Page 32 of Dreadful
“My son managed to get front-row ticketsandhave them upgraded to backstage passes. He knows I love the theater. My boy is a good one.” She beams at me, but I stand silent.
Before my father died, I never understood how he and my mother worked as a couple. She loves the finer things and gave up her career to be the wife of a future Mafia boss. He insisted on being a barber like his father before him rather than investing and playing the market like his half brother. Mynonnowas the boss of the Luciano syndicate, but he and my father both believed they didn’t have to be rich to rule.
It’s one of the reasons why my grandfather’s affair with Claudio’s mother shocked everyone, rocking both families. Despite the scandal, her parents still helped raise Claudio, so he grew up rich with his mother’s last name, and my father grew up hating him and everything he stood for.
It was a fight they had all their lives, money versus power, before Claudio stole both. In some ways, my mother and my uncle are better suited together. He loves having a pretty trophy wife. She loves his money and status. Me, on the other hand, I’ve amassed more than all the Vincellis and Lucianos combined, but I still itch in a godforsaken suit. Having to wear one the entire time I was in Vegas was nearly torture.
The only upside is that it keeps the interest in my cane to a minimum. Most people see a young guy in a suit and assume the mobility device is a fashion choice rather than a need. With the Vegas fashion being as wild as the culture, no one would’ve looked twice if I’d used it there. I only had a couple of bad days, though, so I was able to get by without it. Apparently I’m all out of luck now, though.
One of the actresses has been staring at me since my mother drew her posse over to me. As soon as the woman opens her mouth, I know exactly what’s going to come out of it.
“Why do you have a cane?”
“Caught shrapnel in the Boston Tea Party back in ’73,” I answer without missing a beat.
Some of the small crowd give me odd looks at the blatant lie, others hide their smirks. But the blonde with brown doe eyes gasps in awe.
“Wow. You’re so brave.”
I huff my annoyance, and my mother quickly tries to recover the situation before I embarrass her.
“Isn’t he? Wouldn’t he make such a good husband, ladies? The son of Claudio Vincelli, no less.”
“Stepson. And nephew, if we’re getting technical,” I sneer, but they’re not listening. The circle seems to get smaller, and their hungry eyes sparkle with interest. But it’s interest in who I know, not who I am.
“Yes, Mrs. Vincelli. He’s perfect,” the same nosyidiotapurrs, and my eyes narrow.
“Mrs.Luciano-Vincelli.”
The woman jolts at my tone, so unlike my littlevipera. Tallie wouldn’t have blinked twice at the venom behind my words, and she’d have given it back to me tenfold.
“Gertrude, another topic,per favore,” I grumble.
My mother’s smile cracks at my using her name, and she gives me a pointed look. “Fine. I’m glad you’re here, Severino. I have a favor to ask.”
Ah, a favor. That makes more sense as to why she texted asking where I was earlier. “What do you need?”
Her voice pitches higher and almost whiny, grating my nerves. “Would you please be a dear and fetch my coat? I’m going to catch a cold in here without it, and the driver isn’t answering my messages.”
“What, no ticket for the help then?”
Talia’s scathing accusation hits my mind at full force. Hearing someone defend abastardolike Alfonso Foglio, one of the most sadistic of Claudio’s men, shocked me at first. But then I realized she was defending the value of the man with the position, not the actual man. Which is good because I have plans for him.
Speaking of plans…
Movement out of the corner of my eye sets off a countdown in my mind. Time’s running out for me to make my move.
“Of course, I’ll get your coat, Gertrude. Be back as soon as I can,” I answer her and finally get to walk away.
“Oh, thank you, Severino. See, ladies? Ever the gentleman. Now, where was I…oh, yes. My garden club. We’re always looking for new members…”
My mother’s voice fades behind me as I focus on Percy. His loud, drunken laugh echoes in the theater, drowning her out anyway. I chug my water bottle, keeping an eye on the crowd, before tossing it into a nearby recycling bin.
“Deon, you look like you’re going to have a stroke. It’s just a fucking word. Here, I’ll say it again. Mac—”
“No!” A short man waves his hands high in Percy’s face. His dark-brown skin is free of wrinkles everywhere but his forehead, which is creased with fear and frustration. “Stop saying it! You’ll curse us all! Call it ‘the Scottish play’ like the rest of us, or as the director, I’ll pull you from the next show, I swear to God.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Percy challenges before yelling, “Macb—”
