Page 5 of Married With Lies

My uncle chuckles. “Good point. The kid should live it up right now. There will be plenty of time for work later.”

I don’t like the sound of that. Luca only has one more semester of law school left and my uncle already has big ideas for how he’s going to use a lawyer in the family.

I’m already neck deep in this bullshit. No helping that at this point. But my little brother isn’t and I’m going to keep it that way.

Resisting the urge to glare, I allow a beat of silence to pass and then change the subject. “I can smell Aunt Donna’s lasagna from here.”

“Best in the tri-state area. Don’t worry. Your aunt will save you a plate.”

“I’m not allowed to eat at the table?”

“I’ve got a mission for you first.” My uncle pulls open a desk drawer and withdraws an envelope. “I’m gonna need you to put in an appearance next door.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Next door?”

“Asher Wingate’s annual Christmas Eve party.”

“You serious?”

“Figured you wouldn’t mind spending some time with old friends.” He drops the envelope on the desk. “And you can deliver this in person.”

“What is it?” Not that the answer matters. There could be a severed finger inside and I’ll still deliver it.

“A show of support for young Baylor’s upcoming Congressional campaign. Made it official last week. Didn’t you hear?”

“No,” I lie, because it’s the shortest answer and I don’t want to talk about my former best friend.

No one would call Baylor Wingate a self-made man. Not many people are in line to inherit a professional hockey team. For three generations the Wingate family has owned the New York Dukes and Baylor has always been expected to take over the franchise once his father steps aside or dies. Maybe he got bored with hovering in the old man’s shadow or maybe Wingate Senior is aiming for the kind of political clout he can’t buy. It’s no secret that he’s been scheming for years to get the city to cough up a brand new arena at taxpayer expense.

Can’t say I give a crap about Baylor’s career aspirations. The years we spent as best buddies feel like another lifetime. Once he trotted off to the Ivy League to be prepped for his executive future our friendship cooled off, then disappeared. The fact that I plunged right into my uncle’s high stakes world of crime and vengeance might have something to do with that.

Anyway, it makes no difference. We have nothing in common now.

My uncle pushes the envelope my way with a fat finger. “The check is from Eastern Trucking. A very generous contribution.”

Eastern Trucking is a legit business on paper. The strands connecting it to the Amato family interests are tough to unravel. Baylor Wingate won’t have a reason to turn it down. And he won’t, not if he wants friends instead of enemies.

With no hesitation I smoothly pluck the envelope from the table and drop it inside the inner pocket of my blazer. “I’ll get the message across.”

Richie lifts a bushy eyebrow. “Wish him well. Let him know that we’ll be watching when he wins.”

“Understood.”

This isn’t personal. Just another business move.

Collecting political allies always comes in handy sooner or later. Sometimes a phone call from the right person can make a federal investigation disappear. For this reason I’ll shake Baylor Wingate’s hand tonight and hand him a big check. I have no doubt he’ll take it, even knowing the strings attached. Once he’s in office the day will come when my former best friend needs a favor. Perhaps there will be a reporter who needs to be discouraged from exposing a scandal. Or a professional rival who deserves to be nudged out of the way.

It's likely that I’ll be the one tapped for whatever job needs to be done. And I’ll pull it off with no complaint. Like always.

Laughter echoes from a distant sector of the house. The smell of good old fashioned Italian food combined with the date on the calendar summons a twinge in a deep, painful place that I don’t often acknowledge.

Luca was too young to remember those long ago holidays when our parents were alive. In a way that might be a good thing. Can’t miss what you never knew you had.

I’m the only one left who remembers how my mother would hum softly with a candy cane striped apron around her waist as she stirred the giant stock pot of simmering sauce on the stove. Whenever she was in the kitchen she would keep her dark hair pulled back with a claw clip. She called the sauce ‘gravy’ and when I got impatient she would spoon some onto thick slices of crusty bread and grate some cheese on top.

Her family didn’t approve of her marriage to a rowdy Irish fireman. My father was a big guy with the kind of laugh that startled people. He could intimidate a roomful of men just by standing in the doorway. But he also worshipped his wife, adored his kids and volunteered at a charity for injured animals whenever he had some free time.

Now and then when I walk past a wall of glass I do a double take. For a split second I’ll see my father in the reflection. Then I remember he’s been dead for over twenty years and I keep walking.

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