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“Vito is waiting by the car,” Mama’s voice barks from downstairs.
“Oh shit, I forgot you’re going to the Rossi engagement,” Massimo replies while lighting a cigarette.
“You can come, too,” I say eagerly.
“Nope, I have better plans,” he says, smiling and reaching for his phone.
“Basta, how long does it take you to get dressed?” Mama says, walking up the winding stairs.
“I’m ready,” I say, holding my hands out in mock surrender.
“Where are you going?” she asks, turning her head to Massimo.
“I have plans,” he says but in a more somber tone.
“I don’t want you seeing thatmedigan. Don’tyou bring her round here anymore!”
“Okay, Ma, I won’t,” he says, but we both know he will.
Massimo’s girlfriend is one of the hostesses at my papa’s clubs in the city. She was non-Sicilian, non-Italian, and definitelynon-anythingmy mama stood for. He had made the rookie mistake of bringing her to the house once, which incensed my mama to pieces.
Papa also wasn’t impressed; I heard him remark to Massimo that the woman on your arm reflects the man you are. He didn’t say anything after that except gave him a pointed yet meaningful look. Massimo had kept her at arm’s length since then, but I knew he was still screwing her along with the rest of his rotation.
“Let’s go, Ma,” I say, trying to take the heat off Massimo, for which he grants me a grateful look before disappearing into his room.
An hour later, we are in the heart of the city, the skyscraper penthouse overlooking the city at such a height that the people below appear as merely moving ants. Whoever organized this party, went all out. Silver and white balloons cover the room exterior, as well as large floral centerpieces and magnum sized champagne bottles on each table.
Mama peers around the room in a hawk-like manner, and I can tell she could be trying to find fault with something that she can tear apart later to her friends. We greet all the guests two kisses at a time, my heart pounding at the thought of running into Pietro, but I try to blank it out of my thoughts.
I knew Angela vaguely, but we aren’t friends. Angela is blonde with doll-like blue eyes and a pouty smile. She comes across as highly delicate and seems more like an all-American cheerleader than a daughter of the Mafia. Angela greets me with a small smile, but when she thinks nobody is looking, I can see the sadness in her eyes.
“Congratulations, Angela,” I say, returning her smile only it seems to have changed into a grimace.
“Thanks,” she says faintly.
“Are you enjoying your party?” I ask, struggling for something to talk about.
“I guess so. I just didn’t expect everything to move so quickly,” she says, frowning, and I can feel relief washing over me, so it isn’t just me who’s dreading their wedding.
“Where is your fiancé?” I ask, wanting to see if I was right about him being old, which is why she looks so distraught.
“He’s around somewhere,” she says in a terrified tone.
“Angela?” I say, looking at her worriedly.
“They call him the jackhammer, you know. Apparently for his first kill he used one and now it’s his weapon of choice,” she says faintly.
“Maybe it’s just a rumor,” I say in an attempt to placate her.
“They call him that for other reasons, too,” she says, giving me a knowing look.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I blurt out.
“Not when your intended spends time in houses of ill repute,” she says primly.
“That could be a rumor, too.”
“I bet it isn’t, I can tell,” she says, almost hysterical, and her mama shoots her a warning look.
