Page 13 of Falling for my Family's Rival

“I don’t want to hear this again,” my father snaps. “If you can’t solve this problem, you don’t deserve to be on my payroll.”

He slams down the phone in a way that makes me understand why hanging up on a cell phone will never be as satisfying. I might hate the landline, but it’s moments like this that I understand why my parents keep it. Slamming it down and making calls. Neither of them will ever like their cell phones.

My father looks at me with a grim expression, and I have to wonder what’s going on. At the same time, I’m not sure if I actually want to know. My father’s face is still red, and he’s breathing hard. Looking at him now, though, I have to say that I’m even more curious about what was going on with that call.

“Do you know who that was?” my father asks me after a long silence.

I shake my head. “No, who?”

“Tony,” my father says.

Tony is my father’s fresh produce supplier. I have no idea why this is interesting in any way, but the way my father says his name, I suspect something is up. Am I supposed to know what he’s referring to here? I decide to take the cautious approach.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So how is Tony doing?”

My father shrugs. “As well as an idiot can be doing. Do you know what he told me?”

I shake my head. “No, what did Tony tell you?”

“That he didn’t even take a look around when he delivered produce to Little Italy. Can you believe that?” my father asks.

He is so red in the face that he looks like he’s going to explode. I know I need to diffuse the situation, but I’m not sure how. Instead I stifle a sigh. “What were you hoping for him to find out?”

My father looks at me like I’m stupid. “Proof! Evidence that they’re responsible for the food poisoning attack,” he snaps, his voice just below a roar.

I take a moment to let his temper subside. One thing I’ve learned over a lifetime of living and dealing with my father is that his temper is quick to flare, but it subsides just as quickly. His tantrums can be startling, like whiplash, but taking a second to let him catch his breath helps a ton. I take a gentle approach, asking questions to hopefully pull him down from his uphill charge.

“You really think that they’re responsible for the food poisoning?” I ask. “There couldn’t be another explanation? Like maybe an issue with one of our suppliers?”

My father shakes his head. The red tint in his cheeks darkens again, and I know it was too soon to ask such a question. I stifle another sigh. This anger issue that my father has can’t be good for his health. My mother is always trying to get him to take a vacation, but he never does. Now I can see why she thinks it would be good to get him away from Venetian Dreams for a while.

“No,” he says with emphasis. “It was those vipers from Little Italy. I just know it, in my gut!”

“Okay,” I say, as calmly as I can. When Dad ‘knows something in his gut,’ good luck getting him to see it any other way. One of us needs to be rational. “Would you like me to go talk to them?”

My father stares at me, not blinking for what feels like hours. Then an odd looking smile spreads across his face. It’s creepy. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which still have anger in them. For a minute, I wonder if he’s having a stroke or something neurological. I push the thought aside.

“Yes, very good, Luca,” he says. “Why didn’t I think of that before? Having my own son go. Genius!”

“Right, okay,” I say. I decide to play along, just because I’m curious to see how far he will go with this charade of, I don’t even know what, mafia boss? “And what are my instructions exactly?”

“I just need proof that Little Italy is behind the food poisoning,” my father says. “I don’t care how you get that proof, just get it!”

Now I know that my father is actively losing his mind. I can’t just walk into Little Italy and demand proof for something that they probably have nothing to do with. On the other hand, it will allow me to see Marissa again, so obviously I’m going. I nod to my father, because I can’t actually think of an appropriate way to respond.

“Look,” I say, a vague plan forming in my mind. “I can go over to the restaurant, if you want.”

The color in my father’s face comes down to a dark pink, and he visibly relaxes. “Yes, that’s a good idea,” he says. "You’ll know what you’re looking for, won’t you, Luca?” My father is half pleading desperately, half demanding determinedly.

“Right,” I say. I have no idea what he’s expecting me to do, but I figure I can decide how to deal with it when I get there. Clearly, I’m only going to see Marissa. “I’ll head over there now.”

“Report to me, the second you get back,” my father says, as though he’s chief of police, sending his deputy out on a stake-out.

I nod to him, “Yes sir,” and head out of the office, through the kitchen, threading my way through the restaurant. Dinner has picked up quite a bit, so I feel minorly guilty about leaving; but only a tiny bit. The prospect of seeing Marissa propels me forward. Angelo stops me at the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Dad is sending me to Little Italy to do some recon,” I say.

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