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Maggie pipes up, still clutching Otto’s cage like it’s the Stanley Cup. “At least we got Otto back. That's a win, right?”
“Swim with the fishes!” Otto squawks helpfully.
Yeah, great. We’ve got a parrot who repeats mobster lingo and a warehouse full of useless toys. This is fine. Everything’s fine.
The remaining Italians are practically foaming at the mouth, only closing up a few of the crates. Their faces morph from confusion to realization to pure, unadulterated rage, and they abandon their task entirely.
Gustavo looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. His face is so red, I’m half-expecting steam to start whistling out of his ears.
“You Irish bastards!” he bellows, spittle flying. “You set us up!”
Uncle Whitey, never one to back down from a shouting match, retorts, “Are you outta your gourd? We got played just as much as you pasta-loving dolts!”
The warehouse erupts into chaos. Italians are gesticulating wildly, their hands moving so fast I’m worried they might accidentally pull a pinky muscle.
And me? I’m standing here feeling like I accidentally walked onto the set ofThe Godfatherwhile looking for the bathroom.
Goons are yelling, Uncle Whitey looks ready to start throwing punches, Maggie’s clutching Otto’s cage, and Siobhan…
I begin to panic. “Where’s Siobhan?”
“Right here.” Siobhan glides through the warehouse doors, looking like she just stepped out for a latte.
“Where the heck did you go?” I hiss.
She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Oh, just to give that Mafia GQ model a piece of my mind.”
I gape at her in disbelief. “Are you insane? I can’t take you anywhere.”
Meanwhile, the mobsters on both sides are arguing back and forth about which crime gang is at fault.
“The Russians!” Gustavo screams. “They double-crossed us all!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya, ya numpty!” Uncle Whitey retorts.
Yeesh. This is like watching the world’s angriest United Nations meeting.
“Those vodka-swilling bastards!” Gustavo roars, kicking one of the crates. A bunch of nesting dolls spill out, their cheerful painted faces mocking us all. “They’ve made fools of us!”
Maggie slides up next to me. “Did we inadvertently just start a Mafia war?”
I’m about to reply when Gustavo whirls on Uncle Whitey, his eyes blazing. “This is war!” he declares, slamming his fist into his palm.
“Yes, dear,” I say. “I think maybe we have.”
And that’s when the cannoli hits the fan.
I duck as a nesting doll whizzes past my head, its cheerful painted face mocking me as it sails by. The warehouse has devolved into pure mayhem, like someone dropped a lit match into a powder keg of cheap Irish whiskey and marinara sauce. I’m just grateful one of the guys accidentally sealed the crowbars inside the crates.
“Duck!” I yell, pulling Maggie down as a wooden unicorn goes flying overhead. Otto squawks indignantly from his cage, making siren sounds.
Uncle Whitey, proving that stereotypes exist for a reason, has already stripped off his shirt and is challenging all comers with his fists raised and wrinkly moobs jiggling. “Come at me, ya spaghetti-slurpin’ goblins!”
One of the Italian goons takes him up on the offer, launching himself at Uncle Whitey with a war cry that sounds suspiciously like “Mamma mia!”
Meanwhile, Gustavo is in the corner, alternating between throwing punches and dramatically lamenting his life choices.
“Stay down!” I order Maggie and Siobhan, before dodging a wild swing from a guy whose neck is bigger than my thigh.
