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“It’s just a few months, and then college.”
She nods slowly. “I guess.”
Still, we stop in front of the school’s doorway and hug like it’s the last time we’ll ever see each other. Then we kiss until we can’t breathe, and I watch as she walks down some stairs. I go through the bridge and out beside our tennis courts, then start the old, familiar walk to Chambers Street.* * *I haven’t thought about the wedding reception in a long time, but I’m thinking about it now as I walk toward the shoe store. What was it he said to me? “Don’t do things that might close doors that you want open?” What did it mean? Almost a year later and I still don’t get it.
Was it a threat? If it was, would he really have sent me to help his father make panettone? And why take an interest in me at all? And what doors?
I walk past the donut shop, inhaling the sweet scent wafting through the screen on one of the half-open windows.
Roberto Arnoldi is the top guy. He runs lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, Long Beach, and Staten Island. Maybe even all of The Bronx.
Cross state lines into Jersey, and it’s the Bellinis. Frank Bellini, but he’s getting old, so I heard his son Vincent might take over. Except I also heard that Vincent is a sophomore at NYU, so that seems like a stretch. I don’t know much about the Bellinis. I also don’t know who’s in charge of Yonkers, New Rochelle, or White Plains. New Haven and all that shit up there—it’s make-believe land to me. I’ve never been there.
My research since the party at Isa Arnoldi’s house has centered on her father’s kingdom. And his army. Four lieutenants, one floater who doesn’t really fall within the typical hierarchy; it’s this guy that’s in charge of Tony.
My dad told me once that the Arnoldis have a hand in everything in Red Hook. All the shops, including Dad’s.
I’ve been trying to fit it all together into something that can buy Arnoldi that huge fucking house, make it possible for him to ensconce his daughter within the upper crust of Manhattan society.
Is it wrong, what he does? Or is it what Tony says it is: a system that exists parallel to Uncle Sam. The Arnoldi empire is like its own small country, policing its territory and providing for everyone all on its own.
I know for sure that’s bullshit. But I want to chew it over. Mostly so I can decide whether I think my father was really “wronged”—or if maybe he made a shitty deal with the mob. I mean, it’s not like he didn’t know who Roberto was.
The more I think about it, the more I think he knew what he was getting into, and he chose to do it anyway. So when they came calling for their money, is that really evil, like I used to think? Maybe my dad is just a dumbass.
I look up at the shoe store’s ragged awning, and the sight of it aims my thoughts elsewhere. Lately, Dad’s been worse than ever. The other night, he came home smelling like another woman, and when my mom’s eyes welled, he slapped her in the mouth.
When I tried to make him apologize, he said he didn’t hit her, and when I called him a fucking liar, he shoved me. I didn’t give a shit—I was getting ready to shove him back—but then Soren rushed into it, and my dad called him a dumb fuck, and that’s when I lost my shit.
I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t even have a temper like Leo and some of my other friends. But I can’t let a bully live in my house, breaking my mom’s heart and calling my brother names. This shit can’t keep going how it is. I’m not sure what to change, though.
I hear the bell ding as the door to the shoe store swings open. Roberto Arnoldi steps out in a crisp white button-up and dark slacks. I’m so shocked I freeze in place, so it takes him a second to notice me.
When he does, he freezes too, but for just a second, and just his face. There’s something in his eyes and mouth. Like he almost winced.
The next second he swings the shoe store bag he’s holding, pulling my attention to his hand, where I notice a big, square gold ring.
He stops, nodding at me as his dark eyes hold mine. “Luca Galante,” he says. “I understand we entertained you on prom night. Did you enjoy our party?”
I nod. “Yeah. The food was really good. Thanks.”
“I hear you’re attending Columbia University. On scholarship.” He smiles, and although the smile is tight, I feel like his eyes are sincere.
“That’s true,” I hear myself say.
