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Well, guess what, don Fortuna? I don’t need you to tell me what to wear.
I would complete the outfit with a black pillbox hat, but I still don’t know what the occasion is, so there are too many ways I could go wrong with headgear. A sparkling jeweled pin for my hair will have to do.
Yes, whatever it is, I probably did get an invite weeks or even months ago. No, I don’t pay much attention to that stuff. I don’t need to. Daddy always commands me to attend.
I always give him a list of reasons why I can’t or I shouldn’t, starting with ‘I don’t feel great,’ working up through, ‘I have other plans,’ and usually ending up at, ‘Well, I’m in far too foul a mood for it now.’ And none of it makes any impression on him. So, I let myself be dragged along. These things are always one part cattle parade, one part imperial tribute.
It’s nothing new. The only consolation is, all the weddings, baptisms, confirmations, funerals, anniversaries, all the mob socials, have taught me how to drink. Since I was in my mid-teens, I’ve been able to hold my liquor against any man I know. Certainly any man I’ve come across at these ghoul parades.
One look in the mirror and I take the long walk down the sweeping staircase to the hallway. Being on show tests my nerves, like always, but I manage not to look like I’m trembling inside from head to foot, and I keep my eyes in a relaxed but attentive gaze.
Waiting at the foot of the stairs, Alessio looks every inch the big mafia hotshot in his beautifully tailored suit. He has a scarlet bowtie — a real one he expertly tied, I’m pleased to see. Oversized ruby cuff links, and, most satisfying of all, he wears a momentary look of surprise.
I think he thinks I might not have seen the expression of amazement before he resets back to his resting granite face.
“You’ve gone against what Dad told you.”
I look him straight in the eye as I strut past him. “Oh? Did he say something?”
Here comes that torturer’s chuckle again, and his head shakes. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“They wouldn’t fit you. Besides,” I lift a foot and look back over my shoulder at the heel, then back up at him, “you’d fall and break your neck in these.”
I can see by the look on his face that he’s used to smart talk all going his way. I ask him, “Is the car outside?”
He moves ahead of me to open the big wood door. “Whatever. You look fantastic. I could even take you in on my arm.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
He holds the door to the house open for me, then moves ahead of me down the stone steps to open the back door of the fattest, bulkiest looking limousine I ever saw.
“So, what do you call this, a battle limo? Is there an antiaircraft gun in the trunk?”
“There are automatic rifles under all the couches, as well as handguns. It’s built on a Hummer rolling chassis, with a skin that’s classed as light armor in battlefield terms. Between that and the reinforced coachwork is a bullet-proof layer and…”
“Easy,” I tell him as I duck into the car. “I don’t need to know where every nut and bolt was sourced. I was kidding. Breaking your balls. Don’t you do that in your family?”
He shuts the door for me. Chivalrously. When he comes around to the other side, opens the door and slides in beside me, and he says, “We do,” his voice is hard. Challenging. He says, “I mean, the men do.”
“The men…?” I’m not sure which way to take it. And the pull at the side of his mouth reminds me not to take anything he says at face value. But I catch his meaning, “Oh, right. You don’t have any sisters, do you.”
“Even if I did, I don’t think they would be anything like you.” Funny how he says ‘I.’ As in, ‘Even if I did.’ Not, ‘Even if we did.’ Odd. Like the way he’s the only one of the brothers to call the don, ‘Dad.’
I’m thinking, You have a mother though. Right? But I don’t say it. I’m too preoccupied watching the muscles in his neck and his jaw. And the way he shoves his thumb under the cleft of his chin.
I wonder if I went too far. I do that. Often. All I wanted was to show some class so he didn’t just think he could mess with me however he liked. Sealed in the back of his battle limo now, it’s obvious. It’s a stone cold fact. He can do whatever the hell he wants with me and there’s precious little I can do about it. Not without drawing my knife.
He reaches forward to tap on the glass behind the driver. As the limo starts to pull away, I notice a cleaner’s suit bag, hanging near the front.
“What is the big deal that we’re putting up this performance for, anyway? Where are you’re taking me to show off your spoils?”
“Don Fortuna is throwing the event for Adrianna Bagniola’s engagement to Donatello, first son of the Romanos.”
Donatello is one hot ticket. I’m trying to call Adrianna to mind, but nothing’s coming. Alessio turns to face me. He puts his hand on the back of my neck. I like it there. But it makes me jumpy. The feel of him so close lights me up inside. I swat his hand away.
“What’s the idea?” I can’t keep the shake out of my voice. Hating it makes it worse. “You think you get to try me out?” I nearly said, you ALL get to try me out, but I’m sure I have a better chance dealing with them one at a time. I can’t deal with them all together as a group. I don’t even want them together in a sentence.
