Married With Malice: An Arranged Marriage Romance
Married With Malice: Chapter 10

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?” Richie slams his hand down on the desk.

This might be the first time he’s screamed at me since I was eight and decided to test if I could scrape the paint off his Cadillac with a chunk of steel wool I’d found under the kitchen sink.

I could. And I did.

On that day Richie pulled me in here, belt in hand, acting like he planned to dole out a hefty punishment. He’d never hit me before and he couldn’t bring himself to hit me then. He took one look at me standing the middle of the room, small and stubborn and slightly terrified, and dropped the belt like a hot potato.

With his anger drained, Richie pulled two chairs together and ordered me to take a seat. What followed was a thoughtful monologue containing Richie Amato’s best pieces of life advice. His parting words are as clear in my head as if they were spoken yesterday.

“Listen to me, kid. You want to make a move in life, you better understand the penalty. Be sure that you can cover the cost.”

I had no clue what he meant. After all, I was only eight years old. I’d just learned that Santa Claus wasn’t real.

But sometimes on random occasions my uncle’s dogma would echo back at me and I never found a way to make it apply. As an athlete, I’m familiar with the fact that there’s no reward without risk. You fire the pass down the field. You take the shot at the goal. Winning is otherwise impossible.

Given everything I’ve learned about how my uncle operates, he doesn’t even follow his advice. In all likelihood, he was just spit balling that day as an excuse to avoid using the belt. Richie never did lay a hand on me and he always conspired to keep my transgressions from reaching the ears of my devoted older brother, who would have been disappointed to hear that I wasn’t really a model citizen.

I can now appreciate being raised with a more gentle parenting style as opposed to the brutality Anni suffered but it would have made far more sense if Richie had just said, “Don’t fuck with my car anymore.”

“Luca,” Richie now says, calming down a little when I stay silent in the face of his unanswerable question. “This will need to be explained.”

My uncle looks older, more tired, than he ever has. The fingers on his right hand sometimes vibrate with a tremor. His cardiology appointments have become more frequent. While I sit motionless in the leather armchair facing his desk, he slides open a drawer, shakes out a pair of aspirin and swallows them with a sip of cold coffee and a grimace.

It’s impossible for me to feel much affection for him anymore. Richie has been my default parent for most of my life. Yet my greatest value to him was as a pawn in his legacy plans.

If that was the worst I might have forgiven him, but this possibility ended when he dangled Cale’s life at the end of a string. The threat is always there, always implied, even if never spoken. He’s taken advantage of the love my brother and I have for each other. He’s used it against us. He’s been doing that for a long time and now I finally see him with clear eyes.

My uncle is my enemy. He has no idea I’m aware of this.

From his carefully tailored suits to his fondness for the imported Italian antiques he pretends are family heirlooms, Richie Amato is a fraud. He waxes poetic about ‘the old country’ as if he himself was ferried across the Atlantic in the dark, dank steerage bowels of a ship, only to be dazzled by the first sighting of the New York skyline.

Nope, he’s fourth generation American, the product of a mafia family that passes down their cosplaying traditions to the next generation while clinging to the mythology of another place and time. He’s a stain on the good name of millions of hardworking, honest Italian Americans who are rightfully proud of their heritage and recoil at the shadowy evil Richie represents.

My mother was his only sibling and I’ve always wanted to know what happened when she bucked tradition and ran off with a handsome firefighter. According to Cale, there was a lot of grumbling and he credits our father, always a charmer, with squashing the doubters. Though the details in my memory are few, I was born into a happy home. I’m sure of that.

Richie lifts his bushy eyebrows and studies my face, trying like hell to read the thoughts behind my eyes. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Rocco gambled himself into a hole.” My shoulders rise with a dismissive shrug. “He should have heeded your advice and made sure he could cover the cost.”

“He’s Barone’s man. You knew he was good for it.”

“It was disrespect, Richie.” I say this smoothly, coldly. “How does it look if your heir apparent is laughed off with an IOU?”

