Tony squinted at a faint address on the wall of the building and looked again at the slip of paper Aldo had handed him before they left.

"I think this is it, Angela." He rang the bell and looked at Angela nervously. She squeezed his arm supportively as he took a deep breath.

The heavy door opened slowly, revealing a small, hunched over man with his trousers pulled up to his belly button.

"Ah, Antonio Ripelli?"

"Si, si. You must be Antony. I am Antonio. Please come in," he stepped aside and gestured for them to enter. Angela smiled warmly at him.

"This is your wife?" Antonio asked.

"Ah, no, not my wife. This is my...good friend, Angela."

Angela outstretched her hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Antonio," she said warmly.

"And you as well." He kissed her hand and she smiled warmly. "So beautiful. Just a friend, eh Antony?" Angela blushed.

"Ah, yes, just a friend. A very close friend. Like family. We...work together," he said, suddenly aware that these introductions were increasingly uncomfortable the further they got into this trip.

His eyes darted between them. "I see. Please, have some wine." Antonio poured them each a glass of chianti and they took it gratefully. He settled into an armchair and gestured for them to sit on the sofa.

Angela took in the room and gasped as she sat down.

"Oh, Mr. Ripelli - this is just beautiful! Did your apartment come with these magnificent frescoes?"

"No, I painted them," he said simply. "I'm a fresco painter. I've painted most of the newer frescoes in Palermo. And restored many of the old ones," he added with a small smile.

"They're beautiful," Tony said, settling in close to Angela. The back of Angela's arm brushed lightly against Tony's, but she decided not to move it; she had this feeling he wanted her close.

"I understand you have some questions about your parents. I knew them very well."

"Yes...I was hoping you could tell me more about their time during the war. My father never talked about it."

Antonio's eyes became wide with shock and his demeanor changed. Antonio shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Never?"

Tony shook his head.

"Antony. Your father was a very important member of the resistance. In particular, Operation Husky. But also to the parts leading up to that time. He was a spy, and a partisan fighter, and a saboteur."

"Saboteur?"

"Si. He blew up supply lines, German tanks and trucks. He led an army of resistance fighters, most of them were supposed to be recruited to fight for Mussolini but they fled. Many were no more than boys. He trained them - taught them how to make the bombs. They were sticky bombs that they would throw onto the trucks to blow them up."

"Sticky bombs?"

"We got them from the Allies. We had an English spy helping us coordinate our efforts."

"I see." Tony swallowed, digesting this new information. My father? Papa? The garbageman from Brooklyn?

"Your father had been recruited to fight in the war. He did not believe in it. He was against Mussolini, anti-Fascist. His father was too, though he never said so publicly. You know your mother was promised to your father from the age of fourteen?"

He nodded.

"Your mother, she hated him. She did not want to marry your father. Your father was charming, confident. She thought he was cocky. But your grandfather was friends with her father, at that time. Of course," he smirked, "all of this changed during the war."


Palermo, 1939

Ana Cammisa wiped her brow as she stretched a tablecloth over the table and laid the silverware neatly, ready for lunch the next day. A few rowdy stragglers remained at a cluster of tables in the back, finishing their wine and seemingly in no hurry to leave, but she could at least get the rest of the restaurant in order.

"Buona serra, amici!" A shadowy figure bellowed from the open door. As he came into the light, Ana immediately recognized the rakishly handsome figure in the doorframe. Tomasso. Of course.

He pushed a stray lock of hair back into its place and winked at her as he strolled past her into the restaurant. She rolled her eyes and crisply unfurled the next tablecloth, trying her best to remain focused on the chore at hand.

"We're closed, Tomas," she scolded.

Tomasso gestured to the group. "No you're not. They're here. And -" he picked up the wine - "there's still wine in the bottle. You should join us." He sat down and propped his feet up on an empty chair.

She shook her head. "I'm fifteen," she reminded him.

"And I'm seventeen. There's a war brewing. You work too hard. Live a little." He cast her a devastatingly wicked grin, and she rolled her eyes again, this time so he could see.

She drew a sharp breath, ignoring him and said firmly to the group. "I'll give you ten minutes. Your bill is on the table when you're ready to pay."

She turned as his friends snickered at her dismissal of Tomasso. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She knew they would continue taunting her until she kicked them out. She wished her mother was here. Her parents had gone to a political meeting, which were happening with increased frequency these days, leaving her to close up the restaurant.

Tomasso's friend Mario called out, "Come on, Ana, you won't even sit down with your future husband?"

She whirled around and spat, "Don't call him that." To her surprise, Tomasso waved his hand at Mario, admonishing him to cool it. Mario was the worst of the group, and had been since they were kids. Antonio, the brother of her friend Clara, was usually the one to come to her rescue when his friends were giving her trouble.

"He was just teasing, Ana," Tomasso said quietly. "Do you ah- need any help closing up?"

"From the four of you? Absolutely not." She laid each piece of silverware down sharply and precisely, hoping her brusquely busy appearance would send the message for them to leave. She walked over to their table and collected their plates onto one arm, bustling back into the kitchen and dumping them into the sink. She heard the conversation in the dining room turn, as it often did, to Mussolini.

"He's nothing but a puppet, Mario. You have to see that," Tomasso said, an air of quiet confidence in his voice. Antonio nodded in agreement.

"A puppet? Mussolini will lead Italy to more prosperity than it's seen in a thousand years," Mario boasted. "Just wait. Look at what he's already done."

