Madonna

3: I Know You Want To

In the months that followed my return to New York, I found myself consumed by my art. I had forgotten how much I needed to express myself, to create something, to defy all expectations of cowering silence and leave my mark on the world instead. It was my own way, my safest way, of screaming in the face of custom. I was tempted, like always, to pry into my brother's handling of the family business, which I craved beyond belief. By the time I was 14, I had eavesdropping on my brother's meetings down to a science, and as a result learned the location of every creaky floorboard on the third landing. Despite my expertise in this, I stayed away from those long, creaky hallways. My interaction with Stefano at my welcome home party was enough to scare me away from those rooms for a long time.

Besides, I didn't need to eavesdrop as much anymore--due to Raffael's age and maturity, Stefano started letting him in on the details of the family business and every so often, Raffael would update me on all he heard. Raffael never had any interest in being a don, but then again, none of my brothers really did. I was always the most eager to hold the position, even as a child. In the two years before his demise, my father let his oldest in on the meetings to listen and learn, but never gave a teenage Stefano any authority. Stefano was flighty then, unreliable, impulsive and prone to anger. My oldest brother wasn't my father's first choice among his sons to take over the business, assuming that Bernardo or Giuseppe would grow into the role. At 18 years old, Stefano had other prospects: a New York University acceptance, a pregnant girlfriend to take care of, and a childhood dream of enlisting in the military. If you asked any of my other three brothers what happened to all of Stefano's plans, they'd tell you a noble story of their oldest brother sacrificing his happiness for the sake of the family legacy. If you asked Stefano, however, he'd give you a very different answer.

After being away for so long, it was great fun to live with my brothers again, especially since I didn't have to risk my life and safety to hear about Stefano's business dealings. In our spacious family estate, the entire third floor (strictly forbidden for me) was dedicated to the family business, so my brothers and I spent our nights lounging in the parlor, listening to Giuseppe's records and eating whatever concoction Raffael last cooked up. Stefano's wife, Theresa, even spent time with us and brought over their kids, seven year old Beatrice, five year old Vincent, and three year old Silvano. Theresa lived in her and Stefano's private apartment with their kids not too far from our house, which was a safety measure as well as a personal choice. Stefano wanted his kids to grow up somewhere safe from his business and isolated from the weight of family obligations.

But Theresa often got stir crazy in the apartment, so she liked to kick her feet up at our house. Before I left for Rome, I never spent time with her when Stefano wasn't around, and to my surprise, she was quite fun. I never realized how restrained and composed she was around her husband; it hurt to think that she too had to adapt to the ebb and flow of Stefano's temper.

When summer rolled around again, I had over a hundred new paintings and nowhere to put them. My room steadily evolved into a place of well-meaning, artistic chaos; my desk was scattered with unfinished drawings and graphite pencils, my floor littered with stacks of paintings yet to be organized. My drawers overflowed with art supplies and my sketchbooks and drawing pads were exploding with watercolor landscapes, loose sketches of ideas for paintings, and my thick, fervent scribbling over drawings full of mistakes and uncertain strokes. Early in spring, Don Corleone paid a visit to Stefano and came by my room, stunned at the level of disaster it was approaching. After getting over the initial shock, he became overcome with joy at the fact that sloth and carelessness was not the culprit of my disaster cave, but instead, inspiration and drive. Struck by this, he told me, he then endeavored to purchase a coveted space in lower Manhattan, which he gifted to me as my very own art gallery and studio for my 21st birthday.