A pffft sound came from the silenced pistol, all but dismissing the fact that I had shot him in the eye with a .45 caliber bullet.
The pistol fell to the table with a clank and Jackie slumped forward.
Thank God.
“Fuckin’ rat,” Sal seethed.
Cap grabbed Jackie’s pistol, set it aside and then took his pulse. “Fucker’s dead.”
“Two dead cops in a week.” I looked at Sal. “What the fuck’s going on?”
He shrugged. “Be hard to find out now.”
“Did you want me to play the waiting game with that cock sucker?”
He leaned forward over the table and spat on Jackie. “Fuckin’ rat.
“You did good, Michael.” He looked up and nodded once. “Your future father-in-law’s gonna be thrilled.”
Agrioli told you?
With the mafia, it appeared that news traveled fast.
Unless it was about a rat.
Chapter Fourteen
Terra
I took my seat with an uncertain mind and a nervous stomach. “Thank you.”
Michael released my chair and sat down beside me. “It smells wonderful in here.”
My mother smiled. “Thank you.”
It was a little after two o’clock in the afternoon, the time my family typically ate Sunday dinner, but earlier than most Americans ate. I didn’t have anything in particular to be worried about, but having Michael meet my family in such a setting was something I desperately wanted to go smoothly.
After my father said a prayer, we began the meal with pasta. My mother, no differently than most Italian women, seemed reluctant to start a conversation. I knew my father, if left to decide, would go the entire meal without speaking.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to get Peter’s attention. I shot my father a look of concern, wagged my eyebrows and then looked at Michael.
He shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “Tell us about the island.”
“It was beautiful. Tell them, Michael.”
“The water is crystal-clear. There’s a coral reef, and you can see as far as your eyes will allow you to,” Michael said. “We snorkeled for an entire afternoon on one day.”
My father’s eyes slowly widened. He’d always complained of the dark water off the coast of Italy.
“It was paradise,” I added.
He lowered his fork. “They speak English?”
“Yes. It’s an English-speaking country. In fact, it was a British colony until the 1980s. British Honduras, I think.”
He looked at my mother, raised both eyebrows and waited. She’d always wanted a vacation home in such a place, but had never convinced my father to do anything about it.
“Michael bought some land,” I said. I knew any mention of moving there would invite an argument, so I adjusted the truth a little.
I squeezed Michael’s thigh. “For a vacation home.”
“It’s so hot in those places,” my mother said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”
“It’s not hot,” I said. “It was eighty degrees the whole time.”
Her eyes shot wide. “Eighty degrees? Really?” She smiled, and then looked at my father. “That sounds nice.”
She returned to eating, as did my father. Discussions during a meal—with my family—were close to impossible. The focus was eating, and because of my father’s denial of his involvement with the mafia, discussing work or anything outside the home was out of the question.
Michael’s occupation was no different, leaving little—other than our wedding—to talk about. I was eager to plan the wedding, and talking about it excited me greatly.
“I know it’s really soon, but we were thinking next weekend would be a good time to have the engagement party.”
Michael, unlike my father, finished chewing before he responded. “Sounds good to me.”
“We’ll have it here.” I looked at my father. “Did she tell you, Papa?”
He nodded.
I looked at my mother. Focused on her meal, and not even paying attention to what I was talking about, she forked pasta into her mouth one piece at a time.
Frustrated, I looked at my father. “We’re going to have the food catered.”
He nodded.
I sighed. “Peter wrecked his car.”
“Itiota!” My father looked up. “You had a wreck?”
“I did not,” he screeched.
My father lowered his fork and glared. “Why you didn’t tell me?”
Peter shrugged. “She’s joking.”
After a moment, my father looked at me. “Don’t joke about a wreck.”
“Nobody’s talking,” I said. “Let’s talk about something.”
“We came to eat.” He looked at my plate. “Eat.”
I picked at my pasta, frustrated that my plans weren’t going well. Michael lightly squeezed my thigh as he continued to eat, in what I guessed to be an acknowledgment of the table’s silence.
I desperately wanted my new life with Michael to begin, but I had hoped to share my joy and plans of the future with my family. It seemed they lacked the same enthusiasm. I looked around the table. They reminded me of the grazing cattle I had seen in the pastures outside the city. Concerned with nothing but what was in front of their faces, they ate not to satisfy hunger, but out of habit.
We finished the pasta, and then my mother served the braciole and sauce. When she did, I realized a reasonable amount of time had somehow slipped passed.
Silent time.
Michael took a bite. As he chewed, his eyes slowly widened. Unlike my father, he swallowed before speaking. “This is wonderful.”
I looked at my mother. It was a perfect opportunity for her to say something.
She smiled. “Thank you.”
I waited for more, but nothing came.
That’s it?
