Page 5 of Sinful Attraction

By Sunday, I am almost completely ready to go. On my way to church with my family, my head is full of the plan: steps I need to take still, how I’ll pull it off, and what the timing for everything needs to be.

Meanwhile, my mother is talking about eligible bachelors again as Dad drives. She claims the congregation’s full of them and even reads names off a list at one point. Most of them are too old or too young for me, one of them is engaged to another woman, and another had cheated on a friend of mine. Nope, nope, no, thank you. But I sit quietly and let her ramble for as long as I can stand.

“Now, their son’s not very high-ranking or anything, but he’s got a good reputation, and he’s even handsome. His mom says he only wants four kids, so you can have time for your little computer hobby, too!”

My smile becomes a little strained. “I’m sure he’s very nice, Mom. He’s also nineteen.”

“Well, you always end up raising your husband a little bit—”

My father harrumphs. I roll my eyes. Poor Dad.

I shake my head. “...Mom. That’s not ‘raising’ a husband; that is babysitting a permanent teenager.”

I don’t even know why the hell I’m putting up with this. I’m about to make us $5 million richer with a proof of concept that will keep paying off for us for decades, even if I have to tweak it several times along the way. I don’t even have to entertain this bullshit.

But it’s Mom on a Sunday, and despite the fact that she already has half a dozen grandbabies from her other sons and daughters, it’s her favorite time to push the same old goddamn narrative on me.

“I don’t understand why you’re so hostile to the idea, honey! Why are you so scared of settling down? This isn’t normal.” The patter is so familiar that I start silently mouthing along to her words without missing a single one. “You like guys, right? Thisisn’t some lesbian thing, is it? Or are you one of the asexual? I read in my Facebook group that—”

“Mom! For the fifth time in the last month, I am none of those things! I like guys! I just don’t pair off and breed on command, okay? I haven’t ever found anyone worth dating steadily, let alone marrying. And it’s not exactly a priority for me right now! I have bigger things on my mind.”

“Please, don’t tell me this is about your stupid computer hobby—”

“Now, honey, I think this is a little more than a hobby for her,” my father actually protests a little, for once. “She did go out and get her doctorate.”

“Don’t encourage her!” my mother snaps. “It’s years of this, and she’s never once done anything really useful—”

“That’s about to change!” I burst out, and my mother suddenly goes quiet.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” my father asks, more to fill the sudden, awkward silence than anything else.

“I’ve come up with a way to make us money using the Internet. Lots of money.”

I try not to panic as I realize I just gave away part of my plan ahead of time instead of sticking to what I’d decided andsurprising them with the money later. They are both silent, waiting for me to continue.

My heart beating hard, I do just that. “I’m going to use a program that will allow me to interrupt and steal from high-ticket international wire transfers. Millions of dollars at a time.”

Suddenly, the two of them are full of questions, talking over each other, my mother amazed and skeptical, and my father increasingly excited. We need an edge over the Rossis, and this could be it. If I can pull it off.

I field every question somehow, feeling nervous and dizzy and struggling with a million self-doubts that seem to come out of nowhere. Who I’m stealing from? When it’s happening? How to make sure it can’t be traced? On and on.

By the time we’re off the freeway again and fighting downtown San Francisco traffic, I’ve fielded every question, and they’re silent again, both mulling it over while I wait.

“I don’t know about this idea, honey,” my mother says predictably. “It sounds risky. Doesn’t it sound risky to you?”

My father grunts as he deals with the stop-and-go traffic. “I think we should let her try it,” he says, surprising me a little. “If this works, it’ll pay us back for all her schooling and gear and a whole lot more.”

My mother makes an indecisive noise. “But what happens if we get caught by the government?”

“That’s not going to happen. I’ve made very sure that nothing can be traced back to us. The real issue is going to be timing it all right.”

My father sniffs and glances back at me for a moment before turning onto our church’s street. “Look, let’s think about it and talk again after church,” he says while I seethe a little inside. I don’t want to wait for their permission to prove myself. I just really, desperately want to do it.

For many decades, the Families have kept to the Sunday Truce locally. No matter how bad a rivalry, grudge, or full-on feud is, we do not fight on Sundays.

Sunday is for family, for community, and, of course, for church. The truce allows us to do things like attend the same services without brawling in the aisles or visiting violence on each other in the parking lots. It lets us go out with our families, even if we pass someone we were exchanging gunfire with just days ago on the street. In short, it’s one of the better old mob traditions to keep around.

And good thing it’s kept because the Rossis go to the same damn church, and today, Michael’s at the same service with us.

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