Page 39 of Ruthless Consequences

TWELVE

LUCILA

PRESENT DAY

My hand was pressedagainst my neck, where it had been all day. Where it had been since that memory took me back. The night Aren had taken me to Coney Island. The way Lilo’s lips had felt on my skin…

The memory was as hurtful as it was healing.

A throat being cleared made me focus. I was in Valentino’s. I had a job to do.

“Anything else?” I asked the lady standing across from me.

She was on the other side of the counter, gazing into the case, trying to figure out if she wanted more cookies. But her eyes kept flicking to my hand, where it rested on my shoulder. It seemed like she wanted to ask me if I was in pain. If I had somehow hurt myself.

Our older customers were always concerned. Always asking us questions about everything. Valentino’s was a family-owned bakery, and it had a family feel to it. We had regulars who we boxed up goods for weekly. If they were too old to make it in, Michele made sure they would get their things. Even if he had to deliver them himself.

I almost wanted to tell her,Yeah, I am hurt. But the root of the problem was internal. It just got so bad that it spilled over into the physical. One minute my skin rejoiced at the remembered feel of his lips. The next, it shrank from my rejection of it.

I gave her the best smile I could. Like it was no big deal. “I slept on it wrong.”

“Ah,” she breathed, nodding. “That happened to me once. Let me tell you what I did…”

Too bad she didn’t have a cure for heartache.

“Oh!” she said as I packed up her things. “Can you add a loaf of St. Joseph’s bread? I don’t see any. That’s why it slipped my mind. It’s the one thing I came here for too! My husband would be so disappointed if I got home and we didn’t have it for Sunday…”

St. Joseph’s bread is usually served on St. Joseph’s Day (Feast of San Giuseppe). It’s celebrated in Sicily with elaborate altars filled with food and religious items. Some of the bread is shaped in different patterns, such as crosses and even fish. It all dates back to when a famine ravaged Sicily and the citizens asked St. Joseph to intervene on their behalf. Rain came and they were graced with an abundance of fava beans. In honor of him, the tradition began.

It was brought to the States after a rush of Italians immigrated. Michele’s grandfather, Giovi, had stopped in New Orleans before he settled in New York. He told Michele that he loved how the New Orleans Italians opened their churches and homes, inviting everyone to eat at their altars in honor of St. Joseph.

Instead of doing an altar, every March nineteenth, Giovi opened his doors and offered the first five hundred customers a free loaf of bread in numerous shapes, along with dried fava beans and two Zeppole di San Giuseppe—Italian cream-filled pastries made for the Feast of St. Joseph.

The bread was such a hit, though, Valentino’s started offering it regularly in a loaf. It was especially popular for Sunday dinners.

Sunday…

It was Friday. The next day Saturday. I was dreading dressing up in that costume and working for Mo.

“Lucila?”

“Oh.” I shook my head. “I’ll go grab some. I’m sure Michele has some fresh.”

She continued to search the counter, probably mentally adding more items to her order, while I rushed to grab more bread.

There were three sections of Valentino’s: the store where all the goods were displayed and sold; the bakery where all the sweets were made; and below, where Michele spent most of his time baking the bread. It was all brick, even the ovens. It was filled to the brim with sacks of flour, sugar, salt, and yeast.

As soon as I was in, the heat engulfed me. I went straight to the bin the St. Joseph’s bread was in and grabbed an armful. I’d have to put them in the paper sleeves with the Valentino’s mark on them. But the sight of Michele stopped me.

His son was so different from him. Michele looked like he stepped off the boat yesterday. He wore a white T-shirt tucked into tan pants. His arms were defined from years and years of hauling sacks and moving bread in and out of ovens with a metal tool longer than his arms. His skin was tan and slick. His dark brown hair was always covered in a flat cap that had belonged to his grandfather.

Even though he and Lilo never got along, I hoped he didn’t give the hat to Sebastiano. It was mixed up in the blood, sweat, and tears of this place, and something tugged on my heart when I thought about it going to anyone but Lilo.

Sebastiano would snap it up, along with this place, in a heartbeat. He tried to act like the son Michele never had. When Michele had one.

Years ago, I had a hard time putting my finger on the pulse of Michele and Lilo’s relationship. I couldn’t understand why they always pulled in different directions. But it became clear to me that, in so many ways, they were alike, but in one major way, they were different.

Michele refused to condone or accept anyone who ran with men like Paul Gallo. He was all for people immigrating to America for the dream. And those kinds of men? They profited off other people’s hard work. When they came into a family-owned store and told the owners they would be taking a percentage of their earnings, simply because they wanted to—it was something Michele wouldn’t stand for.

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