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Built to dominate the high ground on the mountain, it’s protected and secluded among the pines. A smell of wood, freshly cut and slightly burned greets me when I step in through the beautiful, heavy mahogany door inlaid with brass.
With the tote over my shoulder, I thank Mikey and dismiss him for the night. I’m not planning to go anywhere, and I have cars in the garage if I need one. Mikey waves as he walks into the woods. Diabolo trots along behind him, panting eagerly with his tongue out.
As I step inside, the house lighting glows with a welcoming late-evening hue. Lighting is automatic, personalized, and color-temperature controlled. Inside, the lounge, a main den, three bathrooms, two bedrooms, and, most important, the kitchen are decorated and fully functioning.
We could live here now. I almost do. The men still spend most nights in what I call their castle of horror — not out loud in front of them. Well, not often. Whenever we talk about moving dates, they all have their ‘soon as’ lists. The last-minute things they need, and they’ll be be ready to move in ‘as soon as’ they’re fixed.
The main kitchen is a breath of life and air. Bright and open. Pale walls reflect sunny tones in the morning and cozy hues at night. Counter tops are in sleek pale marble and granite, with dark wood doors and finishes.
When I have the shopping unpacked onto a kitchen counter, I can take a sip of wine before I make the sauce. Everything will be ready. I can cook the pasta in ten minutes when the boys arrive.
Thinking about food, my mind drifts lazily into memories of last night. The first time that all four of us had been together in days and between the engagements of our separate evening schedules, it was nowhere near long enough.
But even we only snatched an hour or so. It was wonderful, spectacular, but way too short. Remembering how it all felt, what we did, still makes me catch my breath. Now I’m wet and my knees tremble.
When my phone rings, it brings me back to the present.
It doesn’t recognize the number and neither do I. If I don’t know the caller, I never answer, so I let it go to voicemail. After a minute, while I sort through my shopping and prepare to cook, I have the phone play back the message on speaker.
The instant I recognize the voice, it stops me in my tracks. Don Pucci. The most powerful man in the whole Pacific Northwest underworld. Don Pucci is the head of the first family.
“Donna Fortuna. Complimente. Mi scusi.” Even on my phone’s tinny speaker, the purr of Don Pucci’s smooth, dark charm holds my attention. “Forgive me interrupting your evening.“
As I take a slow breath, he says, “Per piaccere, Could we meet, per favore? Only briefly, I promise you. I’m downtown tomorrow afternoon. There are things I have to do, but I can be quite flexible for the timing.”
I lean back against the cold hardness of the marble counter, pressing my lips between my teeth. the sound of his voice rolled through me like melted chocolate, but I know that he’s the most powerful and ruthless man in the city.
My chest heaves and I take a moment to let my heart rate steady before I return his call.
He picks up after the first ring.
“Don Pucci.” I keep my voice steady. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
We exchange pleasantries. As he responds to me, I’m listening, trying to stay on my guard. Our voices dance together. Two people, barely acquainted and with too little information, sounding each other out.
Reaching out, listening. A sound, a word, a laugh. Then listening again.
Images of him emerge, rising strong in my memory. I remember him as elegant and formidable. And terrifying. Even on the phone, I feel the power of the man.
Don Pucci is a man who listens actively. From years ago, I remember, in his presence it feels as if he hears every footstep, every movement for miles. All the time, his attention is focussed completely on every little word you say.
I haven’t been face to face with him since my teens, but I still remember how his eyes held mine like I was his to play with.
His voice in my ear pulls me back to the present. He tells me, “I want to discuss something with you.” Not on the phone. Obviously. I feel the same. There’s almost nothing the head of one family would risk saying on the phone to another.
Whatever he wants, he’s right. It’s better we talk face to face.
He tells me, “I’ll be in and out of the courthouse much of the day, but wherever suits you. This is my imposition, so I hope you’ll forgive me. It need not take long.” There’s a pause. He says, “I want to make it pleasant for you.”
“The pleasure of meeting with you will be more than enough, I’m sure.”
“Really?” our voices are dancing again. “I can take you shopping if you’d like that. I hear you’re building a new house.”
“Thank you, Don Pucci,” and, I want to demand, where did you hear that? But I hold back. “You’re most kind. I think I have everything I need, though. Maybe we could take a walk in the park.”
“Donna Fortuna,” his voice lowers and my insides melt. “That would be heavenly.”
While I’m still wondering what Don Pucci wants, what he is planning, I put water in a large pan to boil for the pasta, and I start to pull tomatoes, basil, oil, and garlic together for the sauce.
