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“Oh.” I laughed. During a time when I was refusing to speak to him, Brad had inadvertently flooded an elevator in an attempt to foster communication. The stunt had ruined one of the few pairs of designer shoes I had actually purchased—ninety percent of my shoe wardrobe was donated by Becca—and I had dissolved in tears over the loss.
“Manolo Blahniks—if I recall?” he said, smiling down at me.
“Yes. I will allow you to replace those.” That pleased him, and he grabbed my hand, pulling me to the left, and we zigzagged through jewelry and perfume counters till we ended up at the section of my dreams, the Neiman’s shoe section. The softly lit cubbyholes showcased designer shoes as if they were Cartier watches, the attendants carried trays of champagne and there were pedestals of shoes everywhere, each more tempting than the next. It was how I imagined heaven to be.
We spent about a half hour in the section. I found the suede Manolos that had been ruined, and tried them on, holding up my foot and critiquing them. They didn’t look quite the same. Maybe it was because I was envisioning the pair I had at home, the pair I had taken the hair dryer to in an attempt to dry them out. They now sat, sad and pathetic, high in my closet, with spots marring the coloring. I frowned and looked around. Then I saw them.
True love can be described in a variety of ways. However you describe it, I was in love with those shoes from the moment I saw them. I think I gasped a little—something made Brad look up from his phone, and he followed my gaze to the simple black heels high on the pedestal. He gestured to the attendant, and she brought the pair over, pure magic in her fingers. The pair was basic and classy Christian Louboutin—red sole, high stiletto heel, peep toe with an ankle strap. Elegance in the lines, in the leather, in the details. Small silver studs accented parts of the shoe, giving a slight edge to the classic details. I sighed softly, and Brad ended his call and told them my size.
I looked at him, troubled. “I didn’t look at the price, but I can pretty much guarantee you they cost double what my Manolos did.”
“I didn’t see you orgasm over the Manolos.”
“I kind of did, before. Back when I originally purchased them. Before I knew true love.”
“I don’t care about the price.”
I wanted to argue with him, wanted to take the replacement pair of suede heels that were already on my feet, but I couldn’t resist. I wanted them too badly to let pride and—what did my mother call it?—“social graces” stand in my way.
“Okay.”
He laughed at my easy surrender, and wrapped an arm around me, kissing my neck. “You want to try them on?”
“Better, just to be safe.”
Fifteen minutes later we left Neiman’s and headed to the food court. We decided on P.F. Chang’s, and lucked out with an immediate table, though it was crammed into a tight corner. Brad studied the small table with apprehension, then sat, his large body dwarfing the minute table. Add the ridiculously large bag that Neiman’s had put my shoe box into, and we were short on foot, arm and table room. I stifled a laugh and smiled at Brad, the discomfort visible in his eyes.
“Want to wait for a bigger table?”
“No, I’ll suffer through,” he said, picking up the menu and looking it over.
We ordered, and once the waiter left I met Brad’s eyes across the table.
“Uh-oh,” he said, watching me carefully.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“That look. What is it?”
“I just have a lot to ask you—and this is the first time in a while we’ve been alone, undistracted...”
“I can think of something to distract us.” He grinned, deviously at me, a dimple showing, and reached under the table, his hand grabbing my leg.
“Stop that!” I whispered, tossing the crispy noodle I had in my hand at him.
“Fine. As much as I will regret this—what do you want to ask me?”
“I know you hit the main points this morning, but explain to me again your relationship to your family.” I stared at the menu, certain that he would be glaring at me from the other side of the table.
“You would pick a crowded restaurant to have this discussion in.”
“Skim over things. I don’t need to know where the bodies are buried.”
“Fine. My father, Dom Magiano, is the head of the family. I was groomed to take over, but early on didn’t...conform as expected.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine you conforming to anything.”
“Well, imagine me as a rebellious teenager. At seventeen, I had a big argument with my father and I moved out, lived with my aunt’s family for a few months, then found an apartment. I applied to college, and from then on was estranged from my family. Not estranged in a typical American sense—the Italian family structure will allow for some disassociation, but only within reason. I still attend family events, weddings, birthdays, as well as the major holidays. But as far as the family business goes, which is everything to my family, I have no part of it.”
“Do you like your family?”
He looked at me quizzically—and in that moment, the waiter reappeared, setting our soups and appetizer on the already crowded table. When we were alone again, I tried to rephrase the question.
“Do you respect them, enjoy their company, have fun when you are with them?”
“With my family there is always respect. To not respect is to disonore, or dishonor both yourself and the other party. But I understand what you mean, though it will take a while to answer the question. Our family, I respect. They are extremely tight-knit and extremely loyal. There is great love in our family, and we are family first, business associates second and friends third. But I do not respect what they do. I understand why they do it—the need for violence in that business—but feel that the business structure could change to reduce the violent aspects. The big argument with my father, when I was young, was over legitimizing the businesses. I feel that he could remove the ‘mob’ aspect of our holdings, while still remaining profitable. He disagrees with that transition for several reasons, many of which are valid, and some of which actually reduce violence instead of feed it. But my father’s motives are not identical to his sons’.”
“How many sons?”
“I have three siblings. Two brothers and Maria.”
“I interrupted you. Please go on.”
“I always enjoy spending time with my family—and in true Italian form, it is a large one. I have over twenty cousins, and they are as close to me as my brothers. We all grew up together, a ‘pack of wolves’ my mother called us, and we were inseparable. I was the only one who left, and while I don’t harbor anger toward any of them, there is a group of relatives who has great bitterness for me.”
