It had been two months.
Two months since she was taken from me.
Stolen.
The ache in my chest grew. I couldn’t drink it away. I’d tried. And then felt so damn guilty for trying to drink her away that I spent the very next day sobbing my eyes out, thinking how disappointed she’d be in me. And how disappointed I was in myself.
Why end my life?
When she would have done anything — anything.
To keep hers.
“Mama!” A little girl in a pink frilly dress reached up for her young mother. The woman had dark hair that matched the circles beneath her eyes. “Please, pretty please!”
The woman sighed then slowly lowered herself to the little girl’s level. Something about their moment was tender, something drew me to them, a yearning in my chest, a desire to see something beautiful.
Andi’s death had been beautiful.
But since her death, I’d been struggling trying to find that beauty in the realm of the living.
The world was no longer filled with color. Just blacks and grays.
And it was slowly killing me, eating away at my soul.
“Mama!” The girl giggled, her blonde curls bouncing across her shoulders. “Please just once?”
The mom sighed again, then grinned and held out her hand. The little girl took it.
And twirled.
My entire body seized as the world around me ceased to exist. All I saw was that blonde little girl, face lifted up toward the ceiling, giggling with abandon. With one arm spread, one hand clinging to her mother for balance, she twirled again then fell into more fits of laughter.
I saw Andi in that twirl.
Felt her in the laughter.
My dead wife.
My Russian Mafia princess.
My vodka drinking terror.
I was afraid to close my eyes, afraid that feeling of peace would leave me as quickly as it had appeared.
Sadly, nothing lasts forever. Nothing.
The girl stopped twirling. The mom grabbed her hand. They walked away.
The world faded to black again.
My heart, once beating wildly in my chest, slowed to its normal rhythmic pace. I breathed in and out, because that’s what you did when you didn’t know what else to do anymore.
You simply existed.
You inhaled. Exhaled. Smiled when you were supposed to. Asked all the right questions, gave all the right answers.
With trembling hands I pulled out the silly list Andi, my wife, had made when we got married.
It was a honeymoon list, but basically she’d just written down a whole bunch of stupid shit she wanted to do before she died.
Lucky for me — a ghost of a smile tugged at my lips — I was part of the plan. And I spent my nights holding her, making love to her, living for possibly the first time in my life.
Days were filled with laughter and tears.
I was in the mafia; I knew better than anyone how short life could be. My enemy had always had a face, a gun, always pursuing me. Wanting to end me, so I ended them first.
But, time? Time can be an enemy too. Its face is never intimidating, but the sound of the clock? Probably the most gut-wrenching sound in existence. One I still couldn’t stomach.
The only clock left in my house was the one on my phone for that very reason.
“Hey.” Frank swatted me with the old newspaper he’d been carrying around for the past few hours and sat. “You look sick.”
“Tired,” I grumbled.
“Me too.” He nodded sagely. “Me too.”
I snorted. “You’re old, you have an excuse.”
“We’re both old,” he said after a few beats of silence. “My body is old… your soul? Maybe even your heart? Much older than mine. Much, much, older Sergio.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Wasn’t sure I even wanted to acknowledge the truth of his statement.
“You may want to study up before our next flight.” He handed me the newspaper roll. “I’m going to shut my eyes for a bit.”
“Great, I’ll just protect both our asses.”
With a chuckle he waved me off. “Why would we need protecting? I’m just a feeble old man being escorted by my favorite grandson to my birthplace, New York.” He looked positively giddy. “I can hardly wait to smell the trash.”
Right. If Frank Alfero, mob boss to one of the oldest families in Chicago was old and feeble, then I was a priest.
Shaking my head, I unrolled the newspaper and frowned as I pored through the first three pages. After the fourth, I paused where my thumb had landed on a picture.
I let out a curse, because the girl in the picture was the very one I was supposed to be meeting in a few hours — saving. And according to my deceased wife’s wishes — marrying.
Apparently I wasn’t going to be doing any of the above — since she was just newly engaged.
To Frank Alfero’s cousin.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold —A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Valentina
“ARE YOU INSANE?” I yelled. I never yelled. I blinked my tears away as Gio started mumbling a prayer under his breath while Papi and Sal looked on with tense, wrinkled faces.
I’d just decided to take a break in the back room when I was attacked by the uncles. Of course, since they all walked with limps, I saw them coming.
I snapped the stemmed roses in my hands then dropped them onto the counter. It was a slow day.
“Take a break!” Gio had said.
“Have some cannoli!” Papi’d encouraged.
“And while you’re at it, sit down, we have news.” Sal spread his arms wide and announced. “We have found you a young man!”
The breath whooshed from my lungs and all the blood left my brain. Maybe I really did need to sit down.
The cannoli rolled around in my full stomach, threatening to pop back up and make a second appearance all over the roses I’d just spent hours arranging.
Roses that apparently were going to be decorating our house that evening for my engagement party!
Italians!
