Francesca
“Sing another one,” Beppe says from his favorite armchair a week later. He's my mother’s favorite great-uncle, and she couldn’t bear to see him living in a nursing home after he started going blind. He’s like a sweet grandpa to me, but many men in the New York Trio still value his opinion, and Da knows it.
Letting my fingers glide across the piano keys, I sing him one of Taylor Swift’s hits. “All this talk of useless boys,” he grumbles after a while. I laugh and remind him the Connie Francis songs he requests have useless boys in them, too.
Useless boys and men who are pigs, no wonder so many songs cover the topic.
Maeve shared gossip with me a few days ago about the Seconda Notte. All the men, Trio and BRG alike, talked business for a couple of hours and then got drunk with the dozen or so women sent over by the best brothel in Boston. Maeve said she heard Carlo and Luca Vicini were there, too. I can’t say why the information bothered me so much. I must’ve been worried for my second cousin with her faithless groom. Or perhaps the fact the Best Man hasn’t been seen since the wedding is troubling me.
My mother steps in, wincing yet again at my eye. The deep purple is tinged with green now. Da was furious when he smelled the whiskey on my breath at the reception but waited to let me have it after the guests left.
“I’ve not been able to reach Brian all day. Have you heard from him?” she asks Beppe of my father. He shakes his head, muttering in Italian about red-haired bastards of pigs under his breath. “Perhaps Francesca should practice later if you’re getting tired,” Mom suggests.
“No, Beatrice. Let her keep an old man company a little longer,” he murmurs, wearing a serene smile neither of us can refuse.
With my heart full of affection for the old man, I sing one of his favorites, letting the music carry me away and my mind turn over recent events.
I don’t know what’s going on with Da, but I have an impending sense of doom hanging over my head that Maeve says is my period messing with me. He’s gone a lot lately, more than his typical business leads him to be. He was visibly shaken last night when he finally came home.
A firm knock on the sitting room door draws me from my musings and stills my fingers on the ivories. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I didn’t get to pay my respects when I was in town last week, Beppe, so I came back today,” Carlo Vicini says, stepping into the room.
A dozen different sensations assault me at once - excitement and embarrassment, the chief among them. Scooting back from the piano, I quickly pull my silver hair tie out, slipping it onto my wrist, so my hair can cover my black eye. I don’t want this man to taunt me about what my whiskey-drinking earned me.
“Carlo, I was sorry I was too ill to attend the wedding!” Beppe cries, pleased to be paid this courtesy. They embrace after Beppe rises from his chair. “But it is I who will be paying my respects to you someday, our future Don Vicini.”
“No one will call me that for many years, and you never need do so, Padrino,”Carlo demurs, helping Beppe sit back down and taking a seat on the ottoman at his feet. He’s in another tailored suit like at the wedding, looking more handsome than any man has a right to, and it’s nice to see his manners are vastly improved.
“Padrino?”I repeat, curiously. I don’t remember much Italian anymore - except curse words - but I know that means godfather.
“Sì,Carlo is my godson, Frankie. I was honored to be asked by the Don before this young man’s birth twenty-one years ago.Honored,”he says, clasping Carlo’s hand again.
“The honor is mine,” the younger man insists. I try picturing Carlo as a baby being held by Beppe at his baptism. He’s so tall and strong while Beppe is very short though plump through the middle.
“Where is your father, Francesca?” Carlo asks, turning toward me unexpectedly.
I shrug, not interested in talking about Da. “He left early this morning. Did you forbid Carlo from drinking liquor when he was underage, Beppe?” Carlo’s sharp eyes bore into me at my cheekiness, and it makes it hard not to start giggling.
“It wouldn’t have stopped him if I had. He stole my neighbor’s Corvette when he was ten years old because he wanted to see how fast it would go. Do you remember that, Carlo?”
Carlo gives us a bemused nod.“Sì, I have always loved beautiful things, women and fast cars most of all.” Those blasted butterflies in my belly are taking over.
“How is Giulia?” Beppe asks. “I was sorry to hear of the setback.”
“Father will not…” There’s a momentary softness in Carlo’s dark brown eyes before he quickly banishes it. “Let us speak of something else,” he says, sharply. “I’ve come regarding some unpleasant business today.”
I’m curious what the unpleasant business might be, but I’m more curious to know who Giulia is. Is he betrothed? Was Maeve wrong about the prostitutes at the Seconda? But Mom is in the doorway, motioning at me. “I will leave you to business.”
Beppe nods, but Carlo stares at me. His eyes narrow and, too late, I realize he sees what my hair can’t completely conceal. “Stop,” he commands before I can escape. Twisting with discomfort, I wait like a snared animal for the hunter to approach. I stare resolutely at his hands clasped in front of him. They are strong hands, tanned and veiny, and I wonder how many lives they’ve ended.
When he reaches for me, I flinch out of habit. “No,” he murmurs, softly. Warmth fills my belly, and my eyelids flutter when two fingers gently lift my chin up, causing my hair to fall back.
With his failing eyesight, Beppe doesn’t know I misbehaved at the wedding, and he’s currently unaware of the harsh glare or lips twisted into a frown looking down at me. “Don’t say anything in front of Beppe,” I whisper, imploring Carlo not to make the sweet old man unhappy.
“Why did he hit you?” he mouths, staring at my bruised eye with disgust. It is horribly ugly.
I shrug. “Because he can.”
Slamming car doors outside interrupts the tense moment. I hurry to the window and see five unfamiliar cars. Someone hammers on the front door, making me yelp. Mom hurries away from where she’s been frozen in the doorway.
