She’s smiling from the corner recliner,
real mob boss energy.
Sharp cheekbones. Full mouth.
Hair jet-black. Frail. Beautiful.
“È l’unica. Lo so già.”
Comments clash.
Names and questions toss like popcorn.
So I raise a hand, bag dangling off my wrist.
“Okay, okay. I’m talkin’ now.”
A few chuckles.
But they’re still talking.
I wave my hand. “Yo—you want answers, or we playin’ the question game?”
They shut up. Except for Paola?—
“Don’t know a single person and already actin’ like she owns the place.”
I cut her a side glance.
“What, I was supposed to curl up in the corner? Tried being accommodating once. Got stepped on.”
She lets out a laugh, waves me on.
“Name’s Allison. Not a model. Mom’s half Cuban, half Italian. Dad’s half biker, half Rock 'N' Roll. And yeah, I’m from the city. Here for Andrew. That’s all the info you get for free. The rest costs trust.”
I lift the bag onto the coffee table.
“And no, I’m not the kind of asshole who shows up empty-handed. Don’t know much about any of you, so I brought whatI’dwant. Worst case? You love it, and I can't take it back.
Grandpa: “Did she say her dad’s at Rikers?”
The grandma huffs, stomping over,
full volume:
“NO—A BIKER. A MOTORCYCLE GANG, SWEETHEART!”
Maria waves her hand at me?—
“Che hai portato, huh? What’d you bring me?”
I dig out the blanket. Unfold it for display.
“You get this.”
She squints. “Who’s the guy?”
“Teddy Vale. My Elvis. The only man I’d let croon me into the grave.”
