Page 9 of Married with Mayhem

There is no pact. While my brother knows more about me than anyone else, he’s still my kid brother. When I need to bypass his questions to protect him, then that’s what I do, whether he likes it or not.

But my dad doesn’t expect an answer to his remark and his attention has already moved on.

“Can you believe this shit?” He flails an arm at the mounted screen in the corner where some pale dude in a blue suit is giving a somber address over a dire red and white headline.

“GLOBAL AIR TRAVEL AT A STANDSTILL, MULTIPLE BANKS AFFECTED BY CYBERATTACK…”

The news alert popped up on my phone while I was still driving through northern Jersey but I didn’t pay much attention. As I take a closer look, this whole cyberattack thing appears to be a really big deal. Good thing I drove back from Florida. There must be a lot of poor suckers sitting in airports right now and wringing their hands.

“How’d this happen?” I ask, partly because I’m glad the conversation has shifted.

My dad shrugs. “Who cares? Probably some teenage hacker with a laptop and a lot of time on his hands. The world is too damn plugged in now. Makes it easier to wreak havoc.” He shakes his head and turns away from the screen. “Listen, I need to take a drive to Bay Ridge to pick up a supply order. Got a gooddeal on some Locatelli pecorino and I want to save the delivery fee.”

“I don’t mind making the trip for you.”

“Nah, I need to get away from the oven for an hour.” He tosses the towel on the counter and points to the man assembling a stack of pizza boxes. “You’re in charge, Stevie.”

“Take your time, boss,” says the man who has worked for my father for ages. A pepperoni pie is handed over from the kitchen and Stevie starts slicing it up.

“Will you still be here later?” my dad asks me as he yanks off his red apron.

“Yeah, I’ll be around.”

He grins. “Good. Eat a meal, would ya? The Florida food must be shit. You look skinny.”

That’s hilarious.

And he’s been using that same line since I was a kid.

Nowadays I’m as solid as an ox. All the hours I spend in the weight room isn’t just for vanity. People fuck with you less and obey more if you look like you can crush bones into powder with one hand. A handy asset in my line of work.

The first notes of Steely Dan’sDo It Againkick on as the door swings closed. The soundtrack of Gino’s vintage jukebox hasn’t changed since my grandfather’s day. At this point it feels like a sacrilege to make a change, especially since my grandfather’s emphysema got the best of him two years ago.

Stevie Mancini, who started working here as a teenager, then served three years at Rikers for dealing and has since kept a vow to stay straight, gives me a friendly nod as he adds the pepperoni pie to the display case running the length of the counter.

“What’ll you have, Monte? The kitchen has got some calzones cooking if you want to wait five minutes. Sausage and peppers.”

“Thanks, maybe later,” I say as I help myself to a beer from the fridge.

Standing behind the counter at Gino’s is as familiar as standing in my own bedroom. I was working here every summer and vacation before it was legal for me to work anywhere.

Since I’ve got the fridge open, I grab a cannoli to go with my beer. Over at Nico’s table, more laughter breaks out. The girl sitting beside him is a cute redhead named Livy. She was a couple of years younger, in Nico’s class, and I never knew her well. She brushes his forearm with her tits and then slides a hand through his hair.

There’s nothing unusual about seeing my brother getting slobbered on. Girls have always worshiped Nico. Almost as much as they worship me.

The other girl is a lot more familiar, although she’s become a bottled blonde since I saw her last. Rochelle Rossi graduated the same year I did and was always an attention-seeking pain in the ass. Once she cornered me under the bleachers after a football game and insisted on dropping down to her knees for a sloppy blow job. I was drunk out of my mind and barely remember it.

Last I heard, she’s with Derek Bianco and I’ve hated that fucker since he ratted me out back in middle school for breaking into the gymnasium on Halloween night. I don’t always hold a grudge but when I do it’s against two-faced weasels. Since then, he’s always hanging around the sidelines of the underground gambling scene and trying to steal everyone else’s business. It wouldn’t bother me to get a little revenge by bending his girl over a table.

Rochelle quits laughing and sits up straighter while giving me the eye. I’ll get to that in a minute.

First, I polish off the cannoli while my eyes linger on the framed photos nailed to the wall. My dad calls it the Memory Wall. His father called it that first, long before he earned a place of honor there.

In the center photo, my grandfather smiles from a faded scene that probably happened when the song playing on the jukebox was brand new. His wife sits beside him. I never knew my grandmother. She died of cancer when my dad was in high school. The two of them are young in the photo. They’re holding hands. They look happy.

I raise my beer as a toast of appreciation to my grandparents and slide my gaze over to Vinny Tello’s picture. Uncle Vinny is scowling, like maybe the photographer surprised him when he wasn’t expecting it. The air looks smoky and Vinny’s gold-ringed fingers clutch a hand of cards.

Uncle Vinny and my dad used to be the best of friends. They married two sisters and remained tight through the years while Vinny rose in the ranks of the Amato family. The tension between them started when Vinny took my brother and me under his wing. My dad has always lived on the fringe of the mafia, never a member. He’s disappointed that his sons are in the thick of this shit and no matter how hard Nico and I try to keep him out of the loop, he hears things anyway.

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