Page 49 of Married with Mayhem

My villainous mafia lord of an uncle must have supernatural powers. For a few beats I’m just paralyzed as I stare at his name on the screen. I’m not exactly afraid of my mother’s older brother. He’d never harm me. But that doesn’t mean I relish the possibility of being on his bad side.

“Hello, Uncle Vittorio,” I say, bracing for a severe scolding.

“Sabrina,” he responds in a flat, unamused voice. “You’ve had some trouble in New York.”

Gee, good news sure does travel fast in Mob World.

“I’m safe now,” I tell him. “I’m on my way to Colorado to see Anni.”

There’s a long, silent pause before he says, “Your mother is very distraught by your behavior.”

Oh, for crying out loud.

Truly, I’m sorry that my mother is upset but I’m not some teenager who ran away from home and I’m sick of being treated like one.

Yet saying this out loud to my uncle would be a mistake.

“I’m sorry for that,” I say. “I’ll make it up to her.”

There’s a rhythmic clink of metal on the other end. One of Vittorio’s habits when he’s thinking is to tap his heavily ringed fingers. The effect is always unnerving, like a tiger making hunting plans.

“Where are you?” he asks.

Can’t say I’m a fan of the ominous edge to his question.

“I told you I’m safe.” And I’d rather keep Monte’s name out of the conversation. “But I’m driving to Colorado since all the planes are still grounded.”

“That will all be resolved in roughly twelve hours,” he says with such confidence that I don’t think of questioning his news. His accent is not as thick as my mother’s, despite the fact that she’s spent most of her adult life in the states and he’s always remained in Sicily. I can’t begin to guess the full nature of my uncle’s business and I’m not even interested. All I know is that whenever his name comes up, people immediately look like they’re on the verge of puking up their latest meal.

“Who are you with?” he says, his syrupy voice dragging out every syllable.

It’s possible he already knows exactly where I am and who I’m with. But it’s more likely that he’s stuck thousands of miles away and with global information systems not functioning properly, he has no way of answering any of his own questions. This is probably driving him crazy.

Vittorio won’t hear the truth from me. My loyalty to Monte wins over any wish to keep my controlling uncle happy.

“Uh-oh. Uncle Vittorio, you’re breaking up. Must be a bad connection. Tell Mama I’ll call her when I get to Colorado. ‘mkay? Bye!”

I end the call. Then I turn my phone off. I don’t want to know if he tries to call back.

And I’m kind of pissed at Vittorio for ruining my orgasm afterglow. No longer relaxed, I feel the need to burn off some nervous energy.

With my laptop and a bag of gas station snacks, I set up camp in the middle of the bed and dive right into a new game that I haven’t quite mastered yet. A departure from my usual trope favorites, it’s a fast-paced outlaw cowboy game with a lot of shooting and bank robbing and horseback riding. I’m playingin story mode rather than against live online players because sometimes I just don’t have the patience to deal with a bunch of amateurs crowding my screen.

As I’m galloping over rough terrain and trying to evade the local sheriff, I remember what Monte said about his summers on his cousins’ ranch. The image of Monte Castelli riding through rugged brush on horseback is not one that comes easily. Monte is a son of New York, as much a part of the city as the subway tunnels. He doesn’t really belong anywhere else.

Maybe that’s something we have in common. I never belonged in Sicily. Only New York feels permanent.

For the next two hours the game keeps my attention, although my mind keeps adding suggestions about how the action could be improved. Still, the graphics are spectacular and the story line engaging. I would give the experience a solid B+.

Eventually, I tire of winning duels and I switch to my notes on the game I’m currently working on. There is still no sound from the neighboring room and I’m glad. A prick of guilt strikes every time I remember Monte’s obvious exhaustion.

It doesn’t occur to me how long I’ve been sitting in one position until I move to grab a sleeve of powdered donuts. This whole time my legs have been crisscrossed with the laptop balanced on my knees and my bad ankle is particularly stiff. As I roll my foot around to improve the circulation, I wish I had an ice pack to ease the ache. Plus my Gatorade is warm. Gatorade tastes best when enhanced with ice cubes while drinking through a straw.

I have no access to straws but I know where to get ice. Earlier, I spotted an icemaker just down the hall. A clear plastic ice bucket sits atop the dresser beside a pint-sized coffee machine.

After mulling over whether I’d be breaking a promise to Monte if I walk down the hall and fill the bucket with ice, Idecide that I’m not. I promised not to leave the motel and I won’t. Besides, Monte is sound asleep.

Since I’m not wearing a bra under my flimsy pajama top, I pull on the Gino’s Pizzeria tee that I wheedled out of Monte. There are plenty of other pieces of clothing that would make more sense to cover myself with when wandering the halls of the chilly hotel, but I like this one. It’s comfortable, nearly reaches my knees and comes equipped with a very enticing hint of Monte’s cologne.

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