mind. Nico tried to regain his composure as he wiped away the small tears starting to trickle down his cheeks from his reddened eyes. He stopped and located a handkerchief in the rear pocket of his pants. He wiped his eyes and attempted to regain his self-control.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his key, and unlocked the front door.

Nico, don’t forget to wipe your shoes before you come in the house.

He could vividly recall Nonna telling him that every time he entered the house. Maria Cirillo was a stickler for cleanliness. Nico looked down at his shoes and, out of respect, wiped them on the small throw rug just inside the front hallway.

He looked around and took in his surroundings. He knew he had to take hold of the situation before his emotions and thoughts overtook him again. He came to the house with a purpose and knew he would never be able to accomplish what needed to get done unless he took control of his emotional state first.

Nico walked aimlessly from room to room to take a quick inventory of what he half-heartedly was about to undertake. It was something he had to do. He stood there and just peered around. He was alone and felt totally helpless. There was no one else in his family to share the task or the pain and loneliness he was experiencing.

This old house still has lots of memories, stories, and secrets to reveal, he thought. First, I need to get ahold of myself. I dreaded this day would come too soon.

He took a deep breath and tried to put his fond memories and feelings to the side.

Since Nico moved away, something was noticeably different. The furniture and wall hangings were still in the same place, and the drapes and carpeting had not been replaced for as long as he could remember. Yet, it was distinctly different now. There was something missing. Whatever it was that transformed this place from a house into a home was now gone.

It became clearly obvious to Nico what was no longer present. The lifeblood of the house had departed in more ways than one. The voices, the laughter, the happy times were all gone. His grandfather, his grandmother, and his mom were all gone as well. The sadness, sorrow, and sheer silence were the only things that remained. And him.

No longer was there anyone there to visit or talk to. There would be no more phone calls from his grandparents inviting him over for lunch or dinner. Nico would no longer make surprise visits during the day. There would be no more holidays to share with his family. No football games in the fall to watch with his grandfather. It was the end of an era, and there he stood with no one to talk to or comfort him. He was truly all alone.

Nico felt a pressure in his chest and became a little lightheaded. He walked over to the sofa and sat down. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as he listened to the deadened silence in between each breath. When he opened his eyes, he noticed the rotary dial wall phone. Nico could almost imagine Nonno Cirillo calling him on the old phone.

Nico, are you busy? Yes or No? Santino would ask. Your Nonna made a beautiful pot of minestrone.

Well, I was planning to go to— Nico would start to say before he got cut off by his grandfather.

Come on over. We’ll have some nice homemade soup, and then we’ll talk, okay? Santino would say. Another thing: pick up a loaf of bread on your way over. Ciao! Santino always got the last word.

Anything else? Nico would ask in a playful yet sarcastic way. It really didn’t matter because there was no one on the other end of the phone line to reply, and his grandfather would never have gotten the joke.

Santino Cirillo was convinced that Nico was always available regardless of his age or other commitments he might have made. He knew Nico would never refuse his request to join him. He took for granted that the answer would always be yes, so he never waited for Nico to reply. Like it or not.

Nico stood there in silence. His teary eyes scanned the living room in hopes of seeing someone—maybe even imagining seeing someone. One by one, he respectfully called out their names in a quiet whisper so not to interrupt or disturb their spirits by entering the house without first announcing himself.

Nonno …?

Nonna …?

Momma …?

It’s me … Nico, he said softly as he looked aimlessly around the room.

He continued to whisper their names as he stared unconsciously into the sheer and unbroken stillness. Any sound would have been a sign to him that they were present. There was nothing but silence—dead silence.

His grandfather, his grandmother, and his mom raised him in this very house. He had no dad that he was ever told or knew about. Only until recently did Nico really start to question who his father might be and the circumstances that prevented him from ever knowing or seeing him.

