Married With Malice: An Arranged Marriage Romance
Married With Malice: Chapter 15

“I’m dreaming of a wet Christmas,” Sabrina singsongs as she joins me at the rain-streaked window. She slides her arm snugly through mine and starts sucking on a giant peppermint stick.

Overnight the temperature ticked just high enough to eliminate the possibility of snow. Instead of a picturesque blanket of white outside the huge kitchen window, there are murky puddles and a carpet of dead, muddy lawn grass.

Behind us, our mother’s warm Mediterranean-themed kitchen is humming with voices and commotion.

I’m sure this is driving her nuts.

Giulia Barone is very particular about strange hands touching her appliances, especially strange male hands. I could see the muscles in her neck tightening when Big Man Bowie charged in here with plans to sear a tower of raw hamburger patties.

Considering the dinner menu includes linguine, chicken cacciatore and beef braciole, plus two trays of lasagna from Luca’s Aunt Donna, Big Man Bowie’s burgers will look a little out of place on the long dining room table. No one has the heart to point this out to him.

“One of the new guys?” I ask Sabrina as the shape of an unfamiliar man partially shielded by an umbrella prowls the exterior of the huge detached showroom where my father keeps his vintage car collection.

Sabrina pops the peppermint stick out of her mouth. “I forget his name. There have been a couple of new additions trying out lately and so far they never last long.”

“You mean replacements for Rocco?” Can’t say that I shed any tears when I heard the news that the creep met an early demise.

“Mmmhmm,” she says with the peppermint stick back in her mouth.

I take a look around to judge if anyone else is within earshot. Donna Amato and her two daughters are laughing as they roll up salami slices for an appetizer tray. Big Man Bowie whistles Frosty the Snowman while flipping burgers at the stove. Daisy smiles, as lovely as if she’s professionally posing, while she patiently toasts hamburger buns on a buttered griddle. My mother is twisting a candy cane striped dishtowel in her hands and trying to mop up Big Man Bowie’s grease splatters the instant he creates them.

“Did you ever hear more details about Rocco’s death?” I ask my sister in a barely audible voice.

I know she heard me. The peppermint stick remains in her mouth and her eyes are glued to the rainy landscape out the window.

Finally, she shakes her head without speaking. The reindeer antler headband she’s wearing smacks into my right cheek.

If you grew up in this house, now and then you’d hear things that aren’t meant for your ears. And you knew better than to repeat what you’d heard. Unless you were talking to your sisters, who you trust more than anyone else on earth.

Sabrina doesn’t lie to me and I have no reason to doubt her firm head shake. But she’s fidgeting and won’t make eye contact, leading me to wonder why.

The official story is that a shitfaced Rocco Vincente wandered into the street and got flattened by a garbage truck. If there’d been any whiff of a hit, my father would have made sure there was hell to pay.

Luca might know more, considering how far his uncle is wedged up my father’s ass. But Luca would have no special interest in Rocco’s fate. He knows nothing of my visceral hatred for my father’s favorite henchman.

“My sweet sisters.” Daisy has crept up behind us and wedges herself right in the middle, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other around Sabrina’s.

She’s wearing a red and white retro apron with a flared skirt and adorned with gingham ruffles and decorative bows. Embroidered across the front in thick white script are the words ‘Bowie Loves Daisy’.

Kind of corny, but adorable. Impossible not to hug her back. This is the first Christmas the three of us aren’t all living under the same roof.

“Are you having a Merry Christmas?” Daisy says.

“Sure, total joy to the world,” Brina grumbles. “After four hours of sleep Mama yanked me out of bed and forced me into indentured servitude as her buxom Italian kitchen maid. When Daddy woke up he bellowed about his missing hemorrhoid cream and then wandered in here to glare at me for failing to be born as a man.”

Daisy takes this vivid description in stride and nods. “Where is Daddy? I haven’t seen him since we got here.”

Sabrina motions to the window. “He dragged the menfolk through the tunnel to go admire his stupid cars.”

When we were little, the tunnel was forbidden to us. A corridor that runs underground from our father’s study out to the cavernous garage, we used to refer to it in whispers as ‘the secret passage’. Back then, we imagined ourselves as princesses in a castle.

When we finally saw for ourselves how the secret passage was just a dark, boring hallway that smelled of musty blankets, the passage lost its mystery. As did our ‘castle’, which is really just a gaudy mansion built with blood money, a place where I would have been horribly unhappy while growing up not for my sisters.

“What about you, Anni?” Daisy props her chin on my shoulder. “Are you having a good day?”

Not really. Two of my fingers are covered in band aids thanks to a small mishap as I was removing the hot cake dish from the oven. Could have been worse. I could have dropped it and then three hours of kitchen struggles would have been in vain.

But I didn’t drop it. After safely sliding the dish to the counter, I hurriedly sprinkled a very generous helping of cinnamon over the top so it would look just like my mother’s and then tended to my battle wounds.

By then, Luca was long gone from the kitchen, having grown weary of scowling and blocking the sink like a bridge troll. It was probably always a futile hope that we’d somehow get along today after last week’s blowup. The fact that he’s opted to sleep on the couch lately is a very stark declaration of where he stands.

I hate how things just keep getting worse between us.

Even more, I hate how I’m still waiting for a sign that he wants this to change.

In any case, there was no Christmas magic to be found at our house this morning. Luca thinks I threw away some special pen that I didn’t know he had, then he hit me with the news that I incinerated his dead father’s tuxedo on the prom night from hell.

Oh, and just to add to the day’s festivities, he decided today was a fine time to reveal that half the country knows Matthew Pentone bragged about taking my virginity. Apparently, I’m the last one to find out.

Awesome stuff. Merry Christmas to me!