“Look,” I began, trying to sound stern. Why couldn’t I have been born with more of a backbone, like my twin brother Dante? People stared at him and whimpered. They stared at me and went aw, how cute! “I just barely turned nineteen! I have years before I need to get married, and I can easily pick out my own husband, thank you very much!”
“But you do not date.” Sal rubbed his bald head, his shoulders hunched over as if he was in pain, maybe his arthritis was acting up again? It wasn’t as if my uncles were spring chickens; they were in their seventies. “And we worry for you.”
I narrowed my eyes and then jumped out of my chair when a realization hit me. “Are you guys sick? Is someone dying? Just tell me now and get it over with so we can come up with a plan.” I mentally started crossing off all the things we’d need to do if they were, in fact, sick. I could take care of them, I mean, it was my job, they were like my parents. The three stooges, but still, all I had!
Confusion clouded Gio’s expression. With his round black hat propped proudly on his balding head, he looked like a train conductor. “Doctors. Who goes to doctors?”
“Normal people,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Bah!” Papi finally spoke up. “We are Italian.” He thrust his fist against his chest as if that proved his heritage, which, in a way, it did. “We are healthy, virile, men!”
“More wine?” Gio poured a few more generous glasses as they all slowly passed them around.
The shop was still dead.
Clearly they weren’t sick if they were drinking and offended at the notion of even seeing a doctor.
“You know what you guys need?” I sat back down. “You need a hobby. One that doesn’t involve my love life.”
“But you could learn to love Nico!” Gio spread his arms wide. “Yes?”
“No!” I argued. “I don’t even know Nico!”
/> “Of course you do!” Gio said as my uncles joined in laughter. “You used to play together as children.”
I gave them my best blank expression. “Then by all means, we shall be married at once! I mean, we played together so…”
My sarcasm was completely lost on them as they giddily nodded their heads in agreement.
Groaning, I covered my face with my hands. “I’m not marrying Nico.”
“He will be so disappointed.” Papi clicked his tongue. “His mother was elated to get him off her hands.”
“And into mine?” Do not yell at your uncles. Nice, nice, nice. I gripped the sides of the wooden chair so hard I was afraid it was going to crack. “Are you guys insane?”
“We would not know.” Gio laughed. “We do not go to doctors, remember?”
“Impossible,” I grumbled under my breath. “No.” I stood. “My answer is no.”
Sal hunched over even more. Oh, dear Lord. “My arm.”
“No!” I fought the urge to smile. “Stop it! Your arm is just fine. Sal! I mean it, stop pretending like you’re hurt. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.” He put on a good show of shaking his wine glass as he lifted it to his lips. “Uh huh, careful not to spill any of that wine, Sal.”
Gio made a cross over his chest as if the very idea was a sin against the church.
“Fix this.” I held up my hands. “I love you all, but… you need to ask me before you start finding me strange men and engaging me to them! And announcing parties and—”
“Don’t forget putting it in the newspaper,” Papi coughed out.
Groaning, I closed my eyes and managed to take a few soothing breaths. “Don’t suppose you’ll share that wine?”
“No.” They said in unison while Sal quickly swiped it from the table and hid it in his coat.
“Nice.” I nodded. “Real nice, Sal, you used your bad hand.”
He switched the wine back to his other hand muttering, “Damn it,” while Papi smacked him in the back of the head with his rolled up newspaper.
I untied my apron with a sigh. “I’m gonna go across the street and visit Dante. Consider this my break.”
Each of them blew me kisses.
But still no apology.
Then again, they were Italian. Controlling. Managing. Temperamental. Shoot. I was going to have to fix it myself. If I didn’t do the breaking up, I would end up married to a stranger that most likely had a unibrow and liked his women in the kitchen — where they “belonged.” Blah! I knew the type. And I refused to be tied down to it. Besides, had they missed the point that I was nineteen? Who got married at nineteen?
They had.
All three uncles.
Who survived their wives.
And now had nothing better to do than meddle in my life and drive me insane!
I ran across the street and pulled open the door, thankful that my twin worked so close by.
Then again, my family basically owned the entire block. We had a cleaners, where two cousins worked, a bar, and the flower shop.
Though it had always seemed strange to me that, besides the bar, we weren’t ever really busy yet were able to completely stay afloat in a down economy.
My uncles said they were fantastic at investing.
And I left it at that, besides, it wasn’t my place to ask questions.
“Whoa, there.” Dante smirked as I made a beeline for the bar and pulled out a seat then, in dramatic fashion, threw half of my body against the bar top and let out a huff.
Dante leaned over so we were nearly nose to nose and whispered, “Rough day, sis?” His knuckles were taped — they were always taped, because he was always getting in fights, but I was too exhausted to argue with him about the blood currently dripping down on the wood bar.
“They’re driving me insane!” I threw my hands into the air and stood. And then decided the only thing left to do was pace back and forth.
Dante chuckled and rapped his knuckles against the bar like he was knocking. “I take it you found out about Nico?”
I stopped walking and shot daggers in his direction. “You traitor! You knew?”
“Hah, they told me last night. Laughed my ass off, told them that maybe they should ask you first, and you know what they said?”