Now Nico was free to consider that situation without offending or hurting anyone’s feelings, with the exception of himself. It was a topic that was never brought up or spoken about in his presence. Once in a while, late at night, he recalled hearing bits and pieces of conversations between his mother and grandparents. It was spoken mostly in Italian to keep the topic of the conversation private and from Nico. They became so intense at times that the actual conversations never lasted very long and usually ended in tears—his mother and grandmother’s tears.

That’s it. I’ve heard enough. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. What is done … is done. It’s finished, declared Santino Cirillo as he rose from his chair and headed toward his bedroom, leaving his wife and daughter alone, speechless and upset. As time passed, the number and intensity of those conversations diminished. There was a self-imposed truce in the house concerning the subject.

Nico also knew that if and when he chose to seriously deal with the subject of his father’s identity, there might be more unanswered questions and heartache than he would he be able to bear. Did he want to face it all alone at this point in his life? Where was his father when he needed him?

Be careful what you wish for! Nico reminded himself. That thought and others tortured his mind. Nico did not want to stir a hornet’s nest that was best left alone.

He knew that learning the identity of his biological father could be a double-edged sword. Nico had to be careful whether to pursue it or leave well enough alone. Nico wasn’t sure of the answer, so he tried to put it out of his mind, as he had done so many times before.

If it weren’t for the fact that his grandfather, Santino Cirillo, died recently, he would have been visiting for different reasons. Nonetheless, he was there on a mission. That was to take inventory of the contents of the house, remove anything of value that he wished to keep, and eventually clean out the house of everything else that belonged to his deceased grandparents and mother. Nico wanted to get it ready for sale as quickly as possible.

His grandmother, Maria Cirillo, had died two years earlier, at the age of seventy-eight, even though she was two years younger than her husband, Santino. She looked like she was in her early sixties and kept herself fit until she passed from a massive heart attack. It happened quickly; she died in her bed while praying the Rosary.

Hail Mary, full of grace, Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Santino found her the next morning with her Rosary beads still clutched between her fingers. He was devastated. He was the captain of their ship, but Maria was his compass. She was the one who helped guide the entire family through their daily trials. It was Maria who was instrumental in keeping Santino calm when dealing with their daughter, Teresa. She was thoughtful and generous to friends and family alike. She worked tirelessly behind the scenes to make sure her family was well fed and cared for. Her sudden and unexpected loss was like a tsunami to the Cirillo family.

"Mia Maria … perche … perche … perche?" he’d heard Santino cry as he sat in front of Maria’s casket in the funeral parlor, asking, "why … why … why?" over and over again.

When Maria Cirillo died, it upset Nico more than he could imagine. He saw his Nonna as a strong Italian woman, wife, and grandmother who could do anything she put her mind to, including hold her own against his strong-willed grandfather by always saying less rather than more to calm him down. She was not confrontational like her husband.

Nico recalled how his grandfather would rattle on about someone or something that happened at work or at church. His grandmother would stop what she was doing, listen with the utmost respect and intensity to her husband, Santino, and then inevitably say one of three things:

Yes, Santino.

No, Santino.

Okay, Santino.

Somehow her well-placed interjections steered Santino’s train of thought in a different direction and demeanor.

Maria Cirillo was forced to become more of a mother to Nico when his mom, Teresa Cirillo, died of breast cancer in 1991, at the age of twenty-nine. Nico was only twelve years old and emotionally fragile when it happened. Not having a father and losing his mother to cancer at an early age were more than any child should have to bear in life.

Nonna Cirillo was a good grandmother. But now, because of the death of her daughter, Teresa, she became both Nico’s grandmother and mother. Santino Cirillo, by default, became Nico’s father from that point on.

As time passed and Nico grew older, he often thought, I wish I could find a woman like my Nonna someday! There is no one more kind, caring, and considerate than her. He felt that same way today.

Nico refocused his thoughts and reminded himself that there was a specific reason that brought him to the house that day. Unfortunately, the neighborhood had changed dramatically over the past twenty years, and now it was located in the epicenter of a high crime area. The property values continued to plummet, and Nico knew that it was wiser to sell the house, rather than move back there. He would sell this property and purchase another house for himself in a safer, more attractive upscale neighborhood.

