Ronnie backed out of the drive, revealing Isaiah almost like a partition wall had been removed.
“Nice to meet you, Isaiah,” she said, and within seconds she’d pulled him into a hug. “You’ve got lovely skin.”
“Hi,” he said back. “Thank you.”
My mom practically dug her nose into his neck. “You’re the lucky guy,” she said with a throaty chuckle. “I’ve never met any of Santo’s boys before.”
“Boys.” Isaiah quickly butted his lips.
“I mean, he’s a menace, or a former menace,” she said. “He’s still the same boy who’d sneak out in the middle of the night and go to those gay bars in the city.”
The last thing I’d expected of her was to spill my life’s secrets, especially moments that happened twenty years ago. “Okay, Ma,” I said. “I think you’ve said enough. I’m just introducing you toone boy,and his name is Isaiah.”
“You’re serious, huh?” she asked, pinching Isaiah’s cheeks. “So, is that a nice tan? Do you have any Italian in ya?”
He immediately looked at me with a smirk—I knew where that was going. I think the only Italian in him was me, andcurrently, I wasn’t. “No,” he said. “My dad is Mexican, and my mom is mostly white American, I think.” He offered it up with a shrug. “I get a little darker when the sun’s out, though.”
“You have a great complexion,” she said. “What SPF do you use?”
“Ma, I think we should go inside.”
She scoffed. “Right, right, well, I have something I need to talk with you about anyway.”
I gestured with a hand at Isaiah and he joined me at my side. I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, keeping him close and making sure he was comforted through this process. I came here every week—sometimes twice a week because nothing beat Mom’s home cooking. It was also where a lot of the cash was, hiding under the floorboards and in the cellar.
Rocco was in the kitchen, talking to Nonna. She was spritely, almost ninety. She whacked the back of Rocco’s hand with a wooden spatula as he tried to get a taste of Ma’s gravy. I only passed them briefly, having to leave Isaiah with them because Mom needed to talk with me directly.
She took me to the worst place possible. My dad’s old study. It was filled with bottles of scotch he never worked through. They were great for taking as trophies to celebrate the man’s death—no mourning here, I celebrated like it was Mardi Gras.
“Firstly,” she said to me with a big smile. “I’m so happy you’ve found someone. I know it was hard growing up with your father. That man—he was set in his ways, and I hated seeing you boys go through all that.”
I rolled my eyes, biting my tongue in the hope she would get to the point. “Telling us all he’d wished one of us was straight, like there was something special about his bloodline.”
She whacked my arm. “That’s my bloodline too you’re talking about,” she said. “You’re my blood as much as you arehis. The only difference is, his name is on you. Now.” She sucked in a breath. “The Cordello’s are circling,” she said. “Something about one ofus, meaningyoumurdered one of their men, and they’re looking for someone to pay.”
I bit down, biding my thoughts. “I need a drink,” I said, scanning the shelves. I found one of the expensive bottles, it was in a case, and the label contained a signature from some famous guy from my father’s era. That was perfect for me. “You want a glass?” I took it to the table, cracking the edge of the plastic against his desk, leaving an indentation in the wood but the plastic lip of the case slipped free.
“Sure,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of responsibility now, Santo. It’s been months, and the rumors about the Cordello and Morrell family joining up are coming back to me almost daily.”
“Firstly, that guy killed a kid, so they knew we’d have to kill him. Besides, I’d promised his family,” I said, pouring myself a small shot. “And second, the Cordello’s are bottom of the barrel dealers. The last I heard they were deep in debt to the Russians in New York. If they get into bed with the Morrell’s, they’re doing it for the money,” I said.
My mom took a glass of scotch and sipped it, her lips pursed thin at the taste. “So, you took out one of their dealers,” she said. “Good. Get those godawful rats off the streets. If it was in our area, they’re not going to find sympathy from me.”
“It doesn’t matter where it was,” I said, taking the shot and pouring another. “They killed a kid with a stray bullet, but they’re dead now.” A smirk touched my lips. I took another shot and felt it ease over me like a sweet amber honey.
“That’s really all I had,” she said. “And where’s Tomaso?”
“He’s not coming.”
She slammed her glass to the table. “Another.”
I was going to play it funny, but the stern look told me she wanted more scotch and less of anything I had to say.
9. ISAIAH
I stood awkwardly in the huge kitchen, surrounded by counters and an island filled with food, plates, and fruit bowls. At one side of the room, at the counter with the double burners, Rocco was dressed almost in a distressed formal look—unbuttoned shirt, untucked too, with his hair formerly coiffed but now ruffled through. I recognized he was talking to their grandma—nonna, I’d remembered that.
“Santo’s boyfriend,” Rocco said.
