Page 52 of Married With Malice

“It was disrespect, Richie.” I say this smoothly, coldly. “How does it look if your heir apparent is laughed off with an IOU?”

Typical mafioso macho bullshit but I manage to pull it off while sounding sincere. Richie tries really hard to look stern instead of impressed. He knows this makes sense. And he’d never suspect that I orchestrated the chain of events that led to Rocco Vincente’s poker debt in the first place.

It took me two weeks to set up.

A man such as Rocco, who gets his kicks beating up young girls, is bound to have a few unsavory vices. Both fundamentally stupid and overconfident in his longtime role as one of Albie Barone’s special guard dogs, he leaves a sloppy trail and a lot of enemies. Whenever Rocco’s not trailing after his boss, he flees Long Island, preferring to haunt the Queens neighborhood where he grew up.

By chance, Nico is currently fucking a girl whose family owns a bar in that neighborhood. Rocco Vincente’s name is spoken like a curse in those parts. He picks fights, scares off customers and constantly tries to put his hands on women who understandably don’t want to be touched by him.

But Rocco does love a good game of cards. And he’s constantly trying to worm his way into invitation-only settings where his obnoxious temper isn’t an asset.

I also love a good card game. And I’m a better player. Poker happens to be a sentimental favorite but I’m not picky.

Rocco was surprised to see me and the Castelli boys show up at one of his favorite strip clubs but he assumed I was a friend and he’s too stupid to think past his assumptions.

I covered the tab and kept shots of his favorite scotch coming for an hour before suggesting we drop in on a game happening two blocks away.

Nico’s fuck buddy arranged for the use of an empty apartment above her family’s bar. The three guys who were already there, pretending with a table of cards and money chips, were buddies of Monte’s from his days working at the racetrack.

Weapons, naturally, were checked at the door. That’s standard. Can’t have any sore losers throwing a tantrum and blasting away.

Rocco hates to lose. He hates it so much that when he’s losing he’ll keep playing. And he’ll keep losing.

The duel was really just between me and him. The others were there for window dressing.

After an hour, he’d lost ten grand and was sweating like a pig. Another hour, and this debt had tripled and his bad mood really started to gain steam. This only made him more careless.

At least his worries are over now. I need to remember to start thinking of Rocco in the past tense.

“Barone’s having fits,” Richie says. “So let me do the talking when we get there.”

“It was an accident. It’s not like I put a bullet between his eyes.”

Rocco was so busy slurring out excuses why he needed a month or two or six to scrounge up the funds that he never noticed when Monte handed me a heavy mallet. I wasted no time before swinging it down with all my might on the back of Rocco’s hand. The card table broke. So did his bones.

He was thrashing around so much it wasn’t easy to get a grip on his sweaty shirt but I wanted to look him right in the eye when I said, “That was for Annalisa.”

Rocco’s mouth went slack and he fell right out of his chair. Even in his drunk and disorderly state he knew what I was talking about and he must have figured he was about to earn a hole in the head. He started screeching and crashed through the door before anyone could get a hand on him. Then he tumbled down the narrow staircase, bellyflopped on the sidewalk below, and managed to pick himself up just long enough to stagger into the street, where he was promptly body slammed by a speeding garbage truck.

He died on impact. Just another drunk idiot who didn’t look both ways. An accident.

Technically, I didn’t kill him. All I meant to do is break both his hands and let him know where things stand, that if he ever got within coughing distance of my wife again then he could expect much worse.

My father-in-law, however, doesn’t believe in accidents. He’s demanding a meeting. Right now at his house.

Richie checks the time and heaves himself out of his chair. “Let’s get this over with. Remember what I said. I’ll do the talking.”

Franco and Brisetti, Richie’s two oldestcapos, are waiting outside the door. I’ve known them all my life. Franco gives me a smirk that says he finds the whole situation funny. Brisetti gives my shoulder a friendly pat.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Aunt Donna appears at the end of the hall and wipes her hands on a yellow apron. “I just made some sausage and peppers.”

“Put it in the fridge.” Richie’s tone is irritable. “Someone will eat it.”

Aunt Donna flashes a loving smile at me. “I’ve been meaning to invite Annalisa over for lunch but I didn’t want to be pushy. Do you think she has time?”

“That would be nice,” I say. “You should ask.”

As for my aunt’s question, I can’t answer because I don’t know much about what my wife does all day. She hasn’t returned to her teaching job at the ice rink and her sisters seem to be her only friends.

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