Page 28 of Married with Mayhem

“Quick hand of Blackjack.”

“No thanks.” He yawns. “Not a fan of games.”

“Fine.” I flip over a card in the middle of the pack.

King of Hearts. If the next card is an Ace, the hand is a Blackjack. Sort of. Some people might insist that it doesn’t count if you’re just playing by yourself. No one to beat.

I flip over another card anyway.

Monte grunts at the sight of the card. “Nine of Spades. Even I know what that means.”

The death card.

My superstitious streak doesn’t run deep but it does exist. Particularly right now, when drawing the death card reminds meof the old woman who used to wander into the villa’s gardens sometimes.

One day Mama pitied her and invited her inside for a bowl of caponata. The woman spread out a pack of battered cards on the table and offered to tell my fortune.

Her whole fortune telling nonsense was a gimmick for sure. She was known to hang around the town square in search of tourists to scam. Still, I was curious and asked her to read my cards.

“There is love in your future. But the King of Hearts is no stranger to death.”

Mama disliked translating the woman’s words and became annoyed. Soon after, she shooed the old woman out the door and muttered about con artists.

There is no magic. Whether they’re being unveiled in a three hundred year old Sicilian villa or in Monte Castelli’s living room, cards are simply pieces of paper. And the woman’s words were just words. Fortune telling is only a game.

Still, a vague shiver runs the length of my spine as I flip the cards facedown and collect them all in my palm. “Where’s your mother, Monte? I know she’s alive. Nico has mentioned her. But you never do.”

He takes his time about answering, which is not typical for him. “She and my dad had a rocky marriage for as long as I can remember. They stuck it out until Nico graduated from high school. Then she moved to Seattle. Her sister joined her last year. She and I never really saw eye to eye and we don’t talk much. It’s just me and Nico and our dad.”

“You must miss your grandfather. I met him once. Gino seemed like a really nice man. Sal is just like him.”

Monte glances down at his chest. Among the patchwork of tattoos is a small word. ‘GINO’S’ is written in spidery script on the left side just below his heart.

“And I’m nothing like either of them,” he says but laughs off the fact. He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Lots of Castelli history in these walls. My grandfather lived here most of his life. When he got too sick it was better for him to go live at my Dad’s house in Queens. But he was really happy to pass the place down to me and Nico.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “How’d you like to hear a piece of Lower East Side tenement history?”

“Absolutely.”

“Back when this building was new, an apartment would have been half this size. Families were big and they had to take in boarders to make ends meet. As many as a dozen people would have been all crammed into a place far smaller than this.”

“That is difficult to imagine.” I like this side of him. Candid and relaxed. It’s a pleasant, and likely fleeting, change from our usual fiery banter.

Monte leans into the couch and lets his head roll back. He absently adjusts the chain around his neck and stares up at the ceiling. “The Tenement Museum is just down the street if you want to check it out.”

“Maybe I will.” I scrape my bottom lip with my teeth and adjust my position on the couch. “Monte, can I tell you something that’s been bothering me?”

His head slowly turns in this direction and another loose piece of hair flops over his forehead. He still hasn’t shaved. He only wears a pair of loose black shorts. I couldn’t possibly conjure up a sexier picture than the one in front of me.

There’s a trace of wariness in the way his jaw flexes before he says, “If you want to.”

“I’m sorry about what I said that day in Luca’s car. I lied. I didn’t really look at your picture.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Damn, I was really hoping I wouldn’t need to get more explicit. No such luck.

I take a deep breath. “We were in Luca’s car on the way to the city,” I remind him. “You were in the backseat. I sort of implied I’d seen your dick pic. A girl in my game design glass was flashing it around, claiming it was forwarded from a friend of a friend. But when I heard your name I refused to look. It felt disrespectful. I mean, we are kind of like colleagues.”

“We’re not colleagues.”

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