Review
"A Journey to the Boot of Italy, With Murder, Romance and Ricotta . . . By Page 53, I put the book down, but not for long. I simply had to go online and search for flights to Italy. . . . Here, Sicily shimmers off the page, utterly enticing — azure waters for swimming, hunky Italian chefs . . . I enjoyed Piazza’s twisty narrative and complicated characters, especially her contemporary women, who are strong and feisty — not so different from Updike’s lost, lusty Rabbit. It was a joy to read about Piazza’s heroines loving hard, eating well and blowing themselves kisses in the mirror."
—The New York Times
"The latest novel from Jo Piazza has something for everyone. History buffs? Check. Thriller girlies? Yup. Inspirational women? Definitely. . . . It's an ode to strong women, past and present, with a compelling plot to keep you turning the pages."
—Glamour, "The Best Books for Book Clubs to Read in 2024, So Far"
“Moving back and forth in time, Piazza smoothly blends a mystery deep into the heart of a page-turning family chronicle.”
—The Washington Post
“The Sicilian Inheritance by airport favorite Jo Piazza, nails a clever twist on a contemporary cliche: Newly single American woman moves to Italy, discovers herself. The twist—she’s pulled into ugly family business—plays like a Palermo breeze.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Jo Piazza's book is a charming page turner packed with wit and wicked twists that will keep readers engrossed”
—Town & Country, "The 45 Must-Read Books of Spring 2024"
"A murder, a mysterious inheritance, and the backdrop of Italy? Sign us up!"
—Cosmopolitan
"Twinned narratives guide the fizzy, food-y latest from Piazza."
—New York Times, "17 Books to Read in April"
“A family saga with romance, history, crime, mystery . . . You’ll be rooting for these two smart, determined women as they struggle against a society undermining their ambitions.”
—Afar, “9 New Books Savvy Travelers Should Put on Their Summer Reading List”
“Set amidst the breathtaking mountains of Sicily, this page-turner brims with history and mystery.”
—Keys Weekly
"A huge fan of both Sicily and Jo Piazza, I waited patiently to get this one in my hands, and it didn’t disappoint. Piazza’s newest release is a transporting novel rooted in the author’s family history including a disputed inheritance and a family secret that some will kill to protect. If I had to choose, dare I say, I would take the book and leave the cannolis!"
—Katie Couric Media
“Jo Piazza’s newest book has gotten plenty of buzz, and for good reason. It’s an appealing mix of romantic escapism, whodunit intrigue, and feminist introspection. . . . Of course, this all happens in Sicily, so there’s good food, flirtation, and mafia drama, too. With elements of historical fiction (Sara and Serafina’s stories are told in alternating timelines), romance, and mystery, The Sicilian Inheritance has something for everyone.”
—Eater
“[T]he stories are inextricably bound, most effectively through the way Piazza writes about the universal experience of what it means to be a woman and a mother. Fans of historical fiction, women’s fiction, and mystery novels will be equally dazzled.”
—Kirkus (starred review)
“Piazza offers mystery and romance and great questions about who does what work in society and why . . . Smart, adventurous, and impossible to put down.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“This paean to furbezza, the “devious intelligence” of women, succeeds on all counts.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Piazza brilliantly develops the story of two women who are separated by a century but are equally fierce in their determination to get seen, be respected and receive justice.”
—Bookreporter
“The Sicilian Inheritance is an addictive family saga with a rich abundance of strong women, quick wit, immersive history, and page-turning suspense. What else could one want from a novel? With her wise prose, Piazza grabs us by the hand as we journey through the picturesque Italian countryside while our heart thumps in anticipation of what Sara will find next. Mined from Piazza’s own family history, this novel is a lyrical elegy to the past and its influence. . . . Narrated by two powerful women who refuse to let others define them—Sara, a butcher, and Serafina, an Italian woman healer—will steal your heart and threaten to never give it back. Piazza is a master storyteller with a voice of deep wisdom, and The Sicilian Inheritance is don’t miss historical fiction with a dash of Mario Puzo and a hint of Nora Ephron.”
—Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times bestselling author of The Secret Book of Flora Lea
"Equal parts riveting mystery and engaging family saga, The Sicilian Inheritance will transport you to the gorgeous island of Sicily and keep you up all night."
—Emily Giffin, #1New York Times bestselling author ofMeant to Be
"I loved this epic tale of one woman’s quest to learn the truth about what happened to her great-grandmother a century ago. A gripping story of motherhood, ambition, misogyny and female power, now and then, it is also a great mystery that kept me guessing until the final pages."
