Page 3 of Married with Mayhem

What a prick.

Seriously, nobody in this zoo of an airport is having a fun day but why the rudeness?

I don’t even get a chance to sputter out an insult because the woman at my back is elbowing me out of the way. Can’t say I blame her. I’d gladly elbow someone right now for the chance to eat. With my backpack hugged to my chest, I glance around in search of refuge and find none.

In every direction there are upset people.

Some of them are yelling at each other. Some of them are yelling at phones. Others look around with expressions of blank despair at the scene of Airport Armageddon while a deep overhead voice repeats the news that all flights have been cancelled until further notice.

I’m going to assume ‘all flights’ includes my connecting flight to Denver. I’ve come this far and now I’m marooned with thousands of other unhappy travelers. It’s time to embrace the horror.

Hours earlier, as I watched Sicily get left behind from the scuffed window of a commercial jet, I was half expecting my uncle to pull enough strings to force a U-turn back to Palermo. The notorious influence of feared mafia don Vittorio Messina should never be underestimated. His grim, Armani-suited men would have stormed the cabin to kidnap me right out of my cramped coach seat while no one dared to raise an eyebrow.

To my relief, this didn’t happen.

The plane crossed the Atlantic without incident and landed safely in New York. No furious, overdressed mafia men were waiting at the gate. I figured I was in the clear. My next plane was supposed to leave for Denver in thirty minutes. From there I’d hop on a flight to the small regional airport less than an hour from my sister’s house in small town Sleepy Rock. I thought I’d be hugging my beloved big sister and cuddling my angelic baby niece before the sun set and I could hardly wait.

Instead, when I look around right now, the words ‘all hell has broken loose’ jump to mind. Some massive international cyberattack has crippled air travel and turned the scene into a dreadful mess of angry businessmen, crying children, barking service dogs and impolite pretzel vendors.

The chances that I’ll reach Colorado today are now hovering around zero.

As I locate an empty square foot of wall space to slouch against, disappointment now overtakes hunger as my primary emotion.

My sister’s baby, my very first precious little niece, was born twenty-five days ago and I haven’t even seen her yet. The minute Anni went into labor I was ready to drop everything and fly to her side. My oldest sister Daisy was already there. Daisy got to be in the delivery room watching the miracle of our niece’s birth while I was stuck in a Sicilian villa, limping around on my mobility scooter and pleading with my mother.

Arguing with Giulia Messina Barone is more work than a twelve-hour livestream gaming marathon. Once my mother is stuck on an idea, she’s not easily moved. Though she was delighted by the news of her first grandchild’s arrival and impatient to hold Anni’s baby in her arms, she refused to leave Aunt Marcella in the middle of a severe gout attack.

I have multiple reasons to be less than fond of Aunt Marcella. A great aunt on my mother’s side, she’s part of the vast wilderness of Sicilian relatives I’m still in the process of sorting out. For decades she’s lived in a suite within one of the many massive villas owned by Uncle Vittorio, the head of the family and my mother’s older brother. She rings an antique silver bell every time she wants a tray of olives delivered or her pillows fluffed and she calls me colorful variations of ‘whore’ in muttered Italian when my mother is out of earshot.

But what pisses me off the most is how she runs my mother ragged with her never-ending demands. She always insists that she’s about to die from various health afflictions and she’s definitely lying about her gout. Last week I caught her doing disco dance aerobics on the villa’s seaside balcony. Then she threw a crystal bowl at the wall when I refused to massage her feet.

Anyway, I’ve had enough of letting some pretend gout stand between me and my niece. I’m capable of getting on a plane without supervision even if Uncle Vittorio doesn’t agree. Despite all the drama about cyberattacks and pretzel disappointment, my heart has felt far lighter since my first glimpse of the Manhattan skyline.

The year I’ve spent in Sicilian exile feels like a decade. The sudden and extremely violent death of my tyrannical father had left everyone in need of a new life plan. The gothic Long Island mansion where I’d grown up wasn’t a place anyone wanted to see again. As the youngest and only unmarried daughter, it madesense that I’d be the one to offer my mother the support she needed.

The intricate mafia network Albie Barone had spent a lifetime building imploded after a bloody feud with the Amato family. All the New York mafia bits and pieces were scattered to the wind. Since then, I’ve heard rumors that the captains and soldiers have been fighting like jackals over the Barone criminal empire but I don’t spend much energy worrying about what that pack of lunatics are up to.

Anni and her husband Luca were at the center of all the Cosa Nostra madness. Leaving the mafia isn’t like leaving a desk job. There was plenty of grumbling when Luca renounced his position and it’s only because everything was so fucked up that he was allowed to escape at all.

Luca and Anni decided it was best to exit the New York scene for good and chose a small town in southwestern Colorado as their new permanent home. Luca’s older brother Cale, formerly the grim reaper hitman for the Amato crime family, lives nearby. He runs an animal sanctuary with his wife. Sometimes I wonder if the population of Sleepy Rock, Colorado is aware of their status as a country refuge for ex-mafia brutes.

I’m sure they are not. And I’m sure it’s better that way.

Anyway, I never planned to stay in Sicily forever. I miss New York. I miss my sisters even more. And I’m growing restless under the scrutiny of strict Uncle Vittorio, who doesn’t believe that young single women from notorious mafia families ought to be free to do much of anything, let alone gallivant around the globe with no chaperone.

The last time I visited the states over the holidays, I was escorted on the family jet by three of my uncle’s henchmen. They were about as much fun as influenza. However, though it’s nice to travel without being monitored by heavily armed, humorless gangsters, I kind of wish my uncle’s guard dogs were aroundright now. They’d throw a wad of cash in Bolton’s face and force him to give me ALL of the pretzels immediately.

Unfortunately, I’m on my own.

I fled the villa at the crack of dawn with a lie that I planned to attend mass. My mother was so pleased by my sudden affection for the church she didn’t even notice the suitcase I was dragging behind me.

The terminal becomes more crowded with each passing minute. The racket of mingled voices reaches a crescendo. People pace and gesticulate and bump into each other and snarl and pout.

It’s beginning to feel like we’re on the cusp of something apocalyptic.

The gaming sector of my brain clicks on. Call it a coping mechanism. Some people choose meditation tactics in times of stress. I don’t find this useful. My panic is only kept at bay if I treat new challenges like a game.

When I’m not avoiding Aunt Marcella’s sharp tongue and my mother’s fussy attention, my time is spent learning code and tweaking various video game designs. I’m very proud of the handful I’ve already finished. Two of them have attracted enough attention from independent sales to merit offers from game developers. I’m still hoping to get back to the Manhattan School of Game Design, where I was taking classes before everything went haywire.

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