Page 48 of Forgotten Deeds

“I’ve run this restaurant without his help for years, so yes, I know I can,” she answers without hesitation.

Mr. Parisi silently weighs my fate. Finally, he says, “Very well. Come with me, Maria. We have much to discuss.”

“No!” I shout.

Shut the fuck up, Romeo mouths at me.

“No?” Mr. Parisi raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I mean, I’d like to come with her,” I say quickly.

“No harm will come to your mother, you have my word. Boys, I’d suggest you get started on the cleanup.” He turns to his son, narrowing his eyes. “Romeo, it’ll be your ass if this turns into a problem for us later.”

“There won’t be a problem,” he assures his father. Romeo looks to me, and I slice my head in agreement—not going to be a problem.

“Μη στεναχωρι?σα. ?λα θα π?νε καλ?,” Mamá assures me, squeezing my hand before letting go. She tries to hide her injuries as she walks out with her head held high.

“First kill, huh?” Sammy asks, glancing at the puddle of vomit. “It gets easier.”

I answer by puking again.

* * *

Darius

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would have made you something special!” Mamá chastises me.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. How’s business?” Mamá runs drugs for the Parisi family out of the tavern.

“Busy with the summer holiday crowd. Let me heat you up something,” she tells me.

Knowing better than to argue with her, I say, “Please.” We’re standing in a different kitchen than the one where I killed my old man; that kitchen burned in a “grease fire” all those years ago, along with that piece of shit excuse for a human.

Mamá ladles me a big helping of the stew before fixing choriatiki with a piece of feta larger than my hand. She places the bowls before me, and I dig in. “Λατρε?ω τη μαγειρικ? σου,” I tell her.

“Who feeds you at home?” she worries. “You need a wife to take care of you.”

“I am capable of feeding myself,” I tell her, taking a bite of the piping hot stew. “But I have a wife.”

“What?” she says excitedly, placing her hands on her heart.

I grab my phone from my pocket, proudly showing her a picture of Lily and Iris I snapped at the beach earlier today.

“Ftou. Ftou. Ftou.” She spits, making a sign of the cross.

“Mamá,” I chide, wiping my phone on my shorts. “That’s my wife, Lily, and my stepdaughter, Iris. They’re not going to curse you.” Blue-eyed people are especially adept at doling out the evil eye, or so the superstition goes.

“Not me. You.” She points to me. “This woman will be the death of you, mark my words.”

I shrug, unconcerned. Mamá fancies herself a seer, but I’ve always taken her pronouncements with a grain of salt. “I’ve gotta go out someway.”

“Don’t tempt the Fates,” she chastises me.

“I’m not.” But I will strangle the Fates with their own weaving thread if they dare try and take Lily from me.

Chapter Nineteen

Lily

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