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It's Jilani family tradition to name the girls Madonna and use our middle names when speaking.
Zia shortens her name to Lora and mine to Lina. Zio calls metesorina, even though I am twenty-five. Carlotta calls mesoru, sister. Papà doesn't use my name. He prefers other epitaphs.
I check the table again, to make sure everything is right. Using the hem of my t-shirt, I rub at a small smudge, so nothing mars the sheen of the dark wood table. The runner down the middle and the placemats are from my mother's wedding trunk. They are all hand tatted Sicilian lace, sent to her by family in the Old Country.
In the center of the table is a large bouquet of flowers arranged in Zia Lora's favorite crystal vase with matching crystal candelabras on either side. They catch the light from the chandelier and sparkle.
I make sure all the flatware gleams, without any spots of tarnish on the silver. The nearly hundred-year-old hand painted ceramic dishes are from my father's side of the family. His great grandmother brought the original set over from Sicily.
Everything is set for a formal dinner and even though Zia is cooking, when the time comes, maids will serve the food.
Zia Lora, tall and slim like most of the Jilanis, comes bustling in, her face creased in a smile. "This looks lovely, Lina, but it is time you got yourself ready."
"Are you sure you don't need me to do anything else?" I ask.
"No, no, you do not have time. Your sister went up to dress an hour ago."
My sister is considered the most beautiful mafia princess on the East Coast, maybe in the whole country. Papà has been receiving offers for her hand since she was twelve years old. In the Cosa Nostra, mafia princesses can be promised from any age, though the formal engagement is never announced before they are sixteen.
With the same build and dark brown hair as Zia Lora, Carlotta also has amber eyes and perfectly symmetrical features. Wherever she goes, she turns heads. First it was always, "What a beautiful child," then "What a beautiful girl," and now they say, "What a beautiful woman."
At nineteen and six years younger than me, I know my sister is a woman, but I still think of her as a girl.
Papà has refused to arrange a marriage for her; he is holding out for someone powerful.
Like the don? Is that whyheis coming for dinner? Is he going to make an offer for my sister?
As papà likes to point out, though I was born into the mafia, I am no princess. I will probably never marry, though when I say that to Zia Lora, she gets upset. But papà has no desire to arrange a marriage for me.
Because I know the truth.
If he gives my hand to someone with integrity, I might tell my husband my father's shameful secret and papà would be removed asconsiglieri. If he gives me to someone like himself, I might tell that man too, but then my husband would have leverage over my father.
One day, my father might kill me, like he did my mother, but he won't risk giving my hand in marriage so I can tell others what I know.
I walk upstairs, keeping a steady pace. If I don't try to rush, I won't limp. Sometimes, no matter how slowly I walk, I cannot hide that I am defective, as Papà calls me, though.
Is defective the right word? My right leg is shorter than my left because of the fall I took down the stairs, the same day as Mamma. Isn't that wounded, not defective?
Papà thought we were both dead that day. I'm sure of it. But he was wrong. I lived. And I remember.
Carlotta comes rushing up as I reach the hall outside my bedroom. "You aren't dressed yet.soru, you must change now. There's barely time to do your hair and makeup."
"Brushing my hair will only take seconds and I don't wear makeup," I remind my glowing sister.
Carlotta is wearing a soft pink dress by one of her favorite designers. Her luxurious dark brown curls are brushed to a sheen that falls like silk down her back. Her nude heels add four inches to her already above average height, making her tower over my own five-feet-three-inches.
She might be only nineteen, but she looks as regal as a queen.
"You look wonderful," I tell her as we walk to my bedroom.
Carlotta's pretty lips twist in a moue of discontent. "I don't like all these pastel colors. I would look so much better in red."
With her darker coloring, she's absolutely right. But red is not a color for an unmarried mafia princess still in her teens.
"Once you're married, I'm sure your husband will buy you dozens of red dresses." Who wouldn't want to spoil my sister?
She is not only beautiful, but she is sweet natured, if a tad selfish, but that is not her fault. She isn't just a mafia princess, she is the princess of our family. Everyone loves her. Even our father.
