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“Men can be hotheaded pricks with no brain cells, but we have to live with each other, right?” I push him again.
“Whatever, Gia. Let’s just get this over with.”
We pull up to my mother’s quaint single-family home that Dad left when he passed. The front door and stoop are newly renovated – compliments of Marco – and the roof is next, but Mom doesn’t like to accept cash from her kids. It’s the old-school Italian way, never take from the young, only give. After Dad died, she used to cry that she wouldn’t have much to leave us, which is why I think Marco double and triple-downed on providing, despite his vices.
I take a long look at my brother after he shoves his car in park. He’s a tortured soul. No long-term girlfriends ever, no companionship outside of his mafia boys. ‘Hairtrigger,’ I mean, really? Can flip like a switch. Is that what you want to be known for?
The scars on his neck remind me of what he is – someone who skates by death by the skin of his teeth.
“You know I’m just looking out for my kid sister, right?” He stares forward, twitching his cheek.
I’m instantly disarmed, at a loss for words for how soft his tone is.
“That’s all this is.” He turns to me, his raspy hungover voice lingering now that the rumbling engine is off.
“I didn’t ask for it, Marco,” my voice is almost a whisper.
“Family doesn’t have to ask. We just do.” He opens the car door and flings himself out. I see a flash of his gun in the back of his pants, which makes me tremble in my seat.
Deep down I understand that he’s just looking out for me in his own sick way, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have to reconcile him with my king. Tonight is the night to do it.
I take a deep breath and follow my brother into the house. When I get inside, I’m shocked to see Castor in a polo shirt – muscles bulging out of it – and jeans, carrying dishes to the dining room table. My mouth remains open as I peek in the kitchen to see my mom with an ear-to-ear smile stirring the sauce.
What in actual f—
“Hey, Marco. Hey, sweetie.” Randy takes two tries to push himself off the couch, struggling to tear his eyes away from the baseball game.
Marco offers his hand, barely giving Randy a second of his time. Rude. Then turns straight for Castor.
“Going for son-in-law of the year, or something?”
Heat fills my cheeks. I’m giving Randy a hug hello, but all satellites are honed in on Castor’s reaction.
“Would that be your worst nightmare, or what?” Castor takes it in stride, wielding a giant smirk.
Mom walks out of the kitchen. I can’t miss this interaction for the world, so I pat Randy’s big arm and excuse myself.
“Oh I think it’s so nice that you two got together.” Mom rubs Castor’s huge back as he fixes the placemats. “I still think you got one too many tattoos, but we’ll let that slide. You’ve always been a good boy.”
“I’m pushing thirty-one, Missus Castellano.”
“Yeah, well you’re still a kid in my eyes. Running around the pool in the backyard with this grump.” She motions to Marco. “Good to see all of you together. Oh hi, pumpkin.” She turns to me, and I’m just standing there, at a loss.
“Hey, Momosa.” I open my arms for a hug.
She holds her cooking mittens out and walks right in. “Did you have a good shift at Bangos last night?”
“Mmhm.” I nod. I’m internally squealing right now. Even if murder is flashing through Marco’s head, we’re all still here, under one roof, about to enjoy a dinner together.
The house hasn’t felt packed since, well, Dad passed. Marco went off the rails, and we kind of all went our separate ways. Has Castor DeMatteo become the damn glue for our family?
“Okay, hun, you’ve done enough. Go take a seat there, next to Marco and your boo.” Mom gives him another motherly pat on the back once he lays the garlic breadbasket on the table.
“This brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Castor takes a seat and inches closer to the table.
Marco grunts and grabs a piece of bread to avoid reminiscing.
“Your mom would make us full-blown subway sandwiches, so we didn’t have to go spend our allowance. Twelve-inch meatball subs with mozzarella. Then we’d go beat the shit out of each other in the pool and call it ‘wrestling for the title.’”
