Page 62 of Christmas with the Mafia
Silence greets her toast, and her hand hovers in mid air and as I stand beside her, I touch my glass to hers. “Merry Christmas.” I echo and am shocked when my mother stands, raising her glass in the air and saying with determination, “Merry Christmas.”
My brothers are amused, watching the scene unfold like the highest quality drama on Netflix, and one by one they stand, adding their voices to the rest of us.
All eyes settle on my father, who has a face like thunder, and then he stands slowly, his fist thumping on thetable, causing us all to jump, and he fixes Regina with a hard glare that could melt the ice caps.
“That was a brave speech, Regina Stone, and I take exception to it.”
The only sound is the fire crackling in the grate as he twists his fingers around his wine glass and his eyes flash as he fixes her with a surly glare.
She is still beside me, but defiance is wrapping her bravery in foolishness as she stands firm, her chest not heaving, a slight tremble to her hand the only indication she is nervous.
“You don’t get to call me, Mr. Ravera; you don’t even get to call me sir.”
His voice is husky as he says with a sudden soft smile, “Call me Giovanni; it’s less formal.”
“Really?” Regina is incredulous, and I don’t blame her, waiting for the catch as my father raises his glass.
“Regina is right. This is Christmas, and there is more life in the graveyard than around this table.”
He fixes her with a stern expression. “I expect grandchildren. Several of them. Boys mainly, but I kind of like the idea of a granddaughter to spoil.”
He turns to me and growls, “Treat this woman right, Nico. She will be your queen and your biggest asset. Any woman who stares down a tiger and comes out victorious is a woman you would be foolish to ignore.”
This time he raises his glass and growls, “My toast is to Nico and Regina. May they make the family proud and inject new life into it. It takes a strong woman to join our family, and I have a feeling that with a little guidance, Regina will prove to be the perfect addition.”
As we echo his toast, the name Regina floats around the table like a battle cry. It certainly feels that way, and as we take our seats and normal service is resumed, I have never been so proud of anyone in my life. Regina is surprising me with every second that ticks by, and I wonder if my future is shaping up to be much better than I ever thought possible.
As the conversation hums around us, Regina leans close and whispers in my ear, “Was that too much?”
“It was perfect.”
I surprise her by stealing a quick kiss and as my fingers grip her thigh, I say softly, “I want to show you something later.”
“I was hoping you would.”
Her eyes sparkle, and I chuckle softly. “Before that.”
We are interrupted as my father addresses her.
“Do you shoot, Regina?”
“As in?” She turns her attention to him.
“A rifle.”
“No, I’ve never had that pleasure, although I’ve been dying to try. I mean, have you seen the crowds in New York on the subway? I’ve often seen the benefits of waving a gun at them to clear the way.”
My brothers chuckle as my father laughs loudly. “I agree. It is fun to watch the crowds scatter. But I was talking about a pastime I developed a love for when I visited England. It’s called clay pigeon shooting, and every year we hold a family tournament at Christmas, and the winner’s name is engraved on the trophy.”
“Who won last year?”
Regina leans forward, her voice enthusiastic, and my father grins. “My name is on there the most, but last yearJulius won, and the year before that, Nico. Who knows, perhaps your name will be the first female one engraved on it.”
“I doubt it.” She laughs out loud. “I’m guessing you are all semi-professional. I’m a beginner. I’ll try, though. I would love that.”
“Of course.”
His tone is smooth, and I wonder what he’s playing at. I’m not buying the sudden change of heart, and one thing’s certain: if there are any guns around Regina, I’ll make it my business that the clays are the only things at risk.
