She cackles.
The same worn-out cackle she used to have when I said I wanted to have a lock put on my bedroom door and my mother committed to a psychiatric ward.
She filed my request under dark humor, although I’d meant every word.
I have the vivid memory of that Sunday afternoon in my head when we were all around the table, and the sweet smell of the trees in bloom crept into the house from the backyard.
Freshly made cannoli sat on the table.
Creamy espresso awaited in small porcelain cups.
Giorgio, Bianca, Sylvia, and I occupied seats around the table.
Even my aunt Flavia was there, nibbling on her dessert.
My mother laughed the hardest at my request, and then her mother joined her.
Giorgio didn’t know what to think, and my aunt’s face reflected nothing.
She had no opinion on that matter.She generally had no opinion on anything.That’s how she was born.
I didn’t even crack a smile.
I only shoved half of my cannoli into my mouth and sank my teeth into the freshly baked crust and sweet, flavorful ricotta filling.
My taste buds tingled as they do now as I recall that taste. Smooth ricotta, powdered sugar, warm sweet cinnamon aroma, bits of chocolate, and pistachio.
Mmm… So good.
I always asked the cook to put tiny squares of candied orange peel into the filling of my cannoli, and that day it hadn’t been different.
Nobody else had an opinion on what I’d said.
After a few more moments of awkward cackling on my mother’s part, Giorgio lifted an eyebrow, and my mask slid back over my face.
We moved on as if what I’d said meant nothing.
“They’re not old,” she says, placing her empty glass on the table. She must need a second drink. “Antonio is barely twenty-six, and Marco is thirty-two. They also have a cousin, if you remember. Andrea Mancuso. His family controls half of Napoli.”
I lift my hand.
“I was fucking with you,” I mutter. “I’m familiar with the Sandoval Brothers and their psycho cousin.”
She gives me that fake chuckle again, which makes my hackles rise.
“Go. Enjoy your dinner,” I say. “It’s too early to make domestic arrangements for me,” I add dryly, ending our conversation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I just sawAurora,” I say, although I haven’t moved my eyes away from her since we started talking.
“Sure. We’ll talk later,” she says, her voice flat like a pricked balloon.
No longer looking at her, I square my shoulders, tilt my chin up, and walk across the room.
Checking the guests, I search for the only man who isn’t in the room, feeling like a mafia princess who is about to be bartered.
So, that’s what this whole thing was all about.
They’re using my birthday––my fucking birthday––to start negotiating my next departure.
And who are they talking to?
