Marchello takes a quick interest in the napkin he places in his lap and cuts up the large meatball on his plate to escape Mama’s prying eyes.
“You boys, I swear,” she scoffs, but we all just smile knowing we’re the only ones here who will ever know the story behind the looks.
The conversation turns back to our week and what we’ve been up to, implying the normal things in life like the spoon stuck in the new disposal I installed at my house.
I swear, modern appliances aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be.
Francesca and I want to plant a garden, and when we have time, we still workout in our makeshift gym in the old barn.
The guards even use it in between their shifts, and at times, we hear music blaring as we’re out walking in the vineyards and vacant field that is filled with sunflowers.
I never knew this amount of normal was possible in my life.
But like those of us at the table who know the real world we live in most of the time, it’s just a matter of time before our lives become chaotic.
The women clear the table and make conversation in the kitchen, the windows and door open so we get bits and pieces of their conversations as the wind blows.
We’re sitting in our ‘male only’ section under the tree as Dante lights up a cigar and pours us each a Puni Vina Italian Malt Whisky.
We sit in the rusted and uncomfortable chairs, but it’s tradition. Some of our favorite memories are watching Dad do this same thing with his bosses. And none of us can part with the chairs.
“That was funny at dinner. If Mama only knew a trained killer was sitting at her dinner table,” I remark with a grin.
“Oh, my,” Marchello adds, “you’d be so dead right now.”
“Yes, but by whom? Mama or Francesca?”
“I think they both love you too much to hurt a hair on your tiny head,” Dante teases.
“You might be right. I don’t know. Both Sofia and Francesca had a rough go of it down there.
"I’m not sure she can open up, and I’m not sure she’ll want to stay where she is forever. She was going to assume another identity and hightail it out of here when we met.”
“Hmm.” Dante takes a puff and lets the smoke float off into the night. I can’t tell if he’s deep in thought or just relaxing as he leans back in these terrible chairs and stretches his long legs out in front of him.
I look toward the house as I hear the coffee cups and saucers clatter and know the women will be having coffee talk next.
“So, now we’ve escaped the battle in the south with our lives,” I make the sign of the cross on my chest, head, and tap both shoulders for good luck, “what’s next?”
“The Albanians are going to try to muscle in on our turf. You know they were in another one of our clubs before the gala incident. I spoke to our friend from Florida at the gala after I went back to conclude business for us. The Albanians are aligned with the Sicilian Mafia, they’re all over Europe and our friends in New York are very worried as they’re so powerful.”
“Their allies run deep,” Marchello confirms.
“Yes, we don’t want the wrath of other families on us, but a message has to be sent as we have to protect what’s ours. The incident with the Contis’ and Calabreses’ was well-timed.” Dante takes another sip of whisky, letting it coat his tongue, briefly cooling it before swallowing.
“The enemy of my enemy . . .” I start.
“Is my friend,” Dante finishes, and the three of us look at each other, smile, and nod.
We have an ally now, one that is even bigger than just what Gio Conti had built, as his organization now includes the Calabreses and their affiliates, the original family, the Rosellis . . . and we have a direct in through Francesca.
“I didn’t do too bad with this girlfriend, it appears,” I joke.
“Oh, girlfriend now, is it?” Dante slaps his hand against his leg as if it’s a trick. “Seriously, she’s chosen you, brother?”
“I think so, judging by how much we fuck each other’s brains out, and that she came back.”
“True.” He’s resolved to the fact that Francesca is family.