Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“Romeo.” My mother stands on the front stoop, unfastening her apron as I walk up the steps. Her typically stern face lights up with a bright smile. To some, my mother’s austere, even haughty, but it’s only the undercurrent of strength that she can’t hide. She’s got a sensitive side one doesn’t see very often, and a spine of steel. A lesser woman would buckle being wed to a man nicknamed The Skull.
My mother’s only learned to be crafty.
She grasps both of my arms and yanks me to her, kissing first my left then my right cheek, then does the same thing a second time before she holds me at arm’s length.
My mother was a beauty in her day and even at her age, still turns heads with her golden-brown hair and the large, chestnut-colored eyes my sisters have all inherited. Those eyes are trained on me now, sad and a little concerned, but guarded as usual. One would think she’d have gotten used to her sons serving time by now, but she definitely hasn’t.
“How are you, son?”
I kiss her but then gently extricate myself from her hands so I can step around her. The smell of food and the clink of glasses welcome me. My family welcomes brothers home from stints in the big house like a feast for the Prodigal Son.
“Fine,” I say over my shoulder. “Famished. Tell me you saved me some food, Mama.”
She laughs and comes in behind me as my brothers enter with her. “Enough food for a Rossi army.” Knowing how my brothers and I eat, that’s saying something.
The main entrance to the house opens to a sitting room to the left and a circular stairway to the right that goes to the second floor. Adjacent to the sitting room there’s a reception area and a lobby, followed by a coat room and the entrance to the Great Hall. Beyond the Great Hall lays the dining room and pantry, but for tonight’s purposes, we’ll dine in the Great Hall.
“Smells divine, Mama,” Santo says, greeting my mother with a kiss on each cheek.
She tweaks a lock of his hair. “Made your favorite, you little devil,” she says.
He gives her a devilish grin to match his nickname. “Panzerotti, Mama?”
She smiles. “Go on,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Why don’t you see, then?”
The little deep-fried crescent-shaped turnovers are typically prepared for the Carnival season in Italy. Like mini calzones, they’re a childhood favorite of ours. Mama and Nonna, who do all of our cooking by hand, make them for special events. Santo can eat them by the bucket.
Tavi comes in behind Santo, bearing huge white pastry boxes no doubt filled with cannoli from his bakery in the North End, and Orlando follows, his arms laden with large bottles of wine. Mario brings up the rear, but all he’s brought is a girl on each arm. Typical. I give him a stern look to warn him not to overstep in The Castle, and for God’s sake no pantry fucking blow jobs. He nods in deference to me.
No one’s missed a beat while I’ve been gone. It’s as if I never left. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
We leave our coats in the small coat room beyond the main reception and head to the Great Hall.
Though The Castle is several hundred years old, still bearing the charm and antique sobriety of a much earlier time, my parents have kept it well-furnished and updated. The original woodwork gleams, decorated simply with Persian rugs my father received as a thank-you gift from the Iranian Prime Minister. Thanks for what, I don’t even want to know.
The entire downstairs rooms bear cream-colored walls that accent the varnished hardwood floors, elegant chandeliers in each room, and artwork my father’s collected from generous politicians and clients. On a regular business day, my footsteps echo on the wood while I walk through these rooms large enough for a king. But today, The Castle is bustling.
I lose track of how many handshakes and backslaps I get, kisses from the ladies and fist bumps from the men, and a cute little around-the-knee hug from my cousin’s four-year-old daughter. Wine flows like a river, and my glass, as if enchanted, never empties. God, it’s good to be home.
An hour or so after we arrive, though, I still haven’t seen my father.
“Tavi, where’s Papa?” I ask. We’ve eaten appetizers served on little platters from white-gloved staff, gone through dozens of bottles of wine, I’ve eaten a truckload of pasta and cheeses and Mama’s panzerotti, and I still haven’t seen my father nor heard his booming voice. It’s distinctive.
Tavi’s face grows grave.
I draw in a breath and steel myself for whatever he’s about to tell me.
Tavi’s stern and serious, the most studious in our family. He earned a free ride to Harvard but passed in favor of working with the Family. I’m not sure he ever got over that. When we were kids, he wore glasses, but as a football player they were impractical. I still see him as the studious one among us, even though now he’s most known for being undefeated in a fight.