Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“We have business.”
“You always have business.” She pinches my cheek hard.
“Important business.”
She turns to lead me to the kitchen. Food is always the priority in this house, and she won’t be happy until she’s fed me. “You can tell me,” she tosses over her shoulder, “or I can find out from il pettegolezzo.”
The women’s gossip grapevine reaches far but maybe not far enough to touch Aemelia Lambretti.
“I can’t tell you, Mama. What’s cooking?”
“Wait and see.”
“I bought you some cannoli from that place you like.”
“You did?” I hand her the bag, and she opens it to look inside. She can make great cannoli, but this place does something special with pistachio and rose that she can’t seem to replicate.
“Grazie.” Her beaming face chases away some of the rage I’ve been feeling since the Lambretti issue rose to the surface. She sits me down at the table and assembles a huge plate of veal and pasta. I wolf it down while she watches from the adjacent chair with a satisfied smile. Nothing, literally nothing in this world, makes her as happy as feeding her kids.
“I spoke to your sister. She’s enjoying her honeymoon.”
I dab my mouth. “I don’t think I want to know.”
Her blue eyes narrow beneath a frown. “Don’t be disgusting, Alexis. She’s talking about the hotel and sightseeing.”
I go back to eating.
“She told me that she thought she saw Aemelia Lambretti at the wedding.” Mama arches a brow, and cups her hands over her stomach, smoothing her floral dress.
“Really? She wasn’t on the guest list.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why did she think it was Aemelia?”
“She said there was a girl serving who looked just like Carmella Lambretti did when she was young.”
“I didn’t notice anyone like that.” I don’t meet her eyes because she’s a hawk for lies.
Mama nods, offering me homemade bread from a bowl to dip up the sauce left on my plate. “Carmella Lambretti was trouble,” she says. “I don’t know why she ended up with that man, Carlo. She was a beautiful girl who settled for the first man to look in her direction, then regretted her decision every day.”
“She did?”
“She wanted your brother.”
That’s news to me. “Which one?”
She crosses herself, closing her eyes as she does it. “Mario.”
I frown, dropping the bread to the plate. “Carmella Lambretti wanted Mario?”
“She looked at him like he was king of the world.”
I used to look at him the same way. My older brother was my world. My protector. My champion. My greatest supporter. He was more like a father, filling the gap our actual father left in our lives, firstly because of the responsibilities of being a boss, and then when cancer stole him. Losing Mario carved out my heart and left a jagged wound behind that has never healed.
“I think he wanted her, too.”
I lean back in my chair considering. “Well, Mario wasn’t selective when it came to women.”
“Not like that.” Mama screws up her face. “Why is your mind always in the gutter?”
“He wanted to have an affair with her?”
Even though the fifties are a long time ago, that era is still alive and well in Sicilian households. Divorce isn’t just frowned upon, it’s forbidden in most circumstances. Mama shrugs. “He’s gone so it doesn’t matter.”
The day we put my brother in the ground, I wanted to go with him. Living on with the pain, not just my own but my whole family’s, felt impossible. It was Luca who held me up, cool and collected even under such terrible circumstances, even though he’d taken a bullet himself. I’ve never seen him cry, even when we went to identify Mario’s corpse. Sometimes I wonder if he even has a heart in his chest but then I see him with Mama and Rosita and watch how seriously he works to keep everyone in our family safe and I know he has enough.
Chiaccherone, Luca’s cat, winds its way around my feet and cries. It heard my voice and thought its master was home and now it’s sad. The stupid animal doesn’t like anyone except my brother. When we’re home, it sits on Luca’s lap, making him look like a Bond villain. He brings him treats in his pockets and kisses him like he’s a baby. No wonder the cat loves him so much.
I nudge it aside with my foot.
“So, this business?”
I use the napkin to wipe my face one last time, my belly now perfectly full. “That was delicious, Mama. Thank you. Nobody cooks like you.”
“Not even Antonio?”
I smirk. “He’s a passable alternative.”
“You all need wives to cook for you. Look at me. I’m old, and not a grandbaby between four children. At mass, they pray for me.”
“Who prays?”
“Everyone.”
“Rosita will come back pregnant.”
Even though thinking about my sister that way makes me want to murder someone, I’d be relieved if it gets Mama off my back.