“So,” I started, trying to find the best phrasing for the question. “He’s afraid Uncle Angelo’s going to give them one of you guys?”
Sometimes, at the church on the Secondo Vasto our town is named for, it’s whispered that a daughter is dealt to a capo for a debt. The weddings are quick and surprising, and the daughter in question denies it’s anything less than love.
I don’t actually believe it, and I don’t have to worry about it. My father’s dead, and only a father can offer a daughter as payment for a debt. Rosetta and I were worth nothing to the Z’s when they took us in and loved us like the children they’d never have.
“I don’t think your father owes anyone anything,” I say, taking it all as seriously as I’d take a plot hole in a soap opera. “Not a daughter’s worth, for sure.”
“Antonio promised me he’d kill them.”
I scoff, imagining my cousin—or anyone—putting a finger on Re Santino.
“Men are weird,” I say, getting out another Band-Aid.
“My mother says they’ve got this thing between their legs that makes them think they’re smart, even though it’s on the other side of the body from their brain.”
This makes me laugh harder than necessary.
“Cousin, truer words were never spoken.” I make a plastic X on her arm and pat it finished.
Elettra runs a finger over the extra strip. “A bit overkill, isn’t it?”
“I’m a nursing student. Overkill is better than death.” I shrug. “Besides, maybe it’ll make Zia Donna feel guilty about freaking out.”
“She never feels guilty.” My cousin pouts.
“Mothers.” I smile, picturing my own mother and barely succeeding to put her features together after so long.
It doesn’t hurt anymore to think about her, instead it’s strange. Almost hollow. Zia’s everything I could have asked for, but there’s an asterisk by her place in my life, and though I never want to look at the footnote, I know what it says all too well.
*Not your real mother.
Rosetta and I lost our parents, but I have no right to asterisk this family.
We were safe and secure with Mom and Dad. When they were killed, every bit of protection was ripped away. But not for long. We were given a kitchen table’s worth of aunts and grandmothers to raise us. A poker table’s worth of uncles and grandfathers to protect us. Not a mother and father, but good enough.
Elettra and I return to the table of endless bread, and I can’t help but wonder what exactly my zio, the rational protector, has gotten himself involved with.
3
VIOLETTA
The entire back of the house is now a complicated ballet of dishes and elbows performed to the rhythm of two languages shouted between two kitchens.
The kitchen dance always makes me think of home—Napoli—and my mother. If she were here, she’d be gossiping with family and neighbors, flour up to her elbows. Rosetta would refill the wine and sneak treats for me. Everyone so happy and so alive.
Envisioning them with me still, as if they were part of the chaos brewing alongside the handmade cabinets and stocked pantry, is my favorite part of cooking. And days like today, with the whole family participating, it’s easy to forget two women are missing.
In this moment—covered in flour and shining with sweat—maybe I am my mother and Tina is my sister, and we can all pretend their spirits aren’t just with us, but a part of us. It’s not so hollow in my chest anymore. That phantom ache that loves to assault me when I least expect it has disappeared into the ether. I am one with these old wooden floors and the voices that chide and tease with nothing but love.
The beach is nice, and the boys are pretty, but this is my happy place.
I’ve all but forgotten the look on Zio’s face when I came downstairs. In the heat of the afternoon, the pity has slid from everyone’s faces. The long looks have ceased. All anyone can remember is the words to Umberto Tozzi’s “Ti Amo” and that funny thing you said ten years ago when you were mad. Get the olives. Check the bread.
At exactly five o’clock, the doorbell rings.
The entire house goes silent.
I don’t notice it at first. I’m too busy slicing thin shards of basil to notice everything around me has gone quiet, but it creeps, heavy, and I’m soon as stoic as the others. Everything I’ve managed to forget bangs down the door between what’s on my mind and what I choose not to think about. It enters, operatic and full, with a voice that’s impossible to ignore.
“He’s here,” Zia Donna whispers.
Everyone flocks to get a glimpse of the man who has brought our lively kitchen to a grinding halt, but—as if there’s an invisible barrier—none of us step into the hall. My aunts whisper like chatty chickens, speaking Italian too fast for me to understand. Tina squeezes between several pairs of legs. Elettra grips my arm to pull herself higher onto her tiptoes.
Zia pulls me back, hard. When I look at her, she’s looking at Elettra.
“I’m sorry, Violetta.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry, my sweet Violetta.”
“It’s okay, Zia.” I squeeze her hand with a tight smile. “You didn’t hurt me.”
She’s not the crazy aunt who leaves scratches and calls her daughter—well, niece—a street whore as we all witnessed with Zia Donna. The event must have shaken Zia more than usual for her to apologize for just grabbing my arm.
The things this man, this supposed king, is doing to our house are starting to piss me off.
I drop Zia’s hand and peer over Elettra’s head. Santino and four other men are in our hallway, greeting Zio and three men. They are each dressed in various shades of darkness, all somber and serious.
Santino, though, towers above them. Hulking, tall, somehow dazzling in the light of the late afternoon despite all the funeral colors. He’s just as stunning as the day he pinned my ghost to the hallway floor. Just as serpentine. His jaw is tight, locked, a man coiled to strike at any moment. Venomous. Gorgeous.
His handshake is even something to behold. His hand engulfs Zio’s like ravioli dough folded over a lump of cheese.
Elettra sighs beneath me, a young girl with an intense and palpable crush. I can practically feel Zia Donna coil up herself, ready to put another series of bandages on her oldest and most yearning daughter, but then Santino looks our way, and she goes rigid.
His eyes pinpoint everyone in the doorway, hammer them in place. Surveying, inspecting maybe? Memorizing those who dare to spy on him? Even little Tina goes still.
Finally, his gaze reaches mine, just for a moment, but in that very moment, my soul shakes free from my body. I can’t breathe, think, move. This, I decide, is why they call him the king. He exudes power from across entire rooms, entire houses. A mere shift of his gaze has rendered me marble. I am again a young girl, pinned against my will and very much in accordance with my fledgling desires. Everything fades away in that brief moment, and it’s just him and me, trapped in a long hallway.
Zio leads them into the dining room, Italian flowing like river rapids between them, breaking the curse binding my body. Breathing becomes taxing, like my lungs are relearning how to function once again. Like everything was fine marble, chiseled and perfected, and then God blew life my way, leaving me to fumble through the very actions everyone else seems so capable of doing.