“No, what?”
“They said, ‘We know what is best for our niece.’” Dante used his best Italian accent as he pressed his thumb and forefinger together in the same gesture Gio was known for.
“Of course they did. Of course.” I crossed my arms. “Do you know Nico?”
“Oh, I think you know Nico, too. You just don’t, you know, know Nico.”
“Huh?”I wrinkled my nose and stared at him.
Dante smirked. “Third pew at mass. Wears enough cologne to actually render someone devoid of the ability to smell for at least three hours after contact, and last Sunday his suit was purple. Head to toe. I think his jacket was velvet.”
I sucked in a breath. “Nooooo. That’s him? Gross! He shook my hand after church! Dante, his palms were sweaty.”
The bell on the door jingled. We both turned to see an elderly gentleman make his way toward us. He looked around Gio’s age, maybe seventy-two? But he wore it well. His three-piece suit was clearly Italian. Thick, wavy gray hair was styled perfectly. He screamed money.
Old New York money, the type you get illegally, if you know what I mean. I took a cautious step toward Dante even though he was on the other side of the bar. I don’t even know why I was intimidated other than the stranger’s clear blue eyes seemed to see right through me.
Did I know this man?
“Hello,” he said in a lightly accented voice, and then he smiled, instantly transforming his face into friendlier territory. “I was looking for Sal Alfero?”
“Alfero?” I repeated, sharing a look with Dante who’d suddenly appeared to have swallowed something sour. His face was completely white, his jaw tense as he flexed his fingers into a tight fist. “I don’t know—”
“No Alferos here,” Dante said in a completely detached and hollow voice. “Sorry.” His fists tightened even more as fresh blood slid down his wrist.
The man’s smile turned to a scowl. “Are you sure?”
“My uncle,” I interrupted. “His name is Sal but his last name is Grecco.”
The man turned his full attention to me. “Grecco.” His laugh was deep, intoxicating, warm. “Interesting, thank you, my dear.”
With a tilt of his head, he politely excused himself and left.
“Huh, that was weird,” I muttered to myself.
Dante swallowed. “Yeah. Weird.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He recovered quickly as if he hadn’t just looked ready to kill someone. A mixture of sorrow, confusion, and anger crossed his features again, before he grabbed a cup filled it with ice, and added in some Coke. “Drink up, sis. It’s going to be a long day. You’ve got a man to break up with.”
“I hate you.”
“You know, that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me?”
I made a face.
“Hey, that’s a compliment! You’re nice. It’s a good thing.”
“I’m a pushover.” I reached for the glass and slipped a straw inside, greedily sucking down the soda. “There’s a difference.”
“Val.” Dante reached for my hand then brushed a kiss over the top of my knuckles. It was his thing. He was a true Italian gentleman, and my friends went crazy for it. Let it be known that at six-foot-five, Dante Grecco was a lady killer through and through. With icy blue eyes and strong, solid features, he could easily model. Muscles bulged beneath his shirt as he moved around the bar and started prepping for the evening service — once happy hour hit he had to go back to waiter duties since he wasn’t twenty-one yet. “I love you.” His back was still turned to me. “We’ve got each other, yes?”
“Yes,” I said automatically, my eyes honing in on the injuries to his hands. For how long? That’s what I wanted t
o ask. Because I wasn’t that naïve. I knew what people whispered about behind his back — that he fought for money, that he was good at it — that at nineteen he was dangerous, uncontrollable, an animal.
“Good.” He turned back around, placing both of his hands on the bar top. “We’ll get through anything, as long as we have each other.”
“Even Nico?”
He burst out laughing. “Yes, even Nico. Poor little jackass is gonna have a rough night.”
“Me! I’ve had a rough day! Think of my night! Besides, I was late for work so I’m sort of behind on arranging—”
“You?” Dante interrupted, his expression concerned. “Late?”
I couldn’t exactly say yes, because I received a top secret letter from an unnamed source and went to the safety deposit box only to discover another letter addressed to me, one I hadn’t yet read, since Gio texted that he was going to call the police if I didn’t show up in a few minutes.
Ugh, never late. Always nice. Total yes girl.
Maybe I should just marry Nico.
“So?” Dante snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You were saying? Late? Everything okay?”
“I’m supposed to marry a cologne commercial. No I’m not okay.” I grit my teeth. “Keep ’em coming.” I slid the soda toward him, he filled it up, and I spent the rest of my break laying my head against the countertop wishing for an alternate reality, or at least a love story better than I had.
But those love stories?
The truly epic ones?
They usually belonged between the pages of a book — not with the girl who works at the flower shop every day but Tuesday. The girl who spends her days off in the park reading. The girl who cries during Broadway shows and once asked her uncle if she could be a princess when she grew up.
No, those epic stories.
They weren’t for girls like her. Like me.
My soul is in the sky –A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Frank
I MUTTERED A curse under my breath as I re-entered the brisk New York air. She looked… so much like him.
And her.
Getting shot hurt less than seeing my flesh and blood and knowing without a doubt they did not even know who I was.