—J. Courtney Sullivan, New York Times bestselling author of Friends and Strangers
“Strong women, rich history and page-turning suspense make for a rich and satisfying read . . . In The Sicilian Inheritance, Jo Piazza turns her formidable talents to the dual present/past timeline of a woman who goes to Italy because of a bequest but discovers much deeper—and more dangerous—family secrets.”
—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of Code Name Sapphire
"A gorgeous, propulsive read that keeps you guessing until the last page, The Sicilian Inheritance is a poignant meditation on secrets and myths that exist in family lore. I finished the book and immediately wanted to research my own roots."
—Janet Skeslien Charles, New York Times and internationally bestselling author of The Paris Library
"The Sicilian Inheritance is a thrilling adventure throughout a beautiful landscape that tells the stories of two women who persevered despite the many factors working against them. It’s enjoyable, satisfying, but also motivating. It might just inspire more underestimated women to make bold moves, defy the odds, and redefine success on their own terms."
—Forbes, "One Of 2024’s Most Anticipated Novels Is Actually A Masterclass In Leadership"
“A sweep-you-away story about three generations of women who rebel against the expected in search of their own sense of self—it feels as much a feminist adventure as a redemptive family mystery, with as much wit and humor as heart and soul. Jo Piazza gives us complex, original heroines, a rich Italian setting, and a puzzle-piece journey that keeps the pages turning. There’s nothing not to love here—I was gripped and entertained from start to finish.”
—Ashley Audrain, New York Times bestselling author of The Push and The Whispers
"All of The Sicilian Inheritance shimmers and stuns: the gorgeous writing, the complex and fascinating history of Sicily, the immersive Italian setting, and the propulsive family mystery that had my jaw hanging open. But what leaves a mark most of all are Piazza's heroines, the unforgettable and inspiring cast of women who defy the patriarchy and the odds stacked against them and learn to live life on their own terms."
—Carola Lovering, bestselling author of Tell Me Lies and Bye, Baby
"The Sicilian Inheritance is the perfect travel novel!! A fiercely original family saga that you need to pick up for your next flight."
—Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author of Sister Stardust and Jemima J.
"Equal parts rich historical fiction, gripping murder mystery, and a moving exploration of identity, grief, and the long shadow of the past. With lush prose and airtight plotting, Piazza's novel made me laugh, cry—and start planning a trip to Sicily."
—Andrea Bartz, New York Times bestselling author of We Were Never Here
“This rich and complex family mystery is completely addicting! A tale of delicious food and wine with a cast of vibrant characters that is easy to devour in a single sitting.”
—Jenny Mollen, New York Times bestselling author of City of Likes and Live Fast Die Hot
“Jo Piazza’s latest is everything a person could want in a novel: Instantly gripping, gorgeously written, ingeniously plotted, filled with complicated, fascinating characters, both timely and timeless, and, of course, underpinned by Piazza’s characteristic wit, intellect, and warmth. I couldn’t put it down and now can’t stop thinking about it. Remarkable, astonishing, and just plain wonderful.”
—Joanna Rakoff, bestselling author of My Salinger Year
About the Author
Jo Piazza is the international bestselling author of twelve books, including the Good Morning America Book Club pick We Are Not Like Them with Christine Pride. She’s also the host of the critically acclaimed Under the Influence podcast. Her work has been featured in The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, among other publications. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband and three feral children.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
2016
The room was freezing. No windows, one rickety table, two metalchairs.
“L’ha ucciso?” the detective asked with an uncompromising glare.
I was lost in a fog as I blinked up at the kind-eyed older womanthey’d assigned to help translate for me even though I didn’t need her. I understood exactly what he’d asked: Did you kill him?
My whole body ached. At least one, maybe more, of my ribs wasbroken, and the pain in my abdomen throbbed hot and sharp. Fat,salty tears rolled down my cheeks. Not for him, the man up on themountain, the one whose blood was dried on my skin and myclothes. I couldn’t cry for him at all. These tears were for me. Forwhat I was about to lose.
Would I ever see my family again? My daughter? Why had I thought coming here would solve any of my problems?
The questions were merely my brain trying to escape reality becauseI knew exactly what happened up there.
And so, I nodded.
ONE
Sara
Two weeks earlier . . .
I often tried to pinpoint the exact moment when the life I'd worked so hard for began to fall apart. Because there's always a beginning, a place where you've screwed up so badly there's no putting it back together.
It's what happens when you slice through the wrong tendon in a flank of meat. I ran a restaurant for years, but I started as a butcher, so I still think in terms of joints and muscles, the connective tissue of life. Cut the right one and you end up with a perfect steak. Cut the wrong one and the whole system breaks down. The meat falls apart in the places where you want it to stay close to the bone. Once you make that single wrong cut it's nearly impossible to keep everything else intact.