I sighed, and then looked at Michael. “It’s called braciole. It’s steak, stuffed with breadcrumbs, cheese, oil and prosciutto. You roll it up, cook it in the oven with sauce, and then slice it.”
It was a Sunday staple in our home.
My father looked up, his mouth filled with meat. “Braciole.”
Breh-CHOLE-a.
I liked listening to him speak. Although fluent in Italian, my pronunciation was much different than his. After that one simple spoken word, he lowered his eyes—and his fork—to his plate. I waited for him to say something else, but all he did was shovel food into his mouth.
I looked around the table. Everyone was focused on their plate. Everyone except Michael and me. He must have noticed, too. He grinned.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” I asked.
“It’s great.” He forked another piece. “You should make it sometime.”
“I will.” I smiled at the thought. “Are you okay with the party being next Sunday?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded. “It’ll be fun.”
“More fun than this, that’s for sure,” I whispered.
He shook his head lightly. “This is fine. I’m enjoying it.”
“Eat,” my father said. “Eat.”
Living with Michael was far different than growing up in my home. My father’s secrecy, my mother’s silence and my brother’s desire to become a mirror image of his father left me as the only family member willing to interact.
But with no one to do it with.
My family’s reluctance to do so left me always searching for companionship outside my home. Having Michael in my day-to-day life filled a void that I was unaware existed. Now that I had experienced that one small change, something as simple as our Sunday dinner left me feeling cheated.
After we’d finished eating, my mother brought pastries and coffee. While we
nibbled at the desserts, my father sipped his espresso and looked around the table. A look of satisfaction followed, and he lowered the small porcelain cup.
He lifted his glass of wine. “A toast. We need a toast.”
In response, we all reached for our glasses.
“To family, my future son-in-law and his soon-to-be wife, and to change. Cambiamento positivo.”
Change is good.
We raised our glasses and drank to his toast.
And I prayed that one day—at least as far as my family was concerned—things would somehow change.
Chapter Fifteen
Michael
“Engagement party.” Cap took a sip of his drink and shook his head. “I ain’t never heard of such shit.”
“From what Terra said, it’s pretty typical. Everybody does it.”
“Maybe everyone she knows.”
The party’s atmosphere was relaxed, which was nice for a change. A good part of the attendees were inside Agrioli’s home. The rest were outside, which was where I preferred to be.
I felt much less threatened out of the confines of the home. It reminded me of a medieval mansion, and although I wasn’t terribly uncomfortable inside, I was measurably better where I was. Cap and I stood on the edge of the large flagstone patio that overlooked an ornate courtyard while Terra and Michelle mingled with relatives and friends. It seemed Michelle, at least, was more interested in mingling than seeing Cap.
“Nice fuckin’ digs,” he said. “I didn’t know there were houses like this in KC.”
“Technically this isn’t Kansas City. It’s Mission Hills.”
“Technically,” he said mockingly, “it’s nice as fuck.”
“That it is. Nice of them to do this, too.”
“You know, all told, he ain’t a bad dude.”
“Doesn’t seem to be, no.”
“Listen to you. ‘Doesn’t seem to be.’ That man’s gonna be your father-in-law come spring, and you’re talking shit on him.”
“I wasn’t talking shit. Let me clarify.” I cleared my throat. “He seems to be a pretty damned good man.”
He raised his glass. “That’s more like it.”
I glanced around the yard. No less than fifty people were gathered on the lower tier of the patio, all dressed as if they were at a wedding. A large table was placed in front of the fountain, and it was covered in wrapped gifts.
I’d never taken part in such an event, nor did I think I ever would. As intimidating as it was, it was also nice to see a family and their friends come together to celebrate the upcoming wedding of someone they cared for.
“So, you ready for this?”
“Ready for what?”
“To get hitched?”
“Wouldn’t have proposed if I wasn’t.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like something I’d say.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Livin’ like this would take some adjusting,” Cap said. “I’d have to get me a maid and a butler.”
“They’ve got a maid. Haven’t seen a butler, though.”
“Yeah, I can’t see her mom cleaning that big fucker. Son of a bitch is huge, and it’s filled with all kinds of shit. Wonder how he got all that furniture in there.”
“One piece at a time,” I said.
“Thanks for the insight.” He took a drink of his cocktail, and then peered beyond me, toward the house. “Your five o’ clock. That Cupcake fella and Mad Sal. The fuckers look like they’re on a mission.”
I nonchalantly looked over my shoulder. Just as Cap had said, they were making a beeline toward us. If I didn’t know better, I would have felt the need to pull the pistol from my holster to protect myself. The fact that I was at their boss’s house—and that I was marrying his daughter—was enough to convince me there was no imminent threat.
“Fuckers are kinda intimidatin’,” Cap whispered.
“Kind of, yeah.”
They stepped to our side. Jimmy Cupcake nodded. “Mr. Tripp. Mr. Lori.”
