Page 74 of Married With Malice

Leo jerks his head and vaguely points. “He was with your father and Richie. They hung back in your dad’s office.”

“Thanks.”

From here it’s a trek to my father’s study where he always hunkers behind an immense desk and pretends he’s the emperor of New York. Along the way I pass through the dining room and pause to admire the layout.

My mother takes her table settings seriously, especially on a holiday. This room was always one of my favorites, with its high ceiling and huge rectangular windows. Stepping in here is like stepping into another century.

The very old tapestries hung on the walls tend to change with the seasons and are worth a fortune. A distinctive piney scent comes from the tall Christmas trees posted in all four corners of the room. The table stretched across the center can comfortably seat thirty people. It has already been set and is covered with a tablecloth embroidered a century ago by some Sicilian great great grandmother. It’s a beautiful piece of artwork that should really be covered with a protective sheet but my mother detests the sight of plastic on her table. She prefers to send the heirloom off to a professional to deal with any stains. And woe to the person responsible for making those stains.

Pillar candles sit on antique saucers up and down the table and they have already been lit. The dishes at each place setting are part of a set that belonged to my grandmother, who I never met and was named for.

The room feels warmer than the others and I’m reluctant to leave. My father’s study is in the corner of the house and I approach with deliberate slowness, the sound of my heels on the hardwood floors scarcely audible. An old habit. Noise in this part of the house was always prohibited and sure to meet with swift punishment.

I hear Richie Amato’s laughter. And the clink of glassware and the sound of drinks being poured.

“It’s been a hell of a year,” says Richie, “and the best is yet to come. Let’s drink to the return of the good old days.”

I know enough mafia history to understand what Luca’s uncle means by ‘the good old days’. For a big chunk of the twentieth century the powerful five families of the New York mafia had the city on its knees with high level corruption, gangland violence and expensive political influence.

Though many of the old legends have long since vanished, the men in that room intend to combine their resources to tighten their tentacles around the city’s throat and they won’t stop at New York. I really don’t know how far my father’s reach extends but it’s significant. From New York to Vegas to Hollywood, from construction to casinos to entertainment, there’s no place that’s safe.

The door to the office is cracked open six inches, enough for me to see Richie and my father holding full shot glasses. My husband completes the triangle with a shot glass of his own.

“Salute,” my father cheers and raises his glass.

“Salute,” Richie repeats.

Luca says nothing as all three men toss back their shots at the same time.

Luca’s hair is still wet from the rain. With the top two buttons of his shirt open and a severe expression that sharpens his handsome features and hardens his green eyes, he’s as absurdly striking as ever.

Yet I dislike this version of him; a cold-eyed, muscled beast of a man without a trace of humor or goodwill. It’s as some fictional evil twin has replaced the outgoing, mischievous boy I’ve known since childhood.

Unsettled by the thought, I back away from the door. None of them would be pleased to find me eavesdropping.

Hugging the thick towel that’s scented with the familiar smell of Mama’s dried lavender sachets, I retreat to the dining room where food has begun to appear on the table.

Big Man Bowie has won Mama over and triumphantly delivers a tower of burgers to the table. He stands back with a rare serious look on his face and considers the best place to deposit his platter.

Heavy footsteps patter in the hallway and Richie strolls in. He gives me a disinterested nod of acknowledgement, grabs a slice of salami from a tray, and moves on.

Within seconds, Luca appears and cuts right across the room without making eye contact.

“Here, this is for you.” I try to hand him the towel but he keeps walking.

It’s possible he didn’t hear me. He did seem preoccupied.

But my face feels hot and the arm holding the towel wilts. I end up tossing it under the nearest Christmas tree before realizing a certain aproned hamburger cook is still in the room. I’m surprised to glance over and see him watching. I’m even more surprised at his wince of sympathy. The look on my face must be particularly miserable.

“Guess what, Anni?” says my brother-in-law. “I made this whole stack just how you like ‘em. Medium well with no cheese. Here, have one. I won’t tell.”

I’m not particularly hungry but he’s being nice and I’m in no position to turn down any gesture of kindness.

“Thanks.” I pluck the top burger off the stack and nibble the edge. “It’s good.”

Big Man Bowie’s usual electric grin is toned down a little as he gives me a kindhearted gaze. “Merry Christmas.”

He begins whistlingJingle Bellsand starts to head back to the kitchen.

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