"How can you say that? He's sending the Jews into exile, just like Hitler. And Hitler despises people with brown skin; he says people with brown eyes are inferior. What are we, Mario? Mark my words, once he's done with the Jews, he will come for us. He believes the Aryan race is superior to all others. We will perish at the hands of our own leader if he stays in power. He's a monster."

"My brother was drafted today," Antonio said quietly, taking a sip of his wine.

"Merda," Tomasso whispered. "I'm sorry Antonio. I will never fight for that asshole."

"Be careful with your tongue, Tomas. You never know who might hear you," Mario gestured to the kitchen. "Ana's father..."

He looked through the pass through window at Ana, who was readying the dishes for washing up.

"You think I don't know? It's killing my father, Giuseppe is his oldest friend. But Ana doesn't believe in Mussolini either. She's too smart for that. She won't turn me in."

"How do you know? She's just a woman. And she despises you. And maybe if you're dead, she won't have to marry you," Mario joked.

He looked back at the kitchen and caught Ana looking at him. He held her gaze, just for a moment before she rolled her eyes and returned to her task setting pots to soak.

"She won't." He threw back the last of his wine, pushed back his chair and clapped his hands together. "Well boys, let's blow this joint."

"Rafelo's?" Mario asked hopefully, throwing down enough lire to cover the bill for all of them. Mario was always up for a party, and being the son of a wealthy Sicilian businessman, was usually happy to pay if it meant his friends could join him out drinking a bit longer.

Antonio chimed in, "I think it's best we head home, Mario. It's late. Nothing good happens at Rafaelo's after the political meetings." Mario rolled his eyes. But Antonio was right, as usual. The Sicilian mafia, while significantly weakened during Mussolini's reign, was still a presence at Rafaelo's, and you could count on them to be there tonight.

"My sensitive artist friend. Always the watchful nonno, eh, Antonio?" he said, stepping out onto the street.

"I just don't like seeing my friends getting killed for being foolish, loudmouth drunks."

Tomasso slapped Antonio on the back and winked at Mario. "Every foolish drunk needs an Antonio in their corner."

They began walking down the street in the general direction of the bus stop, when Tomasso stopped.

"I - ah - left my wallet, back at Giuseppe's. Antonio - I had something I wanted to discuss with you. Will you be home later?"

Antonio nodded knowingly. "Si, of course."

"I think it's his girlfriend he left back there," Mario teased, causing the others to erupt in conspiratorial laughter, slapping Tomasso on the back. "She won't even look at you, Tomas. Give it up. You can have any other girl in this town."

Tomasso waved to his friends. He tucked into the alley and appeared at the open door to the kitchen, leaning casually in the doorframe, which creaked open a bit more. Ana turned around, startled.

"I thought maybe you could use some help with the dishes?"

Ana turned back to the sink, saying over her shoulder, "No, thank you. I'm almost finished."

"Come on...there's still a tall stack. It'll go faster with two of us. Don't tell anyone, I wouldn't hear the end of it from Mario, but I'm pretty good in the kitchen."

She looked at him skeptically. Antonio was the biggest flirt in town; her best friend Gina had been in love with him for years, and her friend Clara said she saw him kiss a girl last fall at the harvest dance. Still, she trusted him, somehow, to not try anything improper, and without his help, she'd be here another hour. She handed him a dishrag.

"I'll scrub. You rinse and dry."

He smiled and saluted her, then rolled his sleeves up past his elbows and got to work in the sink.

They stood there, working quietly side by side, when to his surprise, she spoke.

"What you said about Mussolini. That was brave. Possibly very stupid. But brave."

"Pshaw, Mario and I have been friends since we were boys. He won't turn me in." He darted an eye in her direction. "And I know you hate me, but I'm hoping you wouldn't either," he said quietly.

"I wouldn't," she admitted briskly. "And besides, I agree with you," she met his eyes for a brief moment before returning to the pot she was scrubbing. "But you should be more careful. It's getting more dangerous for people who disparage Il Duce."

He nodded quietly, saying nothing more. Out of character for the man who had a quick comeback for every situation, Ana thought. He continued dutifully rinsing and drying the dishes, laying the pot on its side and picking up a freshly dried stack of plates.

"Where do these belong?"

She gestured to a cupboard over her shoulder, scrubbing the sink as her final task for the night.

"All right, I think that about does it. Can I help you with anything else? I'd walk you home, but you live here," he smiled, gesturing to the apartment above. Oh, why must he be so handsome, she thought. And, she admitted, not as cocky as he usually seemed.

She returned a small smile, sending a rush of warmth up Tomasso's spine. "Ah, I finally got you to smile," he said quietly, shuffling backwards toward the door.

She blushed in spite of herself.

"Thank you for your help, Tomas," she murmured.

A broad, relieved grin stretched across his face. "You're welcome."

He began to turn toward the door when she called out, "And Tomas?"

He turned around. "Yes?"

"I don't hate you. I don't want to marry you. But I don't hate you," she said matter-of-factly, drying her hands on the rag.

He looked at his hands, then back up at her. "That's a stupid custom. Archaic. You shouldn't marry me – you deserve someone who is more worthy of you. But – I'm glad you don't hate me."

He bowed his head politely, his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking at her once more under his long, dark lashes. He turned and tapped the top of the doorframe as he slipped into the night.


A/N: I couldn't find Tony's fictional parents' names anywhere...so apologies if I've messed with canon a bit here if they do exist! I considered using Tony Danza's parents, but I stupidly already used Matteo, so no tribute to Matty Iadanza (who, I learned, was awarded a bronze star in WW2, in addition to being a sanitation worker in Brooklyn) but his mother's name was Anne Cammisa so I did go with that :).