Page 97 of Mafia Bride
He opens the door for me and takes my hand, leading me to the building’s entrance. His eyes are everywhere, as if danger lurks on the rooftops or hangs on the laundry lines. He knocks warily, a far cry from his usual authority, and looks up at the windows across the street.
“What’s wrong?” I ask after a pause to translate two words in my head.
“My best friend Dami lived up there.” He points to a window on the second floor with worn curtains flapping in the wind. “He worked at his father’s fruit cart.” He points to an empty spot on the street. “He used to throw oranges at me. The little ones. When they got soft or moldy, he’d throw them up to the second floor. If they stained the sheets my aunt just washed, she’d hit me with her wooden spoon.”
The smile on his face is so strange as he recounts this memory of putrid citrus and beatings for a thing he didn’t do. He loves carrying the nostalgia and longing as if he hasn’t escaped the filth of the jungle at all, but been thrown to lions with clean fur and golden teeth.
“I’m surprised you let him get away with it.”
He laughs, big and open. “No, I broke a bottle and tucked a piece—where it curves at the bottom—right here between my fingers, with the sharp point out. Then I punched him in the mouth.”
“What did he do?” I gasp.
“Got stitches.” Santino shrugs. “We were still friends. Is that what you’re asking?”
The Average Joes I tended to date always managed to confuse me, but none of them could baffle me like the man I married.
I didn’t have a chance to press him when the door opens, revealing a woman in her fifties with long, dark hair streaked with silver in the front, and though I expect to see the cliché Italian Zia with a black shawl and worn out apron, she’s not that at all. She wears jeans and a red cardigan printed with birds, flip-flops with blue rhinestones, and a carefully arranged bosom meant to suggest, not reveal.
“Santi!” she cries, arms thrown wide. “Santi, it’s you!”
They double kiss with her hands on his shoulders, then she pulls him into a fulsome embrace, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen anyone offer him love without tension or veneration.
“Zia Paola,” he says when they part. “I want you to meet Violetta. My wife.”
“Hi,” I say, holding up my hand in a nervous wave, but Paola’s having none of that. She takes me by the forearms and looks in my eyes as she slides her hands down to take mine.
“You’re Emilio’s.”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out, not because I’d have to do the work of replying in Italian, but because I didn’t expect this woman to know anything about me.
“You have his eyes,” she continues.
“Let’s go inside, no?” Santino says before I can tell her that I’m sure she’s right, but I barely knew the guy.
“Certo!” she says, stepping aside so we can enter the cool, dark foyer. She leads us up the stairs to the first floor, and through the open door to an apartment, and I realize I’m nakedly disrespectful; meeting my husband’s family without a gift or flowers or anything.
Paola sits us at the kitchen table, asking us if we’d like espresso. Santino says yes, and Paola sets about making it as she asks about life in the States. The window over the sink overlooks a wide shaft. Being on the second floor means the room gets almost no light. Even the living room with its tufted velvet with worn pile at the seat, isn’t getting much sun.
When I look back at Santino, he’s watching his aunt with his hands in his lap, knees together, like a ten-year-old who doesn’t want to take up more space than necessary.
Who the actual fuck is this man? He usually sits as if he’s trying to dominate the chair.
Paola puts cookies on the table as the coffee perks. Their conversation revolves around a lot of familial inside jokes I don’t get and references I’m too new to understand. My Italian lessons with Santino helped jog a lot for me, but I eventually get a little lost and my ears get tired.
“Violetta.” Paola sits and puts the little espresso cup in front of me. It’s plain white with little blue flowers that match the saucer.
“Grazie.” I take the curl of lemon she’s placed at the rim. Santino puts a chocolate-tipped biscotti on his saucer.
“How’s Mammà?” Santino asks, rubbing the lemon around the edge of the cup.
“Same.” Paola makes apfftsound and waves dismissively. “Dying every day.”
I snap my mouth shut before I can crywhat?
“My sister,” Paola says. “Santi’s mother? Been dying of something since she was thirteen. Right after—”
“Paola is Gia’s mother,” Santino interrupts.
