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CHAPTER 1
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell’ora della nostra morte.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
— the words every Made Man recites upon a death.
JULIANA
My younger sister, Jessica, handed over the garment bag that my mother had sent upstairs. I took it eagerly because I loved new clothes, yet I was also half-filled with dread since I knew my mother’s taste was somewhat questionable.
Looking inside the bag, my heart sank as my eyes were assaulted by the glitzy sparkle of red sequins. “It’s one of Mother’s specialties,” I sighed.
“Oh my,” said Jessica, as I pulled the outfit out of the bag, revealing a red-sequined skirt suit with a tight pencil skirt and matching jacket. This was the outfit my mother wanted me to wear at my meeting today with my father and Emanuel Santino.
Emanuel Santino was Capo, the boss of the Società Mafia in L.A. My father, Cecilio Bonardi, was one of his Underbosses, thus holding a powerful position in the organization. This was the first time I had been summoned by the Capo, and I was dreading it. If I had the choice, I would be anywhere but meeting him today. However, as a girl in the Mafia world, my main duty was to obey.
I looked in the bag again, but the only other items were skyscraper heels in hot pink and a pink purse. I would have said that my mother intended them to go with the outfit, but they clearly clashed rather than coordinated.
“What am I supposed to wear under the jacket? Should I just use one of my existing blouses? Do you think a white blouse would be the best option with this color combination?” My unease about today was clouding my mind, making even the smallest decision impossible.
“Sorry, I forgot to say—Mother said to tell you not to wear a blouse with it.”
I gave a slight questioning look to Jessica but pulled on the skirt and jacket. “The jacket reveals too much of my cleavage to be decent,” I murmured, cringing at my reflection in the bedroom mirror.
“I think that’s Mother’s objective,” said Jessica, as she also winced at my appearance.
I looked in alarm at the clothes. This outfit was my mother’s idea of what a girl my age should be wearing in order to snare a good Mafia husband.
“Juliana, hurry up!” my mother shrieked up the stairs. “Your father is waiting.”
I looked quickly at my sister in desperation. “Jess, you’ve got to help me put a tear in the skirt.”
“What do you mean?” Her brow puckered in confusion, but I knew she would help me because she was my best friend as well as my sister.
I turned around so that my back was to her. “Pull at the back slit so that the seam comes apart.”
I felt a tug on my skirt and heard a rip. “That should spell the end for this skirt,” she giggled.
I rushed downstairs, finding my mother waiting for me in the foyer. Everything about her was over-the-top: big hair, brash clothes, bold shoulder pads, and a loud voice. Her entire being was a throwback to the Eighties.
Tears gathered in her eyes at the sight of me, and she started sobbing loudly. “You look absolutely perfect. The Capo will be so impressed with you!”
Dear God, I was already feeling jittery with nerves, and my mother’s dramatics were the last thing I needed right now.
I turned around and heard a sharp intake of breath from my mother. “What on earth has happened to your skirt?”
I fixed a look of dismay on my face. “The skirt was skintight, and it ripped when I tried to walk in it.”
“Why does the Lord try me in this way?” wailed my mother at the top of her voice. “Today is such an important day for our family, the first time the Capo is requesting to see my eldest daughter!”
My father came inside at that moment. “Are you still not ready, Juliana?” he said impatiently, ignoring Mother. He pulled back his sleeve, looking pointedly at his watch. “We’ll be late for the Capo.”
“You’ll have to go up and change,” screeched Mother. “Be quick—you know you can’t keep the Capo waiting.”
As I dashed upstairs, I started unbuttoning the jacket and I peeled it off the moment I was inside my bedroom, grabbing a much simpler dress from my closet. Once dressed, I ran back downstairs and out to the waiting car.
On our manicured front lawn, I saw my mother throw herself to her knees in front of our stone statue of the Virgin Mary, pressing her hands together in supplication and muttering like a crazy person. Our family followed the Italian-American custom of displaying a saint statue in our front yard. My mother, however, only prayed to our Virgin Mary when one of three things was involved: death, money, or power.
