Page 9 of Mafia Bride
“I don’t think your father owes anyone anything,” I say, taking it all as seriously as I’d take a plot hole in a soap opera. “Not a daughter’s worth, for sure.”
“Antonio promised me he’d kill them.”
I scoff, imagining my cousin—or anyone—putting a finger on Re Santino.
“Men are weird,” I say, getting out another Band-Aid.
“My mother says they’ve got this thing between their legs that makes them think they’re smart, even though it’s on the other side of the body from their brain.”
This makes me laugh harder than necessary.
“Cousin, truer words were never spoken.” I make a plastic X on her arm and pat it finished.
Elettra runs a finger over the extra strip. “A bit overkill, isn’t it?”
“I’m a nursing student. Overkill is better than death.” I shrug. “Besides, maybe it’ll make Zia Donna feel guilty about freaking out.”
“She never feels guilty.” My cousin pouts.
“Mothers.” I smile, picturing my own mother and barely succeeding to put her features together after so long.
It doesn’t hurt anymore to think about her, instead it’s strange. Almost hollow. Zia’s everything I could have asked for, but there’s an asterisk by her place in my life, and though I never want to look at the footnote, I know what it says all too well.
*Not your real mother.
Rosetta and I lost our parents, but I have no right to asterisk this family.
We were safe and secure with Mom and Dad. When they were killed, every bit of protection was ripped away. But not for long. We were given a kitchen table’s worth of aunts and grandmothers to raise us. A poker table’s worth of uncles and grandfathers to protect us. Not a mother and father, but good enough.
Elettra and I return to the table of endless bread, and I can’t help but wonder what exactly my zio, the rational protector, has gotten himself involved with.
3
VIOLETTA
The entire back of the house is now a complicated ballet of dishes and elbows performed to the rhythm of two languages shouted between two kitchens.
The kitchen dance always makes me think of home—Napoli—and my mother. If she were here, she’d be gossiping with family and neighbors, flour up to her elbows. Rosetta would refill the wine and sneak treats for me. Everyone so happy and so alive.
Envisioning them with me still, as if they were part of the chaos brewing alongside the handmade cabinets and stocked pantry, is my favorite part of cooking. And days like today, with the whole family participating, it’s easy to forget two women are missing.
In this moment—covered in flour and shining with sweat—maybe Iammy mother and Tina is my sister, and we can all pretend their spirits aren’t just with us, but a part of us. It’s not so hollow in my chest anymore. That phantom ache that loves to assault me when I least expect it has disappeared into the ether. I am one with these old wooden floors and the voices that chide and tease with nothing but love.
The beach is nice, and the boys are pretty, but this is my happy place.
I’ve all but forgotten the look on Zio’s face when I came downstairs. In the heat of the afternoon, the pity has slid from everyone’s faces. The long looks have ceased. All anyone can remember is the words to Umberto Tozzi’s “Ti Amo” and that funny thing you said ten years ago when you were mad. Get the olives. Check the bread.
At exactly five o’clock, the doorbell rings.
The entire house goes silent.
I don’t notice it at first. I’m too busy slicing thin shards of basil to notice everything around me has gone quiet, but it creeps, heavy, and I’m soon as stoic as the others. Everything I’ve managed to forget bangs down the door between what’s on my mind and what I choose not to think about. It enters, operatic and full, with a voice that’s impossible to ignore.
“He’s here,” Zia Donna whispers.
Everyone flocks to get a glimpse of the man who has brought our lively kitchen to a grinding halt, but—as if there’s an invisible barrier—none of us step into the hall. My aunts whisper like chatty chickens, speaking Italian too fast for me to understand. Tina squeezes between several pairs of legs. Elettra grips my arm to pull herself higher onto her tiptoes.
Zia pulls me back, hard. When I look at her, she’s looking at Elettra.
