Back then, men worked in the factories making leather shoes and purses. And the mafia was run by Italians like New York City’s Italian section.
I have no issue “with each to their own”. In fact, I applaud it. The Irish had their share of Boston, but the world is not so linear anymore and it’s hard to tell who your friends are. We basically trust no one except immediate family.
I can’t pinpoint when things changed so drastically. But we’ve been working with other syndicates since papa died. He was reluctant to change but we recognize that the interconnected economy is the wave of the future. With the euro solidifying most of Europe, it’s a no brainer. Change is inevitable and it’s better to usher it in than resist. I, myself, like the path of least resistance but tend to be old-fashioned and romantic.
I’m not quite cut from the same cloth as the rest of my generation. That would be too boring, and I get enough of that with our high stakes poker nights with the familiar faces and conversations. The fact that our job isn’t always pretty or easy makes me appreciate times like this when things are running smoothly. I try not to add stress by worrying about things I can’t control.
I toss back my tequila and go inside as the furnace kicks on, pumping warm dry air into my condo. I retrace my steps to the kitchen my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, Juliet, helped me redesign. It’s now state-of-the-art with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances.
She’s a talented girl with colors and did a great job matching the high bar chairs in the kitchen with the dining room furniture. They are different heights but the grey leather on the chairs match and pull together the open floor plan.
We had to bribe a few building officials and fudge a few permits, but that’s how things get done. It’s not as bad as Mexico, but cash in hand goes a long way. We paid whatever was needed to purchase the neighboring condo and knock down the adjoining wall, doubling my living space. All in all, it was worth it.
Leaving my shot glass in the sink for the maid, I grab my worn briefcase and head to my office. I enter a code on the keypad on my phone and the safe behind my bookcase with a false back, open. The briefcase fits inside is and no one is the wiser should the place be searched.
This is just a temporary stop for the stash of euros Sal will launder at his club. Tomorrow I’ll swing by our laundromat to pick up money from Tomasso to take to Sal. I hear my right hand man has a new soldier under him I want to meet and even though I trust Tomasso, it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye on anyone who might be moving up the ranks.
I’ve never been as visible as my brothers. I’ve been handling the poker games for years, rotating locations and never planning them more than twelve hours in advance.
Undressing on the way to my bedroom, I pull off my sweater and shirt. I toss my tailored Versace suit jacket onto the back of a chair and kick off my shoes.
I strip naked and crawl under the high thread count sheets. The coldness greets me like a jilted lover; cold, harsh, and unforgiving. I shiver and rub my legs and feet over the sheets to warm them up. This is when a girlfriend or a dog would come in handy, but that would involve commitment.
2
Prende
Ileft the ski lift at nine p.m. as snowflakes fluttered to the ground like magical reminders of nature’s beauty that I too often take for granted. I’m partial to winter, preferring it over the long, hot summers.
The path has so much traffic, that the snow on the sidewalk has melted in the middle of it making it easy to walk. It’s nice that there are black poles that are much shorter than regular streetlights. They have small, rounded globes at the top, and the light is from regular yellow light bulbs and adds to the ambience. They remind me of something one would see in high class neighborhoods. Normally, snow accumulates everywhere as we are in parts of the alps in the height of ski season. But tonight, there’s no need for the staff to shovel the doorstep as the snow looks like it’s dissipating.
Ahead of me is our glamorous hotel in Cervinia, Italy. ImagineThe Sound of Musicset with Italian lettering on the buildings. Numerous languages are spoken here, a reflection of the number of foreigners drawn here for the world-class skiing. There are many towns like this, a blend between the old world and new, and between the culture of the Swiss and the Italians.
The mountains are majestic this time of the year. The weather is sublime as the days are blessed with sunshine that warms the air but doesn’t melt the snow. There is a perfect relationship between the two that makes for prime skiing, and I’m lucky the weather has made my trips down the mountain a dream.
I amble along, taking note of the trees casting shadows along the way. All the towns in the area make Christmas special with holiday decorations, warm drinks, fires and animated tourists here on holiday. I’m glad Papa was up for a vacation this year.
The most enjoyable part about holiday reprieves is that this is the one place Papa isn’t controlling my life. He’s always asking where I’m going and questions who I’m hanging out with to the point it’s oppressive. I can take care of myself. And to top it off, my florist business is doing well so I am independent even to support myself, but I don’t have the heart to move out of our condo because he’d be alone.
Our place is large enough and I keep an eye on Papa to make sure he’s taking care of himself. It’s the least I can do since we’re both alone. But here, I know he’s surrounded by friends, and they will distract him from getting sad because Mama isn’t here. Besides, he loves to hang out in the lodge or the bar, he says it keeps him warm. Maybe he likes looking at the cute waitresses.
That being said, he has embraced his love of whiskey to keep a smile on his lips, but there is no one he loves more than friends, except. . . me.
I haven’t done much without my parents. Attending the local university didn’t get me far from home and that’s considered normal in Italy. But it doesn’t stop Papa from being hyper vigilant about my safety, and for many years I assumed he was being paranoid. However, before Mama passed, she warned me to be careful and that there was another side to my papa I haven’t seen.
It sounded cryptic at the time. Papa came into her room, and she never got the opportunity to explain what she meant. But it’s stuck in my head, along with other strange things about my father, like the fact that we don’t know his side of the family. I’ve inherited a crazy Aunt Sofia, my mother’s sister, who lives in the area. Other than her, I don’t have many relatives. And we rarely see her. I don’t think she approves of Papa.
The door to the hotel opens and the kids exiting hold it open for me as I thank them and enter. I stomp my boots on the mat before walking on the cushioned non-skid mats they have over the tile as I tug my winter hat off and run my fingers through my hair to fluff up my dark brown curls. My hair reaches the middle of my back. It might be passé for a woman in her mid-twenties to wear it this long, but I receive compliments on how beautiful it is and to be honest, it reminds me of Mama. She had curly hair too.
Papa’s hair is darker but he’s older and it’s mostly grey now. He’s been going to the same barber for ten years to have his beard trimmed, preferring to give his business to fellow Albanians. He might live in Italy, but he loves his culture and our neighborhood is comprised of families from Albania so it’s easy to maintain our customs as our streets have stores with traditional foods and local shop owners.
My boots don’t make a sound as I make my way over the tiled floors. I make a game out of guessing the languages I hear as I pass the main lobby and I’m still listening as I reach the bar.
The room is filled with tables and I can tell one man is speaking German to his girlfriend, and the next table is a French couple who are in a debate judging from the tone of their voices. This is a popular international gathering place due to the mountains. I move amongst the high-top tables as I see my father standing at the bar.
Papa is a tall, distinguished man with a large frame leaning over the bar, telling a story of some fight or dispute with men on the street. He’s still handsome for his age. I observe him as he raises the rock glass filled with Dewar’s and downs the last sip.
“Ah.” I slide my gloves off as the snow on my ski jacket melts into thin air. “Papa, don’t overdo it.”