Anthony Pusateri was a peace-loving man. The short, stocky devout Roman Catholic lived with his family on 10 acres just outside of Palermo, Sicily. One beautiful Spring morning, Anthony’s wife, Rose, cleared the breakfast table, poured her husband a second cup of coffee, then asked, “Tell me, An-tony, what on earth will I fix for dinner?” Anthony just grunted. She gently patted the thinning hair on his head. “Dear St. Theresa,” she begged. “This is my provider? God bless the soul of a man who won’t shoot a deer or even a rabbit.”