Typical mafioso macho bullshit but I manage to pull it off while sounding sincere. Richie tries really hard to look stern instead of impressed. He knows this makes sense. And he’d never suspect that I orchestrated the chain of events that led to Rocco Vincente’s poker debt in the first place.

It took me two weeks to set up.

A man such as Rocco, who gets his kicks beating up young girls, is bound to have a few unsavory vices. Both fundamentally stupid and overconfident in his longtime role as one of Albie Barone’s special guard dogs, he leaves a sloppy trail and a lot of enemies. Whenever Rocco’s not trailing after his boss, he flees Long Island, preferring to haunt the Queens neighborhood where he grew up.

By chance, Nico is currently fucking a girl whose family owns a bar in that neighborhood. Rocco Vincente’s name is spoken like a curse in those parts. He picks fights, scares off customers and constantly tries to put his hands on women who understandably don’t want to be touched by him.

But Rocco does love a good game of cards. And he’s constantly trying to worm his way into invitation-only settings where his obnoxious temper isn’t an asset.

I also love a good card game. And I’m a better player. Poker happens to be a sentimental favorite but I’m not picky.

Rocco was surprised to see me and the Castelli boys show up at one of his favorite strip clubs but he assumed I was a friend and he’s too stupid to think past his assumptions.

I covered the tab and kept shots of his favorite scotch coming for an hour before suggesting we drop in on a game happening two blocks away.

Nico’s fuck buddy arranged for the use of an empty apartment above her family’s bar. The three guys who were already there, pretending with a table of cards and money chips, were buddies of Monte’s from his days working at the racetrack.

Weapons, naturally, were checked at the door. That’s standard. Can’t have any sore losers throwing a tantrum and blasting away.

Rocco hates to lose. He hates it so much that when he’s losing he’ll keep playing. And he’ll keep losing.

The duel was really just between me and him. The others were there for window dressing.

After an hour, he’d lost ten grand and was sweating like a pig. Another hour, and this debt had tripled and his bad mood really started to gain steam. This only made him more careless.

At least his worries are over now. I need to remember to start thinking of Rocco in the past tense.

“Barone’s having fits,” Richie says. “So let me do the talking when we get there.”

“It was an accident. It’s not like I put a bullet between his eyes.”

Rocco was so busy slurring out excuses why he needed a month or two or six to scrounge up the funds that he never noticed when Monte handed me a heavy mallet. I wasted no time before swinging it down with all my might on the back of Rocco’s hand. The card table broke. So did his bones.

He was thrashing around so much it wasn’t easy to get a grip on his sweaty shirt but I wanted to look him right in the eye when I said, “That was for Annalisa.”

Rocco’s mouth went slack and he fell right out of his chair. Even in his drunk and disorderly state he knew what I was talking about and he must have figured he was about to earn a hole in the head. He started screeching and crashed through the door before anyone could get a hand on him. Then he tumbled down the narrow staircase, bellyflopped on the sidewalk below, and managed to pick himself up just long enough to stagger into the street, where he was promptly body slammed by a speeding garbage truck.

He died on impact. Just another drunk idiot who didn’t look both ways. An accident.

Technically, I didn’t kill him. All I meant to do is break both his hands and let him know where things stand, that if he ever got within coughing distance of my wife again then he could expect much worse.

My father-in-law, however, doesn’t believe in accidents. He’s demanding a meeting. Right now at his house.

Richie checks the time and heaves himself out of his chair. “Let’s get this over with. Remember what I said. I’ll do the talking.”

Franco and Brisetti, Richie’s two oldest capos, are waiting outside the door. I’ve known them all my life. Franco gives me a smirk that says he finds the whole situation funny. Brisetti gives my shoulder a friendly pat.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Aunt Donna appears at the end of the hall and wipes her hands on a yellow apron. “I just made some sausage and peppers.”

“Put it in the fridge.” Richie’s tone is irritable. “Someone will eat it.”