When did I make the wrong cut?
I thought about it, obsessed over it really, as I closed up my restaurant, probably for the very last time. I was so deep inside my memories that I didn't hear the knock on the door. The sound didn't register until it became an unrelenting pounding.
"Mommy, let me in. I need to come in there right now!"
Few things are more persistent than a four-year-old faced with a physical obstacle. Sophie's dad brought her over early. Jack was always early these days, probably because he was trying to catch me doing something he disapproved of.
My body lurched toward my little girl's voice. I flung open the door and the two of us hurled ourselves at one another with a feverish intensity, colliding in a smush of skin and lips and complete and total adoration. I never realized how much I would miss this little creature until I could no longer see her whenever I wanted, until my custody of her hung in the balance.
"Who's my best girl?" I asked her.
"Meeeee. Who's my best mamma?"
"Me?"
"You!" The part that both killed me and kept me getting out of bed every morning was that she meant it. This gorgeous, brilliant child of mine truly thought I was the best despite all recent evidence to the contrary.
Jack, my almost ex-husband, was certain I was no longer the best at anything. I could feel his bitterness as he stood behind Sophie and took in the nearly empty restaurant. The tables, chairs, and furniture I had painstakingly selected only five years earlier had been sold to a new place opening down on Passyunk Avenue. Various kitchen equipment was pushed against the walls, ready to be hauled off to the highest bidder. All that remained was our mascot, a massive plaster pink pig flying from the ceiling, its lips curled in a cheeky smile and the restaurant's name emblazoned on its flank, La Macellaia-the butcher woman.
The plaster pig was a joke at first, before he became the symbol of the place. Jack had him made for me by a local artist. Because for all the years I'd dreamed of having my own restaurant, I'd never believed it was possible. When other people told me it would happen one day I'd laugh like I didn't care if it did or didn't and say, "Sure, when pigs fly." Jack surprised me with the statue on opening night. I wondered when I went from being someone he'd design a custom pig statue for to a person he could barely look in the eye. It happened bit by bit, and then all at once.
I looked up at him, hoping to see some of the old soft devotion but Jack just seemed annoyed and sad. It was impossible to tell what he resented more, me or the restaurant that stole so much time from him and our marriage.
"Let's go outside," I suggested, not wanting to see my failure through his eyes. A small part of me still hoped La Macellaia would reopen in a new location at some point in the future, but I couldn't see how, not with the mountain of debt we'd taken on, the skyrocketing rent, or the nasty rumors that continued to dog me. I knew I'd made so many mistakes with my restaurant. I'd poured my heart and soul into it, but also my hubris. I'd pushed us to expand and grow too fast to make my investors happy, to make them money. I took on more than I could handle, and in the process, I lost almost everything. Another part of me also hoped, on some days, that with the restaurant gone Jack and I might find a way to work things out. But that seemed more unlikely with each passing day. Our marriage had become merely a bundle of services that neither of us could fulfill well enough for the other.
Once we made it to the sidewalk Jack thrust a handful of mail at me.
"This all came to the house for you," he said. Since we separated Jack had been living with Sophie in our sweet little brick row home, the one we bought together the year we got married. It made sense at first, since I worked most nights and could sleep in the studio over the restaurant. But once La Macellaia closed I'd have nowhere to live.
Mixed in with the overdue bills and junk was the letter I'd been waiting for, a brown envelope scrawled in my aunt Rosie's perfect penmanship, gorgeous cursive that only ancient nuns could beat into you.
I didn't want to open it because the second I did, my aunt Rosie's death would be as real as the end of my business and my career. I knew that the letter contained the last words she never got to tell me in person because I was too busy working to go see her one last time. Yet another regret.
Jack cleared his throat the way he did when he was about to say something I wouldn't like. "I hate the idea of Sophie going to your aunt's funeral. She's too little to learn about death."
"Sorry it bothers you. But please be reasonable, Jack. Sophie adored Aunt Rosie as much as I did." I swallowed my irritation and managed a contrite smile. "And all her cousins will be there. It won't be creepy and morbid. Rosie wanted more of a party than a formal church funeral. It'll be fun for Soph."
"A fun funeral? Who throws a party when they die? Your whole family is nuts. Rosie was nuts." His annoyance had nothing to do with the funeral. He was pissed because he was supposed to leave for vacation with his parents and I was making him wait until Sunday night, after the funeral.
"We've gotta get going, sweetie." I said this to Sophie, but really I was saying it to Jack to let him know our conversation was over. "We've got a two-hour drive up to Scranton and Carla is on her way to get us."
"To visit Aunt Rosie?" Sophie jumped up and down and clapped her hands.
"In a way, my love."
