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“Is this a real engagement party or is that just the bait?”
“A small party will be the warm-up everyone needs to learn how to behave at the wedding.”
“A rehearsal for the rehearsal,” Marcel says, his own subtle way of calling out my flimsy reasoning. I’m truthfully just looking for any little excuse to try and make her happy, to see her smile at me how she did today. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Before he can pass into the house, I call after him,
“And hey. If you see Vinny, tell him no more alcohol with Contessa’s dinner. Water only.”
I see the moment the meaning clicks for him.
I finish my cigarette as the light dims over the horizon. High heels stomp on the stairs just beside me. My expectations stir, and for a half-second, I expect—maybe hope— to see Contessa.
As if I wouldn’t have to lay into her for wandering around unsupervised.
It’s Vera who stumbles halfway down the handful of steps. I barely reach out in time as she slings into my arms.
“You reek,” I snarl at her, pushing her back onto her feet. She could pass for a brewery by smell alone, her glazed eyes glaring up at me.
“My housekeeper called,” she says, teetering against her own drunken rage. She shoves her phone at me. “Someone broke in. Ransacked the place. My place. Tore up my whole goddamn house. Every last room—”
She tries to show me the pictures, but between being uncoordinated and angry, it’s just a blur of light. I push it away.
“Then you should be grateful you were here. And stop sending your fucking housekeeper out there.”
“My plants,” she spits, as if the word means something significant. She pushes her hands against my chest, almost sending herself to the ground again and drops her phone. Her sunglasses go lopsided on her face. “When does it end, Sal? How do you tie a bow on this one because Gio, he’s not gonna stop. Not when you marry her. Not when she’s on your fourth fucking baby. It won’t matter. He’ll keep coming. I want to go home, Salvatore.”
“You are home,” I snap. “Why are you sobbing over some fucking house. Where’s Nate?
How about that? Do you have the first fucking clue where your son is?”
She slurs her half-answer.
“He’s with his sister.”
It’s no answer at all.
“Right, because god forbid she get to have a childhood, too busy raising the both of you.”
“Didn’t ask where Lana was though, did you?” Vera asks, in that cold voice. Her voice.
Not the alcohol. For the briefest moment, she looks up at me from those skewed glasses, razor-sharp clarity glimmering in her black eyes. The same eyes we both share. She can dye her hair, shape her face, and sculpt her nose under scalpels—but her eyes remain, the last link to the family she just can’t shake. She hides them, but I wonder if one day she’ll have one of her fits and scratch them out, too.
“No, you just wanna know where the little soldier is.”
“Because he’s six.”
“Because he’s useful,” she slurs, her smile verging on insane, so sure that she has the whole world figured out in this one manic moment.
I push past her, trying to get into the house before I really lose my temper on her. She can’t follow me up the stairs, falling over herself. She tries to crawl after me on all fours like a dog.
“I know what you’re going to do!” she yells after me, her voice cracking on the words.
“How old are you going to let him get before I bury him?”
I slam the front door, putting it between me and Vera. It’s probably unnecessary. It’ll take her a half hour to make it up the handful of stairs, if she even does. In her state, she might end up sleeping out there. If she doesn’t want to be in here with her family, let her fucking freeze outside for a night.
Marcel hovers just inside the doorway, on standby and waiting to intervene if necessary. We trade exasperated stares, a dozen thoughts shared in a single look.