Aunt Donna flashes a loving smile at me. “I’ve been meaning to invite Annalisa over for lunch but I didn’t want to be pushy. Do you think she has time?”

“That would be nice,” I say. “You should ask.”

As for my aunt’s question, I can’t answer because I don’t know much about what my wife does all day. She hasn’t returned to her teaching job at the ice rink and her sisters seem to be her only friends.

Richie nudges me toward the front door. “Plenty of time to chat later.”

Nico Castelli is waiting in the driveway beside a black Range Rover. His throat bobs with a hard swallow when he sees me being escorted out with the boss and his two capos. There’s nothing I can do at the moment to reassure him except tip my head with the slightest of nods.

Nico opens the doors and takes the driver’s seat. Now that Richie’s cataracts are a road hazard, he can’t be behind the wheel anymore. Richie closes the seatbelt in the front passenger seat while I’m wedged between Franco and Brisetti in the back.

The Barone estate is about five miles east. I’ve been here a number of times but today I look at the sprawling grounds and Tuscan-style mansion with more cynical eyes.

Annalisa grew up here. The things that happened to her inside these walls played a role in shaping her into the person she is now. The many windows, dark and covered with elaborately designed wrought iron for security, are expressionless and yet call to mind my wife’s dark eyes.

Now I stare at those windows for hints of what’s coming, just as I’m constantly searching Anni’s eyes. Often their mood is willful, sometimes angry. And other times a glimmer of soft affection creeps in before returning to watchful wariness.

Whatever happens at her father’s house today, she’ll never hear the whole story. Just as she’ll never hear what really happened to her tormenter in a seedy room above a bar in Queens.

Anni grew up as a mafia daughter and she’s well aware of the way shit works in this world. Nothing changes, not really. The men we’re surrounded with still abide by the same brutal rules and omerta codes of silence that have existed forever.

Some of Barone’s men are ballsy enough to throw hostile glares in our direction as we’re shown inside. I feel sorry for Nico, who’s been told to stay back at the car. No doubt some of these Barone soldiers are friends of Rocco’s and they’ll take the opportunity to get in Nico’s face.

There’s always a lot to see inside the Barone house. The walls are all covered with dark oil paintings and artwork, much of it religious and definitely selected by Anni’s mother. Polished antiques sit on just about every flat surface and plush, intricately designed area rugs complement the dark wood furniture.

As we pass one of the many rooms, Anni’s mother is carefully dusting off an army of ceramic vases. I know the Barones have a maid but I guess she needs to keep busy somehow.

Anni’s mother glances up for only a split second and then quickly returns to her dusting without a word of greeting, like she wishes she hadn’t seen us at all.

I’m not offended. Maybe it’s how she copes. If you don’t acknowledge what’s going on around you, then you can pretend all is well. No different from Aunt Donna and her constant cooking.

The man himself awaits in the company of his loyal capos inside a room that puts Richie’s rather baroque office to shame. With a soaring ceiling and tapestries hung on the walls, it could double as a medieval throne room.

Even with a dozen Barone sidekicks in the room there’s no shortage of space. Barone himself is seated behind a desk as large as a cafeteria table. When he smiles at me, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, however he does rise from his velvet-covered chair.

Richie flashes me a warning look, a reminder that I’m not to speak unless asked a direct question.

“Albie, I appreciate the invitation to get this sorted out. Let’s just remember we’re all family.”

Barone’s eyes flicker to me. His flat stare gives nothing away. With a gesture of his hand, he dismisses most of his entourage from the room.

A long moment of silence passes as we all take a seat. I’m right beside Richie in front of Barone’s mega desk while Franco and Brisetti sit on a thick wooden bench along the wall.

Barone taps his fingers together. There are rings on seven out of ten of them. He appraises me without blinking.

I stare right back him.

Someone coughs. Franco, I think.

