Page 10 of Forgotten Deal

After Sunday Mass and dinner at my nonna’s, we pull into the driveway of our house. Hopping out of the car, I’m eager to take off my itchy church clothes.

We’re nearly to the porch, when Mama says to me, “Fabio, be a good boy and run back to the car and grab my purse.”

I do as I’m told, opening the car door and grabbing her purse from the floorboard of the passenger’s seat. Turning around, it all happens in slow motion.

A loud bang.

A bright flash.

Me being picked up off my feet and slammed against the car.

Everything going black.

A motorcycle backfires with a loud pop, jarring me from the past. My hand finds its way inside my jacket, resting on the butt of my gun. I check my surroundings, but no signs of trouble. “I’d better get going. Bye, Mama. Papà. Wish me luck.” Not with my new job, but with what I have to do next.

Driving to my nonna’s house, I walk to the front door and jiggle the handle, finding it unlocked. “Nonna,” I call, stepping inside. “What have I told you about locking the door?”

She appears from the kitchen, pulling me in for a hug and kissing my cheeks. “I locked the door.”

“Nonna, it wasn’t locked,” I tell her, and she waves away my concern. It’s not just this one instance; I’ve noticed her slipping mentally here lately. It might be time for me to consider moving her into a home. There’s an opening at Silver Court.

Shaking away that mountain of guilt, I follow her to the kitchen and have a seat. Nonna insists on feeding me, even though I’m not hungry. “I saw on the news Antonio Parisi died,” she says excitedly. “Now you can get out.”

“Nonna…” I sigh.

Fabio, eight-years old

Hearing voices downstairs, I tiptoe out of my new room at my nonna’s house, taking a seat at the top of the stairs.

“Mrs. Mazza, let me first begin by offering my condolences.”

“Begin and end there, Mr. Parisi,” Nonna says bitterly.

Mr. Parisi. The boss. He’s the scariest man I’ve ever met, and I can’t believe Nonna is talking to him like that.

“I understand your anger?—”

“You understand nothing,” Nonna bites.

“Mrs. Mazza, I’m here to tell you Frankie’s boy will be taken care of by the family,” he continues in a calm voice.

“He’ll be taken care of by his own family, not yours. I don’t want a penny of your blood money.”

“If that’s the way you feel.”

“That’s the way I feel,” she says firmly. “Get out and don’t ever come back.”

“Very well. Take care, Mrs. Mazza.”

I hear the door close, and I stand, tiptoeing back to my room.

Before I can reach the door, Nonna shouts, “Fabio. Downstairs.”

I turn around and walk down the stairs, busted. “Yes, Nonna?”

“Stay away from the Parisis.”

“But Romeo’s my friend,” I start.

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