Page 50 of Dante

Armed for a visit to his uncle’s house?

Across the street, I see a car filled with his men already stationed there. Why? This is only a friendly family get-together, right?

“Welcome!” says a uniformed staffer as the door opens. He holds a tray of Champagne flutes and offers me one.

“No, thank you,” I say. Dante also refuses a glass. Tonight, he’s clearly keeping his wits about him.

As soon as we’re inside, he lets go of my arm and moves toward some other men.

I float toward the laughter in the living room.

To my relief I find Angie among the guests. She’s wearing an attractive, conservative black dress.

We both fit right in with the women around us.

The younger wives have tight, curve-hugging dresses that stop just above the knee. Their necklines are low enough to tantalize but too elegant to be called trashy. The older women, the “aunties” Angie mentioned, wear looser-fitting black sheaths.

“Ah, my new niece!” Silvio exclaims, appearing at my elbow. “Welcome to my humble home.”

“Uncle, thank you for having us. Your house is absolutely beautiful!”

“Kind of you,” he says, lowering his voice. “Dante told you it was my home?”

“Oh, I just assumed it was...”

I cringe internally as I realize that in the process of being polite, I’ve made a faux pas. Over our pizza dinner, Dante and his brothers explained the complicated ownership.

Silvio looks over at Dante across the room.

“Thank you for the compliment. The truth is that it’s belonged to the Ricci family since Salvatore Ricci purchased it in 1901. He was just twenty-one then, about your age. Rumor has it there are hundreds of dead men buried beneath our feet on this property.”

Silvio delivers this statistic with a certain amount of pride.

As if in response, Biscotti yips sharply.

Silvio looks down, seeing my dog for the first time at the end of his pink sparkly leash.

His face twists into a snarl.

“Zitto, piccolo topo, prima che ti dia in pasto ai cani veri,” he growls in Italian.

I’m not fluent in the language and have no idea what Silvio just said.

But it doesn’t sound good. And Silvio’s voice was loud enough to send Thomas running towards us.

“I’ll take Biscotti now, Signora Ricci,” Thomas says, appearing by my side.

“What? No! I’ll keep him close,” I say, picking Biscotti up and holding him close to my chest.

“It’s okay,” he says, prying the now trembling puppy from my arms and quickly moving away.

I meet Biscotti’s terrified brown eyes as Thomas whisks him around the corner.

My stomach lurches.

“It’s alright, niece,” says Silvio, suddenly all smiles as he pats my arm.

He walks me towards a black-and-white photo mounted near the front door.