Page 99 of Mafia King
When Emilio promised me one of his daughters, I gave up on the idea that my family life would ever be normal. I was right. My life with her isn’t normal. It’s much better than that.
After everything she’s been through, all the upheavals and secrets and lies, the frustrating, maddening days, Violetta is earth in the kitchen and fire in stilettos.
When Celia’s out of the kitchen for a moment, I come up behind my wife and slide my hands around her body. One sneaks under her blouse and the other strikes out for an olive like a snake. She slaps my hand, but I keep tight on the olive and feed it to her. She smells like basil and yeast, like Napoli, like home.
“I want to fuck you on this counter right now.”
She reaches for the olives. “You can if you help me clean it first.” She feeds an olive to me over her shoulder.
“I’m going to clean it with your bare ass.” I savor the salty brine.
“We have a job to do tonight,” she whispers. “Keep your mind on it.”
A small herd of children stampede into the kitchen, followed by a group of her family. Violetta’s six-year-old cousin, Tina, wriggles between us to grab a handful of olives. My wife swats her away, but slips Tina a smaller bowl of sweet black olives. The kids disappear to stick them on their fingers.
She kisses me once and attends to her guests. Violetta and Celia pass out jobs to our zias and nonnas, who joke about us having only one kitchen. This is my wife’s first gathering as the matriarch, and she’s already a master.
If we get past this, she will have many more.
She’s more comfortable than I have ever seen her. She’s the dream hostess every man wants in a wife, and I wonder if she’d be the same if we’d met under other circumstances.
“Re Santino.” Zia Madeline, the woman who raised my wife, kisses each of my cheeks. “You look well.”
“All Violetta’s fault.”
“And I see she did the antipasto herself.” She points toward the tray where the black olives have been carefully placed hole-side-up so the children can stick their fingers in more easily.
“She is the woman of the house.”
Behind her, Violetta rushes to her zia, who scoops my wife into a big hug. They chatter as I answer the door for Angelo and Anette, who arrive with Lucia, Tavie, and his girlfriend, Diana. As soon as I greet them, Anette asks me where Violetta is.
“Why does everyone ask me for my wife?” I spread my arms wide. “Am I no longer good enough?”
“Don’t feel bad, Santi. Only your family knows you.”
“May you choke on an olive.”
Anette pops one in her mouth and heads for the kitchen, catching Violetta as she’s bringing out fresh wine.
Marco comes in after his wife’s family, patting down his combover. He looks lost without Paola and Gia, but holds his head high as if he has a place in the pecking order—ten kilos of pride in an eight-kilo suit. He nods to me like an equal, and I make a conscious decision to shake his hand instead of punch his face.
All this trouble is because of his betting habit.
“Congratulations,” I say. “I hear Gia’s going to be married when she gets back from the other side.”
“No need to waste time,” he replies with a shrug. “Like you did. Just go.” He raises his hand to indicate Violetta, who is perfect and mesmerizing despite rushing around. “My sister-in-law told me your wife was buying a pregnancy test.”
“So she was.” I offer nothing more than a satisfied smile.
“Good,” Marco says, taking that for a yes. “It all turns out in the end.”
“It can turn to shit in the end too,” I say, looking down at him. “And if you’re not careful, you’ll step in it.”
“What does that mean?”
It means that with his neglect and disdain, he turned me into shit, and it’s only a matter of hours before I mess up his fucking shoes.
“My wife says I shouldn’t write fortune cookies.” I hold up my glass. “Salute.”