I wondered about Jimmy Cupcake knowing Cap’s last name, but then suspected Agrioli did his homework before allowing Cap to participate in protecting the mob’s day-to-day activities.
“Boss wants to see you,” Sal said.
I motioned toward the house. “C’mon, Cap.”
“He stays,” Cupcake said. “I’ll keep him company.”
I looked at Sal and cocked an eyebrow.
“Private sit-down,” he said, straight-faced. He looked at Cap. “Shouldn’t take long. Have some food and another drink.”
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Cap said with a laugh. “Me and the Cupcake.”
“Be right back.”
I followed Sal past the throngs of people, smiling and nodding as I passed each one. I wondered the entire time what Agrioli might need to talk about that couldn’t wait. I decided it could be some Italian tradition that went along with getting married, for all I knew.
Agrioli was sitting in his office with Gino and Little Frank. The impromptu meeting made me nervous, but I tried to at least appear confident and calm. I stepped inside, folded my arms in front of my chest and tried to look uncaring.
On Agrioli’s desk, I noticed an ornate marble dish. In it, a piece of paper with a skull drawn on it in black ink. I had no idea what it meant, but I didn’t like it.
Fuck.
Sal shut the door and walked to Gino’s side.
Agrioli stood. Dressed as usual, but wearing a tie, he looked like a model for an Italian clothing store. An angry one. He alternated glances between the men as he walked around the corner of his desk. “In the past week, two men got whacked. One, an associate, brought in by Vinnie the Fifth.”
He shook his head.
“Both men were a threat to the safety of our families, and to the safety and secrecy of the family.” Methodically, he walked in my direction.
In our trip up to the house, I was convinced all was well with Agrioli. In seeing his demeanor—and the three men’s stern faces—all my conviction vanished. A lump rose high in my throat.
He patted me on the shoulder. “This man, my daughter’s future husband. My son-in-law to be. He and his men whacked the rat mother fuckers who threatened the family.”
With my jaw clenched, and my face without expression, I, too, glanced at each of the men.
“For the old-school regime, one hundred percent Italian blood to join the family. The times. They have changed. We’ve voted. You’ve proven your commitment to the family. You’ve earned your bones.” He looked me in the eyes. “In a few months, you’ll marry my daughter, and be part of my family. Tonight? Tonight, you become part of the family.”
I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but I had a pretty good idea of what he was talking about. Identifying the federal agent, taking him out and then killing the man who was going to kill Sal must have sealed my fate with the mob.
But I wasn’t sure what Agrioli wanted was what I wanted.
He pressed his hands to my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “This family? This family is a lifelong commitment. We take care of our own. These men? They become your brothers. Your family. Each one of them—each member of this family—will sacrifice their life for yours.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “But no man in this family will ever seek protection from police. Any man who betrays this family? We seek violence against him and his family.
“Any man who seeks justice of the law is a coward. A man wronged in this family lives by our creed: If I live, I will kill you. If I die, you are forgiven.”
The lump that had risen in my throat tightened, making swallowing all but impossible.
Everything about what was happening reminded me of my swearing in and taking the oath in the
Marine Corps. I fought against my tightening throat, swallowed and made my decision.
“I’ll never betray the family,” I said.
He reached to his side and removed a knife from atop his desk. “You will take the vow of Omerta. Our code of silence.”
I nodded.
“Give me your right hand.”
I held out my hand. He gripped my wrist firmly and led me to the edge of his desk. “Repeat what I say. The words. They come from the heart.”
I nodded.
“One. I will never betray another member of the family,” he said. “Nor will I ever divulge any secrets of the family even if threatened by torture or death.
“Two. I will obey the boss completely and follow his orders no matter what.
“Three. I will provide any assistance necessary to any other respected or befriended families of the family.
“Four. Any attacks on family members must be avenged. An attack on one is an attack on all.
“Five. I will avoid any contact with the authorities.”
After each phrase, I repeated the spoken words verbatim.
He lifted my hand. Stone-faced, I stared back at him. I felt the knife cut through the flesh of my palm, and then the warm blood trickled down the tips of my fingers and onto the paper.
He released my wrist and then lit the paper on fire. As it burned, he held it in one hand and reached for the marble dish with the other.
“The burning skull is the men who betray us. Their flesh burns in hell.” He reached into the dish, removed what appeared to be a card and held it over the burning paper. After the card caught fire, he handed it to me and dropped the burning paper into the dish.
“Repeat these words. ‘If I betray the family, I sacrifice my flesh to burn as the flesh of this saint burns.’”
Holding the burning card in my bleeding hand, I repeated the words he spoke. “If I betray the family, I sacrifice my flesh to burn as the flesh of this saint burns.”
Sal reached for the burning card. As he took it in his hand, I noticed it had the depiction of a saint printed on one side.
I let him take it from my hand.
And then Little Frank took the card.