Page 139 of Sugar for the Mobster
“Don Vicari, let me tell you, those boys are the spitting image of you.”
I smiled and thanked the new Don Zaccaria for the compliment, then turned my attention back to the vision of my wife and children. She had given me twins, two boys: Salvatore and Renato. In the early hours of the morning when they were born, we barely had time to breathe. She had woken up with a scream, telling me she felt pressure between her legs. Less than five minutes later, Salvatore was born, followed shortly after by Renato. It was a natural birth, without complications, completely on time. But unfortunately, there was no time for an epidural or any pain relief for Daisy.
And the result? The two boys were born looking exactly like me. There was nothing of her in them, and I had to endure a chorus of protests for the first few months—she even kicked me out to a different room for a while.
I laughed as I watched my miniatures reach the final step and knelt, welcoming them with open arms. They rushed toward me and I caught them tight, hoisting them up. Daisy approached with measured steps, a crooked smile on her red-painted lips. There was a glint of amusement in her gaze that did not leave me indifferent, and I wondered what the hell she was up to.
“Good evening,signori,” she greeted us. Don Finisterra was the first to return the gesture, taking her hand, where the ring of the famiglia’s matriarchs and the thick gold wedding band sparkled. As he kissed it, I found myself wonderingwhat the consequences would be of snapping the neck of the powerhouse of the Cosa Nostra…“A beautiful party, Don Finisterra.”
“An honor, Signora Vicari,” the Sicilian declared with excessive friendliness.
I planted a few kisses on my boys' heads so no one would notice my sour expression. Daisy was greeted by Filippo Barone and Don Marco Zaccaria. Only then did she approach me, that mischievous smile returning to her face.
“These two delayed me,” she protested softly as the men returned to their conversation. “They didn't want to put their shoes on for anything in the world. Donatella and Luca had to help me convince them. It took quite a few chocolate cannoli...”
I laughed and set the ragazzi down on the floor by my legs to give her a quick kiss on the lips. I felt their little hands pounding against my slacks and heard their protests over the music, but I ignored them.
The day I allowed myself to be forbidden from kissing my wife by two miniature people would be the day I lost my mind (and balls).
“I’m starting to think we should have left them at home,” I grumbled, looking down at the two pairs of jade eyes fixed on me, their sulky faces pressed against my legs. “Little rascals...”
Daisy laughed and leaned into my side. When Salvatore tried to protest, she simply gave him a sharp look. That was enough to silence the ragazzo and keep them both quiet; even I felt a slight shiver down my spine.
“I’m trying to take notes,” she murmured close to my ear. “Your mother looked so natural in those pictures, as if she were born for this kind of things. But me... look at how they stare at me, as if they don't want me here.”
I snorted and burst out laughing, immediately feeling her nails dig into my arm through my suit. “Dolcezza, they aren't looking at you like that. They’reafraidof you,” I reminded her, and she huffed, looking away.
Daisy had earned quite a reputation. The story of how she had executed Antonio Palumbo—along with the man’s wife and children—had spread everywhere. My men reported that, behind closed doors, it was said no one should take us for granted, and that ‘Signora Vicari was more ruthless than her husband.’ That amused me, because I knew Daisy was harmless... unless someone touched her the ones she loved.
The rest of the evening was pleasant.
Eventually, Luca showed up and took the ragazzi back to our estate in Sicily, a mansion I had bought by the sea as a gift for our first anniversary. And Daisy and I took advantage of the rest of the night to find some time alone.
As we walked barefoot along the shore, with only the breeze as our witness, she stopped and looked at me again with that clever, mischievous ferret-like expression.
Piccola Furetta.Forever.
“Don Finisterra's great-granddaughter is lovely.” I narrowed my eyes, suspicion tingling in my chest, as I watched her bite her lower lip. “Don't you think?”
“Daisy...?”
She smiled and lowered her hands to her belly, causing my eyes to widen. “Ready to be the father of a little girl, Don Vicari?”
I choked on my own breath but didn't let her say another word. I swept her into the air and spun her around, laughing.
“A bambina?!” I asked, overjoyed, as we both tumbled onto the sand. I pulled her close, covering her lips and face with kisses. “Pregnant, and with a bambina, no less?”
“I didn't want to tell you until I was sure, but yes. It’s a girl.”
I kissed her again.
About four months later—thankfully in a hospital this time—Daisy gave birth to a girl with her eyes and my dark hair. She was tiny and chubby-cheeked, every bit as charming as her mother.
“Let’s call her Margherita,” I whispered into my wife’s ear, my chest overflowing with pride and admiration.
“The Italian version of my name?” she asked, her sparkling peridot eyes fixed on me. “Are you sure you don't want to call her something else? I don't know... a name with more meaning, like your mother’s.”
“Dolcezza...” I brushed her hair back with careful hands, guiding her to look deep into my eyes. “There is no name in my life more important than yours.”
“Camillo...”
“Ti amo,Piccola Furetta.”
Her eyes welled with tears and her smile was wide and radiant.“I love you too,sugar.”
