“Hey, why doesn’t he go with you?” Little Al asks his grandfather. “He can give Anthony a first-hand account of the honeymoon.”
I want to punch the guy when I see the glimmer of humor in his eyes, like he has some idea that things aren’t too peachy between Eliza and me, and he thinks it would be just hilarious for Mr. Pomponio to grill me about my treatment of his daughter. He did seem to know an awful lot about her upbringing when I asked him about her, even the goings-on of her family. Does he know more than he let on? He told me there was no way she had trauma, that she was lying to me.
Was he lying? Maybe they have a history I don’t know about. Or maybe he’s just being a garden variety asshat and knows exactly how uncomfortable that situation would be. After all, he thinks she was fucking with me about having trauma.
“Not a bad idea,” Uncle Al says.
Is he fucking serious? I could strangle the shit out of Little Al for suggesting it.
But I’m not going to argue. I’m responsible for bringing peace between the families, and if I fail, I always knew what would happen. Might as well get it over with. The question is, will he chop off my head, or just my dick? One thing’s for damn sure. If he’s the one who abused my wife, I’m taking him down before I die. If he’s not, and he’s the one who took care of the guys, then I owe him a debt of gratitude. It’s pissing me off that I don’t know if I should want to murder the guy in the worst way imaginable or thank him. Which means Eliza’s going to have to fucking talk, whether she wants to or not.
Since Uncle Al decided I was a good person to report to Anthony about our honeymoon, and I have a bunch of jobs with Little Al that day, I don’t get a chance to talk to Eliza before meeting him. Which means I’m going in blind. Not only am I not sure if I should want this guy dead, I’m not sure if Eliza did talk to him, and if he wantsmedead. I’m jumpy as fuck by the time we arrive atJean-Jeanin the early afternoon as arranged.
No one else is in the place, as it’s a sweet spot between lunch and dinner. A bored-looking college student stands behind the counter, waiting for customers. Uncle Al and I order and take our seats near the windows while two of his men take theirs outside at the table directly on the other side of the glass. They’ll see anyone coming in, but we’ll have privacy to talk to Anthony Pomponio, who chose the meeting point.
We’re halfway through our paninis before Uncle Al speaks. “I’m glad we got here before them,” he says. “Gives us a minute to talk.”
I nod, my throat tightening. “Oh yeah?”
“How you liking things?” he asks. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Job’s good.”
“How you liking your partnership with my grandson?”
“Good.” Little Al is not my favorite person, but I’m not going to complain to his grandfather, that’s for damn sure.
Uncle Al nods, taking a bite before speaking again. “I know he’s somethin’ else. You kids… This generation.” He breaks off and shakes his head, smiling ironically. “I sound like an old man now, don’t I?”
“Nah, he is something else,” I agree, and we both laugh.
I’m just starting to relax when he asks, “How’s things with the wife?”
“Fine.”
“Marriage is hard even for people already in love when they start out,” he says, his watchful gaze on my face. “It can take a while to figure out your places, your roles, how you fit together.”
I nod. I’m not used to talking about this kind of thing. The only time Dad talked to me about women was when he needed me to seduce one. But Uncle Al is the closest thing to a confidant I have now, and he’s asking me to open up. Truth is, I’m not exactly equipped to handle all that Eliza told me. I could use some advice.
“It’s been tough,” I admit. “Eliza’s had some hard times. She’s still working through it.”
He shakes his head. “Her brother dying, her mother running off. Can’t be easy.”
I nod, but I’m frustrated as hell. I can’t tell him what happened to her. That’s not my place. But she’s suffered more than anyone knows. What he’s saying, that would be hard on anyone. Abuse on top of that is too much.
“Yeah,” I say. “Death’s a bitch.”
“That’s right,” Al agrees. “You got some sad history in common.”
“I guess so,” I say, though mine seems trivial in comparison to hers. My mother didn’t leave us, at least not in the physical sense. My sister wasn’t murdered.
“How you doing with that?” Al asks, his eyes serious. “Your ma says you took Crystal’s disappearance pretty hard. It’s only been a few months. You okay?”
I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Like you said, it’s never easy.”
“You talk to Eliza about that?”
“No.” The last thing she needs is to deal with my shit on top of her own. It’s not something I want to dwell on, and she has enough reasons to distrust me and all men. The last thing I need is for her to know that I got my own sister killed. That Dad entrusted me to watch out for her, and I didn’t. I left her with her boyfriend. I didn’t want to, but I told myself he’d look after her. But it wasn’t his job to watch out for her. It was my job.