Nico never broached the subject with his grandparents about selling their house and moving somewhere else. They never accepted the changes in the neighborhood. They were still content with their little house on Prince Street that they had bought over fifty years earlier. What more did they want or need?

Santino would often stand back, look at his home, and proudly say, "Questa e’ la mia casa (This is my house)!" with one hand held up at shoulder height, palm up, while the other hand covered his heart. He was a proud man for what he had accomplished and how well he was able to provide for his family.

Nico could easily recall those early years with his grandparents. He liked spending time with them. Even at the end, when his grandfather was stricken with lung disease, he visited him frequently and talked about anything Nonno chose to talk about that day.

Nico, these people, they’re all going crazy today. All they want to do is fight and kill one another! Santino said about the ills of society even as he was dying a slow death himself.

After every conversation, Nonno would ask Nico to come closer to him so that he could hear his advice for the day. Santino would look Nico straight in the eyes and say, "Nico, your Nonno is proud of you. You made me a very happy man, more than you could ever know. You are smart, and you are handsome, and most important, tu sei Italiano (you’re Italian)! Don’t ever forget it, and don’t ever apologize or say you’re sorry for being who you are. Remember, your family is the most important thing, capise?"

Sure, Nonno. How could I ever forget that? You remind me every time we talk. Don’t worry, I won’t forget. I’ll call you tomorrow from work to check on you, Nico assured his grandfather with a big smile. "Ciao, Nonno! proclaimed Nico as he left. If you need anything, just call me, okay?"

"Ciao, Nico. Ciao, Nico … Ciao, mio figlio!" said his grandfather. "Goodbye, Nico. Goodbye … my son!" he repeated as he soon fell into a deep sleep.

His subconscious mind repeated the words over and over: Goodbye, Nico. Goodbye, my son!

That was the way it ended that day between Nico and his Nonno. Nico would soon be very sad. He was unaware those precious moments would soon be no more.

That night, Santino Nonno Cirillo took his last breath at the age of eighty-two. He crossed over from this world into the next with random thoughts and memories still flashing through his mind of his wife Maria; his daughter, Teresa, and his grandson Nico.

Santino’s final words were God, please forgive me for things that I did and failed to do in my life.

He closed his eyes and prepared to meet his maker. Only God would decide his fate in his afterlife.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. Then his world went blank.

As Nico stood in the silence of the living room and recalled those final words spoken by his grandfather, his mind and his thoughts began to wander again. He tried to make sense of the real or hidden meaning of his grandfather’s cryptic advice.

What was he trying to tell me? Nico asked himself.

He knew his Nonno was proud of his Italian heritage and wanted his grandson to be just as proud as he, but the parts about never apologizing or never saying sorry for who you are resonated in his mind.

Was there a veiled message or something more enigmatic? Was his grandfather attempting to caution or warn him about someone or something? He would have lots of time to think about it now that his grandfather was gone.

Chapter 2

Marcianise, Italy, 1932

February 19, 1932: That was the day that Santino Cirillo was born. His parents, Pasquale and Rosa Cirillo, were young and poor, like most peasants in Italy, who etched out a living by working on a family farm along with other family members, young and old.

"Rosa, grazie mille. Mi hai dato un figlio! Non c’ `e non regalo migliore! (Rosa, a thousand thanks. You gave me a son! There is no better gift!)," Pasquale Cirillo said to his wife as he wept.

Pasquale waited a moment to catch his breath and hold back the tears.

He then proclaimed, "Il suo nome e’ Santino, come mio padre! (his name is Santino, like my father)."

Pasquale leaned over the bed, kissed his wife, Rosa, and told her that he loved her. They stared at each other and held hands with their son cuddled in between their arms, still in awe at what they had created.

The Cirillo family lived in a small village called Marcianise, located 40 kilometers east of Naples. Marcianise had existed for over seven hundred years, dating back to the Etruscans. It had gone through some very bad times in its past. Their village and its people were historically