Barone sighs. “One of my men rots in the morgue today. I’ve been assured this is an accident and I’m very aware Rocco did tend to run up debts.” He jerks his chin at me. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Just that I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” Takes some effort to remove all sarcasm from my voice but I think I succeeded.

Barone gazes at me and nods. An unsettling spark lights up his eyes and he turns to Richie. “Word on the street says my new son-in-law hasn’t even popped his cherry yet. Is that true?”

Everyone in the room knows he’s not talking about where I stick my cock. I’m the only one here who isn’t a murderer. Rocco, an accident, doesn’t count.

Richie shifts in his chair. “Luca assumed his brother’s role in the family rather abruptly. You can be sure he’ll pay his dues when the time comes.”

Barone grins. The sight is ugly. “Why wait? There’s a job that was supposed to be done tonight. Rocco was going to take care of it but now he can’t. Not a big deal. Just a little problem with a warehouse manager in Bayonne who caught a case of sticky fingers and now threatens to expose the whole operation. Good way for the kid to earn his stripes.”

Richie breathes noisily. He doesn’t like this, sending me out to do Barone’s low level dirty work. Right now he’s wracking his brain to come up with a way out.

Meanwhile, Barone’s attention returns to me. “What do you say, Luca? This is an easy task. You know I wouldn’t really risk the husband of my daughter. And then we can leave this whole mess in the rearview mirror.”

Richie is still fuming. But we’re on Barone’s turf and in the scheme of things, we’re the ones who need to make amends right now. Barone could call on a dozen replacement Roccos anytime but he needs to make it clear who’s in charge.

And I have no reason to doubt his claim that this is a straightforward hit. It’s in everyone’s best interest if I come back alive.

Then all this tension can disappear.

The capos can quit looking at me like I’m some privileged prince who won’t get his hands dirty.

All I need to do is kill a man.

“Sure Albie,” I say. “I’d be happy to take care of that for you.”

“È bello sentirlo.” His face splits into a grin.

I’m not positive what that means but I think it’s something like, ‘Good to hear that’.

Albie motions to one of his men. “Let’s get some shots all around. The good whiskey.” He points to me. “And you can take the two shit-for-brains Castelli cowboys with you. Bring sure to back a souvenir. I’m a fan of souvenirs.”

Glasses are poured and handed out. A collective ‘Salute’ is spoken by all before we down our shots.

Barone sets his shot glass face down. “On a more pleasant topic, the holidays are coming up. We’ll have Christmas here at the house. Both families are invited so the kids don’t need to choose. How does that suit you, Richie?”

“That’ll work,” Richie says, sounding tired. And still annoyed.

The door is opened and we rise to leave. In closing, Barone says to wait by the phone for details on tonight’s job. I’m expected to carry it out without any problems.

On our departing walk through the house, Giulia Barone is seen dusting the vases in a different room. This time she doesn’t even look up at the noise we make as we file past the doorway. I guess that’s how she gets through her days. See no evil, hear no evil.

Movement catches my eyes and I see Sabrina standing at the second floor open railing. There’s a worried look on her face as our eyes meet. She probably heard about Rocco’s untimely demise and now she’s wondering about our conversation last week.

But that conversation, as we agreed, never happened. So there is nothing to wonder about.

Sabrina moves away from the railing and scampers down the hall.

Next, my eyes flicker to the grand staircase. I picture Annalisa as a helpless teenage girl, sobbing as she’s dragged over those steps by Rocco’s vicious hands.

I’m not sorry at all that he’s dead. In fact, I’m damn fucking gleeful that I made it happen.

It’s when we’re back in Richie’s car and away from unfriendly faces that I finally ask, “What did Barone mean about souvenirs?”

Franco snorts with laughter.

Nico, driving again, gives me a glance of apprehension in the rearview mirror.

Richie stays silent and lets Brisetti explain.

“You know, like a hand or maybe an ear.” He shrugs as if he’s discussing his grocery list. “Just take a finger or two when you’re done. That’ll be good enough.”