Page 159 of The Don’s Omega

Christmas morning starts early for the don of the Foschini syndicate. While I’d love to spend my first Christmas with Elio all day in bed, obligations call. It’s important I make a few visits to the most important families. But at least I’ll have Elio with me.

Elio comes downstairs in a dark green sweater stretched over the bump, his hair still damp from the shower. He looks at the stack of gift bags lined up in the foyer, each one tagged with a family name, and his eyebrows climb.

“How many stops are we making?” he asks.

“Seven.” I hand him his coat.

“Seven lucky families get a visit from Don Foschini on Christmas morning.” He doesn’t look annoyed. He looks happy. His enthusiasm is contagious. “You do this every year?”

“Last year was my first year doing this as the don. Adriano died a few months before Christmas.” I grimace. “It was rough, but it had to be done. The families needed the tradition to continue. My father and mother always did it.” I shrug. “Now it’s my duty to fulfill each year.”

Elio’s expression is compassionate. “I’m sorry. Last year must have been difficult.”

“It was.” I sigh and help him on with his coat. “But now I have you beside me.”

“That’s right.” He kisses me. “Okay, dear husband, let’s spread some mafia Christmas cheer.” He tries to button the coat but it won’t close over the baby bump, so he leaves it open. “Do we actually go inside or is this a doorbell-and-run situation?”

“We go inside. We drink whatever they offer us, well I will. You’re strictly non-alcoholic of course. We stay ten minutes, fifteen at most. We say kind things about their children and their homes and we leave.”

“Will they offer food?” He perks up.

I laugh. “There are usually Christmas cookies and cake.”

He rubs his hands together. “I like the idea even more now. This is like a mafia trick-or-treat.”

Anthony pulls the car around and we start. The morning is cold and bright, frost on the lawns, the harbor visible between the houses on the hill as we wind through Sorrento Bay’s better neighborhoods. Elio sits beside me in the back seat with his hand resting on the bump, watching the houses slide past.

The first stop is Ettore’s. His wife Rosa opens the door in an apron dusted with flour and pulls Elio into a hug before he can get a word out. Their house smells like cinnamon and butter and some sort of roasted meat.

While chatting at a confused-looking Elio in Italian, Rosa pushes a plate of pizzelle in front of him. He smiles and nods as if he understands every word, which he doesn’t, but I appreciate he knows better than to admit that.

Once we leave there we move on to the Ruggieros. Then the next house is the Grecos, where Giulia drags Elio into the kitchen to show him something on her phone. Renato pours me a nice scotch which I enjoy. From there we move on to the Ferrettis and then the Pulisis. In the car between stops, Elio brushes powdered sugar off his sweater and we share affectionate kisses.

Most of the houses we leave with a bag of wine or an envelope or brightly wrapped packages. At each house the omegas touch Elio’s stomach and say things in Italian like angioletto, which means little angel.

By the sixth stop Elio’s flagging. Even the generous amount of sugar he’s indulged in doesn’t help. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and presses his hand to his lower back when he thinks no one is watching. I cut the visit short, shaking hands and steering us to the door before they make us drink another round of espresso.

The last stop is old Tony Orsini. He lives alone in a huge stone house near the harbor with a fluffy white cat the size of a small dog. He has an impressive collection of opera records that fills an entire wall, and while he’s eighty-three he’s still sharp as a tack. Elio seems to enjoy visiting Tony the most. Perhaps it’s because we listen to music and talk about Tony’s family who are coming to see him the next day. It’s the quietest, most sincere visit of them all.

In the car heading home, Elio is quiet. He looks content but deep in thought. I take his hand, and he looks over and smiles.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask softly.

He gives a funny smile. “Oh, nothing.”

I frown. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t answer right away, then says, “I haven’t had a Christmas like this in ages.”

“What do you mean?”

He wrinkles his brow. “I guess I mean I haven’t had a Christmas that felt personal in a long time. One where I was a part of it.”

I squeeze his hand. “How come?”

“Well, when my parents were alive, Christmas was good. Great, in fact.” He hesitates. “But after they died, it was just me and Fabio and whatever I could pull together. Which wasn’t much. I mean, I was just a dumb kid when they died. I didn’t know how to do Christmas.”

“I’m sure you did your best.” My heart aches for that young Elio, struggling to protect and take care of his little brother and himself.