Page 73 of Married With Malice

Luca, however, stands apart from the rest. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He doesn’t appear to be listening to my father’s lecture. Luca strays outside the canopy of the garage overhang and tips his head up, looking at the sky. He has no umbrella. His coat is wide open. The idiot will be soaked to the skin in no time.

I’m unsure why the sight of him standing in the rain strikes somewhere deep and curdles into worry. Luca can take care of himself. If he wants to stand out in the cold rain that’s his business.

He just appears so disconnected from the rest of them. He doesn’t belong there with the likes of Richie Amato and my father and the mob clingers who surround them. He’s not one of them.

Luca’s uncle steps out from the huddle of men and motions to him with impatience. I can see Luca sigh and he obediently rejoins the group. All the men return to the arena-sized garage and the door rolls shut again.

I’m so preoccupied with fretting over Luca that I almost miss Daisy’s question. She’s asking if we have any last minute Christmas wishes.

“If you could both donate an inch of height to me that would be cool,” Sabrina says. “It’s lonely down here. Every time I try to compensate with heels I roll my ankle.”

I give her a squeeze. “Look at it this way. You may be petite but you definitely won the boob lottery.”

She looks down at her black sweater, dotted with silver snowflakes and stretched over her curvy shape. She puffs out her chest. “I really did, didn’t I?’

“Own it,” I tell her.

Behind us, shouting erupts as Mama reaches her tolerance threshold.

“NO NO NO!” She flaps the dishtowel around like a penalty flag. “That is enough burgers! We have too many burgers! No more!”

Big Man Bowie twirls his metal spatula and breaks into one his cheerful, toothy grins. “Okay, Mama Barone. You’re the boss.”

My mother fights a smile. “Hmph,” is the only reply she can muster.

After giving Sabrina’s reindeer antlers one last affectionate tweak, I leave the cozy company of my sisters. I’m aware I am at risk of my mother taking notice that I’m standing around. She’d probably put me to work. After this morning’s battle to create the idealtorta di mele, I’m satisfied that everyone would be better off if I have no hand in today’s meal.

Besides, someone needs to find Luca a towel. He’s bound to be freezing after taking that holiday tour of the rain.

As I pass the long kitchen island, Donna Amato is slicing up cheese cubes for the antipasto platter. Her daughters are flanked on either side of her. One rocks a sleeping baby in the crook of her arm. The other rubs her slightly swollen belly and complains that all the food smells are making her nauseous.

Donna pauses, looks up and smiles at me. She’s a nice lady and she’s raised Luca from the time he was four years old. From the way she talks, it’s clear that she loves him as much as her own children.

What’s odd is that she also helped raise Cale. Yet when his name came up at a recent luncheon she quickly changed the subject. From my understanding, Cale isn’t explicitly banned from the family but it’s clear he wouldn’t be welcome here.

For the first time I realize how heavily Cale’s absence must weigh on Luca. One thing that’s become crystal clear to me is that Luca loves his brother the way I love my sisters. Knowing this makes me feel more of a connection to the man I’m married to, although there are still more questions than answers. If I ask Luca about the exact circumstances that led to Cale’s exile, I know he wouldn’t tell me.

The house is drafty and I rub my arms as I move through the long hallway that leads to the foyer. My mother spends weeks decorating for the holidays and this year is no different, yet I’m not enjoying the pretty atmosphere as much as usual. Though the grand staircase that winds up to the second floor looks lovely with the banister draped in evergreen garland and studded with lights, a cutting memory flips my stomach upside down as I climb the steps. A phantom echo of pain and fear results in a shudder and an intense wave of hatred for a dead man.

Rocco Vincente faced no punishment for his brutality.

The physical injuries were bad enough but the humiliation was even harder to live with. He enjoyed throwing me into the wall. He relished my scream when my shoulder was pulled out of the socket. He smiled as I sobbed.

And yes, I wanted him dead.

Now, ten years later, he is dead. And I feel like making a toast of appreciation to the driver of that Queens garbage truck.

Upstairs, there’s a closet at the end of the hall where Mama always keeps extra linens and towels. The door to my old bedroom is closed and I don’t feel an urge to open it. I haven’t set foot in there since I left for good the morning of my wedding.

I extract a plush cranberry-colored bath towel from the closet and quickly return downstairs, where I can now hear a mix of male voices, signaling the whole gaggle of them have returned through the tunnel.

On the other side of a tall window there are two shadowy men communing beneath an umbrella. One of them is Rocco’s presumptive replacement. There’s never been a time in my memory when fierce looking men weren’t surveilling the property and mostly I took no notice of them. Today, however, I dislike seeing them.

The first person I run into is Leo, who is married to Luca’s cousin Bianca.

“Hi,” he says and looks around in confusion. “Looking for a bathroom.”

“Last door at the end of the hall on the right. Have you seen Luca?”

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