Page 73 of Forbidden Surrogate

“Is that mom’s lasagna recipe?” I ask her as I kick my shoes off and let the grumble of hunger rumble through my abdomen.

“Grandma’s,” she asks while scrolling on her phone that’s propped up next to the egg timer.

“Since when are you cooking?”

“Dad’s coming over,” CC asks, rolling her eyes as she taps furiously at her phone. Young people are all addicted to their phones and CC is one of the worst. She barely looks up as I walk over to the oven and check on the lasagna progress.

“What? Since when? Why?” I ask as I turn the oven light off and take a good look at CC for signs of the mental illness my father insists she’s coping with.

“Mom wants him to drop off my business textbooks so I can study over spring break.”

“You haven’t failed your business classes yet. Keep at it.”

“Dad is a huge asshole,” CC says. “I don’t want to see him.”

Younger people are also much quicker to state their true, unfiltered feelings about their family members, which gets your ass into a lot of trouble as an Italian woman from a traditional family.

“You should respect your elders.”

“Like you, grandpa?” CC teases me, smirking for a brief second before she locks in on her text message conversation and taps away.

“Don’t worry about how old I am. Worry about getting better so dad trusts you on your own again.”

“Dad doesn’t trust me on my own because I’m a woman.”

“It’s not that,” I assure CC, although I can’t confirm that. Dad loves his daughters more than his sons. My sisters somehow find a way to get offended over that. Ugh, Gen Zs…

“Yes, it is. Our family is so fucked up.”

“You mean traditional?”

CC stares back at me with a piercing, meaningful expression. “I mean fucked up.”

“When is dad getting here?” I ask her. It’s better for me to change the subject than for us to get into another argument over our family values.

“Five minutes.”

“Five? Shit. I’d better take a shower.” I smell like the gym and I need those precious minutes to mentally prepare myself for seeing my father after we all just got the news about Luigi Taviani.

CC shrugs and talks while continuing to text, “Just don’t leave that nasty fake eye on the kitchen counter again. You don’t live alone anymore.”

“He’ll get here before I’m done. Keep him busy and don’t fight.”

By the time I emerge from my shower, dressed well enough to see my father, Pino Corsini, right hand to the most powerful mobster in Buffalo, my sister already goes against my commands. I hear her argument with dad from the hallway and question whether I should leave through the back door instead of sitting through this.

“Be quiet,” he snarls at her. “I am not Leandro Taviani. You aren’t going to lie on your back for some fat fuck the rest of your life. I’m paying for you to finish business school and that’s what you’re going to do.”

“But dad, this is the best oil painting course in all of North America.”

“It’s in Canada. We’re not fucking Canadians, CC…”

I clear my throat before tensions rise between them even more. My sister has dreams of becoming an artist that my Italian father couldn’t begin to understand. Guidos from his generationdreamed of joining “the family”. Wanting anything outside of our life and Cosa Nostra doesn’t register in my father’s mind.

“Mikey. Come on over here before your sister and I start throwing punches.”

Again,I think to myself, not daring to say it out loud and remind either of them of a conflict we would be better off not returning to.

“She’s been a lovely house guest,” I reassure my father.

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