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“And then there’s your cousin, Tony Martinelli,” I remind Rocco.
“Oh yeah,” he says, making a face. “I almost forgot all about Tony….”
The list of people to call, cards to reply to, and send is getting ridiculous.
And this is before we even think about announcing my engagement.
I mean,ourengagement.
This is us, catching up with all the ‘massacred’ Martinelli family who, as it turns out, wasn’t executed at all.
They were put on a private coach and spent two weeks in Fort Lauderdale.
Even though Rocco still says, that’s certain death. He was as glad as the rest of his family to find out that nobody had been hurt.
But it was far from a prank. The Portello’s meant to take over every business the Martinelli’s owned, using their relatives as hostages somehow.
Maria’s running away and going to the law, rolling over on every single member of her own family, was a move that certainly took the heat off the Martinelli clan.
And most likely will for decades to come.
But I haven’t minded all the correspondence. I like the old-fashioned, thoughtful cards and flowers. Little gifts being sent to friends and family with personal notes.
It reminds me of a time gone by, and maybe I onlythinkit’s romantic because I was never there. I never lived that life in those times.
Me, I still use my phone for everything, but Rocco and his family?
They do things old school. Pen and paper. Handwritten notes and records.
“It’s easier to burn a paper trail than delete a digital one everyone’s watched you keep,” he reminds me whenever I make a noise about him never checking the messages I send him.
Even though I’m usually right next to him or in the next room over if I’m really far away.
“Well? What do I write on Tony’s card…?” I sigh as I stand up from where I’m sitting opposite him.
“Dear Tony,
Thanks for not being murdered by the rival gang’s family.
Love,
Rocco”
I dictate aloud as if I’m reading back what I’ve written, making Rocco laugh before he tickles me under my arms.
His hands rest on my hips as he pulls me onto his lap.
“Very funny,” he growls, biting my neck after he kisses it, telling me I can put whatever I want on any of the cards.
One of his hands strays to my round belly, making his eyes get that look he gets.
The look that makes me cry sometimes it’s so damned sweet.
His ‘I’m gonna be a dad’look. And it’s one I never get sick of seeing him make.
“You’re thinking we should be sending out wedding invitations,” I remark, acting like I’m reading his mind.
“Uh. I really wasn’t,” Rocco says, deadpan. Because I’m pretty sure he wasn’t.