"See, she's too young for this, dammit," Jack said.
"Let me handle it," I said with all the conviction I could muster.
He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You know I loved her too. Rosie."
"Even though she was nuts?" I asked.
He shot me a regretful smile.
"Especially because of that," he mumbled.
It used to be one of the reasons he loved me too.
It was true that my aunt Rosie didn’t want a funeral, but man, that woman could throw a party, even from beyond the grave. She’d made it very clear that she wanted all of her “people,” all three of the boys she raised and their families, all the staff at the school where she was the principal for half her life, and pretty much anyone else in town who wasn’t “gonna be a crybaby” about her death, to get drunk at her favorite pub to celebrate her.
I wore a bright red jumpsuit that had been sitting in the back of my closet for the better part of a decade with the tags still on. I couldn't afford anything new. I'd applied for and been approved for seven credit cards over the past three years. Six of those cards were currently maxed out. The jumpsuit was too tight and too low-cut, but I knew Aunt Rosie would have loved it.
The bar was loud and rowdy. I hadn't seen my cousins and extended family in a couple of years, but folding myself into their comforting melee felt like sinking into a warm bath. There were hours of toasts and storytelling. Aunt Pat baked a massive cake with a picture on it of Rosie at her seventieth birthday wearing a T-shirt that read sexy at seventy. There was Aunt Rosie trivia and eventually Dolly Parton karaoke.
My sister, Carla, and I eased our way around Aunt Arlene, who was in the midst of a stunning rendition of "Islands in the Stream" on the karaoke machine with my mom and Arlene's daughter, Little Arlene.
Mom was really belting it out. She shimmied with Sophie on her shoulders. I wanted to grab my daughter, spin around with her, and hold tight to her spindly little body. I knew the next month of vacation with her other grandparents would do my daughter some good. I also knew Jack's mother would use the time to determine if I'd somehow caused Sophie irreparable damage with my recent personal miseries. Sophie has always been more resilient than me, but I still worried about her. Since I had to file for bankruptcy I could hardly drag myself out of bed except to handle the logistics of shutting La Macellaia down. There was a hell of a lot of grief involved in losing something you built from scratch, in losing the future you expected to have. I often drank too much at night to fall asleep and mainlined coffee all day to stay awake. Even when I was with my daughter, I wasn't always really there.
I tugged on Sophie's naked big toe and kissed her foot. She'd thrown her shoes somewhere in the corner during an earlier dancing session.
"Who's paying for this?" I asked Carla as we walked across the room, balancing two trays of shots to bring to our dad and uncles.
"I think Rose stashed some cash away," Carla replied. "She knew this day was coming."
At ninety-one it's always coming. Rosie had been fading for a year at least. The last time I'd seen her, a few months ago, she'd hardly gotten out of bed except to make the two of us a pair of strong old-fashioneds and to light the living room fire with a single match.
"A real woman makes a good drink and lights her own fires, Sara," she always reminded me. She told me lots of brilliant things over the years. I wish I'd written them all down. As Rosie and I had sipped our drinks, she said, "This is how I want you to remember me. A sexy well-seasoned dame drinking her whiskey and getting ready to tell you a filthy joke."
"That's how I want to remember you too," I agreed, and begged for the joke. Toward the end she wanted me to come one more time. It was urgent, she told me. There was something we had to discuss. But I was never able to make the trip.
Carla squinted out at the scene in front of us. "I think Dad and the boys must be paying for some of it." I'd actually assumed my sister had thrown some cash in the kitty. Of all the cousins she was the big success story, at least in terms of how much money she made. She was the youngest partner in a fancy Philly law firm, the mother of gorgeous twin boys with a beautiful, brilliant wife, and they owned a fancy town house off Rittenhouse Square. Carla had earned her success, but it was also due to Rosie paying part of her college and law school tuitions.
Rosie was my great-aunt, my dad's aunt, but she raised him and his two brothers when his parents, Santo and Lorenza, died in a car crash when Dad was a kid. So many boys, all of them little assholes, she used to say with complete and utter devotion. She'd never married, though she had a string of loyal and usually much younger boyfriends. I'd always assumed she was sick of living with men after raising three of them.
"The bar is probably covering some of it," Carla added. "They all loved her."
"Everyone did," I agreed, and swallowed one of the shots. The fiery liquid tickled my throat and warmed my insides.
Uncle Mario raised a half-empty glass and shouted an old Sicilian saying Rosie taught all of us.
Cu picca parrau mai si pintiu.
Those who speak little never have regrets. Ironic since Rosie rarely shut up.
Cu picca parrau mai si pintiu. Those who speak little never have regrets.Highlighted by 468 Kindle readers
