Page 123 of Married with Mayhem

My Aunt Teresa smiles down at me from the wall while I search her husband’s desk. My uncle used to talk to her portrait sometimes. I’ve heard him.

“What are you looking for, cuz?”

Julian is standing in the doorway. Right behind him is Tye. They don’t appear particularly friendly at the moment.

I’ve frozen in place behind the desk but I see no reason to lie. “Searching for the landline. I need to make a call.”

Julian leans against the door frame and sizes me up. “There’s no phone in here.”

I’m sick of these games. “Look, I need a phone. Your dickhead brother threw mine in the creek so can I borrow yours?”

Julian shakes his head. “No phones allowed at dinner. That’s always been a rule.”

“Yeah, Monte,” Tye says. The idiot is grinning like he’s watching five star entertainment. “How could you forget?”

“And you’re late,” Julian says. “Dinner’s ready and Dad’s waiting.”

How the fuck could I be late when no one told me when to show up?

Julian blocks my path when I try to leave the room. Tye cracks his knuckles.

“You didn’t pay your respects,” says Julian before angrily shoving my chest.

This must be how it feels to get trapped by a cult.

I raise my eyes to Aunt Teresa’s portrait and silently tell her that I’m sorry her sons grew up to be fucking lunatics. I make the sign of the cross because my cousins will throw a fit if I don’t.

Julian walks in front of me and Tye walks behind me on the trek to the dining room. The massive rectangular table could easily seat twenty people but tonight it’s only set for the family. And me. My uncle waits at the head of the table. Getty and Fort sit on his left. Julian and Tye take their seats on his right.

When I start to pull out a random chair, my uncle stops me.

“Monte, you’ve got the seat of honor down there.” He motions to the chair all the way at the other end.

When I get there, I notice the table has been pushed close enough to the wall that I have some trouble getting squeezed in.Also, the chair is at least eight inches shorter than the rest of the chairs, making it look like I’m either very short or sitting in a hole. Petty as hell but I say nothing and spread a white linen napkin over my lap.

I’d definitely win the prize for the worst dressed member of the table. My faded black tee and old jeans look awful shabby at a table full of neatly pressed trousers and carefully tucked button down shirts.

Cass snaps his fingers and half a dozen men walk in, all of them carrying food.

You truly don’t know the meaning of the word ‘surreal’ until you’re offered a breadbasket by an overdressed, heavily armed mobster who hoarsely asks if you’d like a saucer of olive oil to enhance your meal.

The second all the plates have been delivered and the wine has been poured, our waiters depart after a hard glare from Cass.

Then he focuses on me with a cold smile. “We’re all so glad you’re back here at the ranch, Monte.”

As if I had a damn choice.

But that’s the sort of thing I’ll have to avoid saying if I want to keep this short and remain healthy.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I say. No sarcasm there at all.

Cass nods and with a cutting motion of his right hand, signals his permission to eat.

While the Tempesta boys are often about as polite as wild boars, they have aristocratic table manners. Nico and I, used to jamming double slices of pizza in our mouths on the run, used to nervously copy them at dinner. Keeping my elbows off the table sure isn’t a problem right now since I’m basically sitting in a kiddie chair.

Cass sips his goblet of red wine and sets it down. “How’s your dad, Monte?”

I drag a slice of crusty bread through olive oil and pesto seasoning. “He’s doing good.”

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