Page 81 of Vicious Intentions
“Nothing little about me, sis,” Lucky chuckles. “Tell ‘em, babe.”
“Can you please leave my niece out of this?” Kirill cuts in, swooping in to save a very red Frankie from having to defend her husband’s honor.
“Husband trumps uncle, no?” Lucky goads.
“Every fucking year,” Kirill mutters under his breath. “Maybe next year we should go to Misha’s for Christmas,dusha moya?”
Before Stella can answer, Lucky swoops in and says, “Sounds like a plan to me. Oh, wait. You didn’t think you two would go on your own, did you? Remember, we’re family in two ways,brat.”
“Kira, please refrain from teaching your husband any more Russian. He’s more than a pain in the ass in English. I don’t need him being one in my mother tongue, too.”
“Prostí, dyádya.”Frankie says with a giggle.
We’re all laughing when Enzo returns to the living room, with a puzzled expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Marcello asks, his face turning serious.
“Nothing, I don’t think,” Enzo replies, looking right at me with a strange smirk on his face.
“Who was at the door?” Stella asks, following Enzo’s stare.
“You guys should come out and see for yourselves. It looks like our baby sister has been holding out on us.”
“Me?” I whisper, genuinely confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Enzo chuckles. “All right, then. I’m looking forward to you explaining what’s happening outside.”
Before I have time to say anything, everyone rushes out of their seats to see what Enzo is talking about. Still confused about what could possibly be going on, I follow the herd. When I step outside, I’m met with something so absurdly out of place that my brain stutters for a moment before catching up.
In our driveway, four men are in the middle of unloading a grand piano from a truck, maneuvering it with painstaking care, looking mildly terrified of scratching it. It’s not a keyboard, not an upright piano, but an actual grand piano, gleaming black and impossibly elegant.
I stand there, frozen, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“This can’t be right,” I hear myself say, faintly.
As if on cue, one of the men checks his clipboard and says, “Delivery for Annamaria Romano.”
The name lands wrong in my ears, as if it were far too small for what lies in front of me.
“Um… that’s me.” I raise my hand.
He immediately heads in my direction, handing me the clipboard and a pen.
“I just need your signature on the delivery receipt,” he says. “Where do you want it?”
“Well, not out here in the snow, that’s for sure,” Stella retorts when she sees that I’m too tongue-tied to form a sentence. “Here, come with me. I know the perfect spot for it.”
They wheel it inside, following Stella’s lead. Before I can argue, they position it in the sitting room where the light from the windows glides effortlessly across its polished surface. To my surprise, it looks as if it had always belonged there. As if that space was left sparse for this exact purpose.
On the bench rests a single envelope with no return address. Just my name, written neatly on the front. My fingers tremble as I open it.Merry Christmas.That’s all it says. Two words. No signature, no explanation. As if the sender knew I’d understand who it was from.
I swallow hard when I feel all eyes on me. I sit down on the bench and open the lid ever so carefully. Happy tears sting my eyes, but I force them to stay exactly where they are. If I become emotional about receiving such a gift, it will be harder to convince everyone that it must have been a mistake.
Before I dare to turn around, I sense my parents’ presence behind me. My mother inhales sharply while all three of my fathers are stunned silent. Questions press into my back, thick and unavoidable.
“Anna,” my mother says slowly, “Is it true? Did someone send you this piano?”
I turn, schooling my expression into something resembling confusion. Surprise is easy. Ignorance takes more effort.
