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“She marry anyone we know?” he asks.
I shake my head. “He’s an accountant from LA.”
Jesse whistles. “Good for Janice.” A pause, then: “I bet he fucks like a lame donkey.” He makes a hee-haw noise, then laughs at his own joke.
I shake my head and cross the grass to the sidewalk. “Good night, Jesse.”
As I climb the steps, he walks behind me. At the green apartment door, we stop, and I put my hands on my hips, ready to get mad at him for policing me, but he spreads his arms and smiles that charming smile of his that takes me back to days when we were kids, and Gordon was out in the world, always looking out for me.
I hug him and sniff his leather jacket. All bikers smell the same. Of leather, whiskey, and the fuck-off kind of cologne that whiffs off men who live their lives on their own terms. The scent reminds me of Corrado’s, with his being more refined.
At my ear, Jesse whispers something I can’t understand, but I manage to recognize one word. “Serpent?”
He pulls back and clears his throat. “Serpent,” he says. “What serpent?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I didn’t mention a serpent.”
“You just whispered something weird. Serpent something.”
“Did not. I didn’t say a thing.”
I sigh. “Maybe I’m tired.”
I wave at his back as he swaggers down the steps and goes out in the parking lot. He won’t leave until I’m inside. So I dig out my key and walk into the apartment, where my mom sleeps in the recliner in the living room, the glare from the TV illuminating her once-beautiful face.
I hang my purse on the coat hanger and walk over to her, bend, and kiss her forehead before prying the empty bottle of vodka from her hand.
“Hey, Mommy. I made it home.”
9
I DON’T LIKE HER
CORRADO
I’ve lived all over the world. Mainly in Italy, but also in France, the Emirates, Japan, even Russia at one point in my life, and yet every time I visit New York, I always feel at home. The fast pace of the city and the hardworking efficiency of most of the people I employ here brings me joy.
New Yorkers also tend to mind their own business as they get swallowed up by the grind.
I could say the same thing about most Parisians. Big cities demand a certain kind of stamina and proficiency with time management, which leaves little room for sticking your nose in the business of others. Including your family members.
However, my family makes meddling an art form, and even though my brother lives in Paris now, he’s in everyone’s business. My sister’s more than mine, but since I’m the one who walked into a place full of Order members and declared myself married, I expected a call from him bright and early this morning.
Severio doesn’t disappoint.
My watch pings with an incoming call as I rest on the bench in Central Park. The red serpent slithers across the watch’s screen, and I tap my earbud. “You’re interrupting my jog.”
A pause, then, “I want to interrupt your life.”
I chuckle. “So you heard.”
“From others and while I was in a meeting. I had to pretend as if I knew. Otherwise, it would appear as if I didn’t know what my little brother was doing.” I’m thirty-three to his thirty-five, and neither of us is “little.” “Is it true? Did you get married?”
“Not exactly.”
“Brother, you either did or did not. Which is it?”
