Page 5 of Mafia Bride
Come on in, hunky, blonde beach boys. I know the way to your heart.
“What is she doing down here?” Zio demands before I can even get a piece of bread in the raw sauce. At five-eleven, he’s tall for a southern Italian, broad and muscular from years of contracting work, with a ring of ear-to-ear gray hair around a bald dome. He never got the nineties-era memo about moustaches, and keeps his trimmed and full as a beat cop.
“Helping.” Zia comes out from the kitchen, apron temporarily starched and clean. She’s bone-thin and fighting arthritis with sheer will. Even putting her hair up every morning hurts her fingers. When Zio took back a comment he made in his twenties about short-haired women being unattractive, she wouldn’t cut it. “What else would she be doing?”
“She needs to be studying.” He gathers one thick hand into a fist he’d never use on his wife.
“She finished the test, Guglielmo.” She only uses his full name when she means business.
“Madeline.” Zio’s frown is as wide as the old scar on his arm. “She has a list of books to read for the summer.” He turns to me. “Right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Right.” He points to his wife. “When your sister gets here, you’ll have enough cooks in the kitchen.”
“I’m fine,” I sing, swiping a chunk of yesterday’s crusty bread along the surface of the sauce. They ignore me.
“You know exactly why she’s needed in the kitchen,” Zia says.
“You know exactly why she needs to prepare for next year’s classes.”
“I have all summer to do the reading,” I say, popping the sauce-soaked bread into my mouth and shoving it into my cheek so I can talk around it. “I know what needs knowing.”
“She has a duty to the kitchen.” Zia backs me up even though she didn’t hear a word I said.
“She has a duty to her studies.” Zio’s voice raises to the attic.
“You already let her miss mass.”
“Woman.” His voice is a warning my aunt doesn’t seem to hear. “Don’t forget your place.”
“My place? Don’t you forgetyours,” Zia snaps, her words far more weighted than a conversation about my study habits. “She must help with the cooking.”
My jaw freezes mid-chew. She never talks to him like that in front of me.
And why’s my uncle looking at her with surrender? I’ve never seen him look at her as if he knows he’s lost the fight.
Soured butterflies flit across the tight muscles of my stomach. Why are they arguing about me as if I’m not here? And why does Zio suddenly care so much about my studies? They know I’m a good student. I’m a solid 3.8 reading the books on the bus. There’s no use getting a nine-week jump on the material for another .2 when there were dinners to cook and fun to have.
And they know if it’s a big, important meal, I can help. Both of them.
“Don’t do this in my house,” Zio growled, low and ominous.
“Don’t do this inmyhouse, old man.” She snaps a dishtowel off a metal bowl, revealing a swell of dough.
It doesn’t feel like they are arguing over my participation in the kitchen. It feels harder, deeper, like this is somehow life and death instead of osso buco.
It’s uncomfortable, watching them bicker like this over me. They act like my autonomy is gone, like I’m some kept woman who can’t make decisions for herself. This isn’t like my zio, waving around his man card like he’s king of the house. Nor is it like my zia to challenge him.
“What’s going on?” I say, finally, because I’ve never seen a battle like this.
Their eyes land on each other, and there’s a flicker of understanding I’m not permitted.
“Tell her,” Zia says, rolling the dough onto the butcher block.
He stands straighter, chin up in defiance to his wife before he turns to me.
“Your cooking is for your family. Your studies are for you.”
