Page 8 of Vicious Intentions
As for Raffaele, maybe our paths will cross one day again. Or perhaps they won’t. Maybe all he’ll ever be is a sweet memory. A what-if I’ll carry with me.
“Anna? Yo, Anna? What’s up with you?” Lucky shouts when I don’t respond right away.
“I’m sorry… were you talking to me?” I stammer, my cheeks heating as everyone’s eyes at the breakfast table turn to me. “I was distracted,” I lie, shoving my hands into the pockets of my school skirt and feeling the buttons of Raffaele’s phone beneath my fingertips.
“Daydreaming, more like,” Enzo teases playfully, throwing me a wink.
I lower my head, not wanting my brother to see just how wrong he is. I wasn’t daydreaming. I was preparing myself for the worst. I was lamenting what I could have had and fearing what’s yet to come.
Daydreams are made of pleasant, soothing things. Hopeful things.
I don’t daydream. I fear. I nightmare awake.
“Whatever. Do you want to hitch a ride to school with us today or what? Now that Enzo and I have our learner’s permit, I need to get those miles in,” Lucky says before tossing a piece of bread into his mouth.
“And who will be the responsible adult who is going with you? You know a learner’s permit isn’t a driver’s license, right?” our dad, Gio, interjects.
“Technicalities, Dad. No one will know.”
“I will know.” Gio raises his brows, causing Lucky to pout.
“I’ll go with the twins,” our mother offers. “I promised Mother Superior I would lend a hand taking all the Christmas decorations down. Lord knows we need all her goodwill this year,” she adds, looking straight at Lucky and Enzo.
“What are you looking at us for? We’ve been absolute angels, Mom. As sweet as apple pie,” Lucky lies through his teeth. “Though I kind of wish Christmas break wasn’t over yet. I could have used another week away from the nuns.”
“I don’t know. A few of them aren’t too bad,” Enzo cuts in with a sly grin.
“I bet,” Stella mumbles, covering her mouth with a napkin.
Either Enzo didn’t hear her, or he pretends not to.
“Anyway, do you want me to drive you or not? It wouldn’t hurt your rep if your classmates saw you coming to school with us. If you want the new year to start with a bang, then what better way than being seen with Enzo and me?” He smirks.
“I think I just threw up a little in my mouth,” Stella groans. “Conceited much?”
“I’m just saying it like it is. Don’t hate the player, sis. Hate the game,” Lucky taunts.
“Yep. I won’t be able to stomach any more food. Your douchery is making me want to gag.”
“Stella, sweetheart, can we not talk about vomiting over breakfast… please?” my mother pleads as she pushes her plate aside.
My dad, Gio, snickers while my dad, Dom, chuckles under his breath. The only one who doesn’t laugh is my father, Vincent. His eyes drift, as they always do, to the empty chair at the kitchen table, where Marcello should be sitting.
Every morning, my brother wakes before the sun to drive to our Nonno’s gym for training, skipping breakfast altogether. He’s been doing that since he was my age. But recently, he’s been skipping dinner too, and I can’t remember the last time he sat with us for a full meal. Like my father, I miss his presence at the kitchen table. Our family never feels quite whole without him. We already carry the absence of Jude living in London. I don’t think either one of us is ready to lose Marcello, too.
And lately, that’s exactly what I feel is happening. I don’t like how much he’s been pulling away from us. It feels like ever since my brother took omertà and becamemade, his focus has narrowed to the Outfit alone, burying himself so deeply in syndicate business that he rarely comes up for air.
It can’t be healthy for him to be surrounded by all that… death. Marcello’s mind is tortured enough.
“Yo, Anna! For fuck’s sake! Did you doze off again to la la land?” Lucky blurts out in frustration, only to receive a sharp slap across the back of his head from my father, just as he was standing up to walk past him.
“Watch how you speak to your sister,” my father states evenly. “I don’t ever want to hear you be rude to any woman like that again. Understood?”
“Yes, Father,” Lucky mutters, lowering his head, genuinely ashamed. “Sorry, Anna.”
“It’s okay,” I reply with a smile, so he knows I wasn’t offended in any way.
Lucky wasn’t intentionally being rude. That was just Lucky being Lucky.
