Angie taught me the phrase “internalized” and often added racism, misogyny, or homophobia after it. My parents were born in Italy, and I was raised to take over a crime family. We didn’t do internal dwelling. You confessed them to your priest, absolved your guilt and moved on. But the thought of not accepting my children for who they were, trying to mold them into the long-held image I’d created, didn’t sit right.
The next day at breakfast, I greeted my children as I always did, with a kiss to the top of their heads and asking what they had planned. I wasn’t always there for dinner, and missed the occasional school event when life or death situations arose, but I tried to be there every morning. Even on no sleep after tossing and turning until I gave up and read a book, I was there to send them off to school.
Angie gave my Beppino a sideways glance and answered in the same tone I’d used. I was the one who gained a new perspective, but nothing was different for them. They were in their dark blue and plaid Catholic school uniforms, and they stayed in the school even when both decided they no longer wanted to attend Mass. My worldview was forever changed, but my protective instincts only grew.
Which brought me to the present, in which my babies were eighteen, and I had dropped them off at Berkeley before returning to my empty mansion.
The West Coast mob presence had decreased over the years, with me not traveling to Europe as often and letting other families run our old territory with less and less bloodshed. Plus, the Sicilians had taken over from the Neapolitans worldwide and veered into the Heroin trade. That life was too dangerous for my children, and I didn’t want the men under me leaving their own bambinos as orphans.
After finding other employment for most, the ones who didn’t get killed, I was down to two employees. My lifelong guard, Santo, who had guarded my father before me, and his wife, Josefina, who was my chef and house manager. They lived in the guest house and had treated my children like their own grandchildren. Despite being in their seventies, both refused to leave, and I was secretly glad. My house was too big for one man.
“Don Giorgio,” Santo’s voice called out from behind me, and I turned to find him and Josefina standing in the entrance to the kitchen. He always insisted on using my christian name and title, even after fifty years. “Are you okay?”
Santo was the only one who wanted to know how I was besides my children, and all of them rarely asked. I always said fine, or good, and we moved on with our lives. Who answered that question truthfully? At that moment, I felt like I might cry if I told them how I really felt.
Josefina jumped in before I could reply, maybe seeing my mental fatigue. “Come,mangia, you are too skinny,” Josefina told me the same way she did every day of my life, her skirt and ever-present apron swirling as she headed into the kitchen, expecting me to follow. She just wanted to feed me. She always wanted to feed me, and despite my stomach growing softer over the years, I thought I would always be too skinny in her eyes.
“I could eat.” I gave them the lopsided smirk I’d perfected over the years and followed Josefina before Santo could ask me the same question again.
My smirk was the one I used to appear carefree, yet mysterious. Half of being in charge was looking the part and never showing weakness. Angelique got that side of me, and it died with her. No one else had penetrated my carefully crafted facade.
All I had left was a big empty house, with a career of crime and pain in the rear-view mirror.
CHAPTER THREE
BASIL
Growingup Bratva would be a great name for a reality show, but it was not as much fun in real life. Much like those trashy shows I pretended not to watch, the truth was far less exciting than it was portrayed on TV.
Moving in with my obnoxious older cousin would be good drama, though I hated to admit it. Those shows always paired opposites and watched them combust. Not that I watched them, of course.
“You get the bedroom on the right, I’m on the left past the kitchen. The living room TV is fair game, as is the fridge,” Gregor explained dramatically, gesturing like Vanna White giving out a prize with a giant smile in place. I didn’t buy his enthusiasm for my moving in at all, and his next words proved I wasn’t wholly welcome, “Don’t leave your cum-covered socks and dirty underwear in the attached bathroom, brat, that’s also the guest bath.”
“Fine, I’ll bring my hookups in here, then?” He smirked at my unlikely suggestion, since the family had never seen me date anyone. I gestured toward the low, white leather couch, “Or there, so we have a better view?”
Gregor pretended to gag to hide his cringe. I tried to retreat into my latest cage, but his arm shot out to stop the door. The room had the basics: bed, dresser, two nightstands, a small closet—and I only had two bags besides a few boxes Uncle Stefan had already dropped off. Most of my belongings were clothes and books. Gregor stopped teasing me about morning emissions and where to leave my laundry each day when I ignored his taunts and closed the door in his face. The silent treatment always confuses talkers.
My new home was all clean lines, gray industrial and stark whites. It felt the opposite of Stefan’s house, the old Victorian oozing granny chic. Ivanna and Igor had a three-bedroom apartment, but nothing as fancy as Gregor’s. Theirs was way over in Richmond Heights by the Pacific and my college, while Gregor’s was in the heart of the SOMA neighborhood. Trendy and close to things.
In short, it didn’t feel like home anymore than my dorm rooms had.
There were very few things I got to choose for myself. I was told where to live, what to wear, and got an allowance for food. I even had to ask permission to attend college, an endeavor my aunt Ivanna took on with Felix for me.
The Boss didn’t come across as imposing to some, who judged his stature—and more recently some feminine clothing choices—but I’d always been intimidated by him. Felix was my size, if not smaller, and went byKot Felix. Felix the Cat.
Ivanna and Igor always grumbled about how childish our cousin’s nickname was, but I had a hard time seeing Felix that way. Even when he was barely over twenty—taking over as head of the Bratva in San Francisco when his father passed—there was a keen, cat-like quality to Felix. As if he saw your every move and would pounce if you faltered for a second.
Lucky for me, Ivanna and Igor were in charge of my training, so I rarely saw the man. Ivanna taught me names and history, while Igor trained me in guns and hand to hand combat. I’d been carrying a Smith & Wesson 9mm since my sixteenth birthday, though not to school. A full two years before I got my Concealed Carry Weapons License, I started going on jobs.
Shadowing Igor was often boring, but it put me in Felix’s house and some of our businesses to see how things worked. I was appalled and confused when I found out most were legit now, not only fronts for more lucrative criminal sales. Igor only scoffed when I brought it up at home, but Ivanna told me how ridiculous our boss was, getting rid of the Bratva structure and investing the money instead.
As a teen, I only heard her words and couldn’t believe Felix was in charge instead of someone like her. In college I saw how he was keeping more men alive, attracting little to no heat from authorities, and following sound business practices.
When Ivanna tried to cut Felix out, exposing his perversions and queerness, I had mixed emotions. My whole life I’d been tamping down any feeling or thought the Bratva might see as weak. That included my body’s reaction to the same sex.
It felt right to out Felix, by the family standard, but also wrong. I’d spent most of my life in San Francisco, one of the most progressive and liberal cities in the world. My school was for Russian-speaking elites, though, and they leaned in the opposite direction. So I’d tamped down my conscience and rooted for Ivanna to win.
Ivanna didn’t win, though.