To be fair, I’m no endearing bundle of sunshine. Some people might say that I’m a real pain in the ass. I’ve never had many friends. Guys usually thought I was too much trouble.

But I still wish for what everyone wishes for; someone to notice all my faults and mistakes and somehow decide to love me anyway.

“Of course I’m happy,” I tell my sisters and hug them tightly. They smell like cookie batter and candy canes. “This is one of the few days a year when I’m committed to being in a good mood.”

I see no need to confess that I have my husband’s wrapped Christmas presents hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

Neither of us said a thing about exchanging gifts. For days I fretted over what to get him and finally I sought out a bottle of the pinot noir he enjoyed during our honeymoon. I also purchased more of his favorite cologne. I might have even guiltily removed it from the box a few times to inhale the cedar scent that will forever make me think of his body and hot sex.

The gifts, however, remain in my drawer. Luca has given no hint that he wants the impasse between us to break. I wasn’t expecting any kind of a gift from him and I didn’t get one. Except for our brief, ugly argument in the kitchen, he’s kept his distance today. Even in the car on the drive over here, his eyes stayed glued to the road and he cranked the music up to avoid conversation.

“I love you both so much.” I’m feeling oddly choked up. Or maybe I really need to hear the words echoed back to me.

“Love you too, Anni.” Daisy gives my cheek a lip glossed kiss.

Brina scuttles around to my other side and lays her head on my shoulder, clipping me in the chin with her reindeer ears. “Love you tons, big sis.”

This is a nice moment, snuggled warmly between my sisters, safe from the dreary world outside the window. A few of the brittle layers guarding my heart peel away. Whatever else happens, at least I have my girls.

The rain is still slicing out of the sky in dense sheets. One of the showroom cargo bays rolls open to reveal a collection of men. I have no idea how many gleaming automobile antiques are now in my father’s collection. He never drives them. He doesn’t allow anyone else to drive them. I don’t understand the point.

The sight of Albie Barone never stirs anything except dread and loathing. He’s now gesturing a lot, probably telling some highly exaggerated bawdy story. Laughter breaks out. The men surrounding him are all clumped up together, wraiths in their dark holiday suits, huddled just inside the shelter of the garage.

Luca, however, stands apart from the rest. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He doesn’t appear to be listening to my father’s lecture. Luca strays outside the canopy of the garage overhang and tips his head up, looking at the sky. He has no umbrella. His coat is wide open. The idiot will be soaked to the skin in no time.

I’m unsure why the sight of him standing in the rain strikes somewhere deep and curdles into worry. Luca can take care of himself. If he wants to stand out in the cold rain that’s his business.

He just appears so disconnected from the rest of them. He doesn’t belong there with the likes of Richie Amato and my father and the mob clingers who surround them. He’s not one of them.

Luca’s uncle steps out from the huddle of men and motions to him with impatience. I can see Luca sigh and he obediently rejoins the group. All the men return to the arena-sized garage and the door rolls shut again.

I’m so preoccupied with fretting over Luca that I almost miss Daisy’s question. She’s asking if we have any last minute Christmas wishes.

“If you could both donate an inch of height to me that would be cool,” Sabrina says. “It’s lonely down here. Every time I try to compensate with heels I roll my ankle.”

I give her a squeeze. “Look at it this way. You may be petite but you definitely won the boob lottery.”

She looks down at her black sweater, dotted with silver snowflakes and stretched over her curvy shape. She puffs out her chest. “I really did, didn’t I?’

“Own it,” I tell her.

Behind us, shouting erupts as Mama reaches her tolerance threshold.

“NO NO NO!” She flaps the dishtowel around like a penalty flag. “That is enough burgers! We have too many burgers! No more!”

Big Man Bowie twirls his metal spatula and breaks into one his cheerful, toothy grins. “Okay, Mama Barone. You’re the boss.”

My mother fights a smile. “Hmph,” is the only reply she can muster.

After giving Sabrina’s reindeer antlers one last affectionate tweak, I leave the cozy company of my sisters. I’m aware I am at risk of my mother taking notice that I’m standing around. She’d probably put me to work. After this morning’s battle to create the ideal torta di mele, I’m satisfied that everyone would be better off if I have no hand in today’s meal.

Besides, someone needs to find Luca a towel. He’s bound to be freezing after taking that holiday tour of the rain.

As I pass the long kitchen island, Donna Amato is slicing up cheese cubes for the antipasto platter. Her daughters are flanked on either side of her. One rocks a sleeping baby in the crook of her arm. The other rubs her slightly swollen belly and complains that all the food smells are making her nauseous.

Donna pauses, looks up and smiles at me. She’s a nice lady and she’s raised Luca from the time he was four years old. From the way she talks, it’s clear that she loves him as much as her own children.

What’s odd is that she also helped raise Cale. Yet when his name came up at a recent luncheon she quickly changed the subject. From my understanding, Cale isn’t explicitly banned from the family but it’s clear he wouldn’t be welcome here.

For the first time I realize how heavily Cale’s absence must weigh on Luca. One thing that’s become crystal clear to me is that Luca loves his brother the way I love my sisters. Knowing this makes me feel more of a connection to the man I’m married to, although there are still more questions than answers. If I ask Luca about the exact circumstances that led to Cale’s exile, I know he wouldn’t tell me.

The house is drafty and I rub my arms as I move through the long hallway that leads to the foyer. My mother spends weeks decorating for the holidays and this year is no different, yet I’m not enjoying the pretty atmosphere as much as usual. Though the grand staircase that winds up to the second floor looks lovely with the banister draped in evergreen garland and studded with lights, a cutting memory flips my stomach upside down as I climb the steps. A phantom echo of pain and fear results in a shudder and an intense wave of hatred for a dead man.

Rocco Vincente faced no punishment for his brutality.

The physical injuries were bad enough but the humiliation was even harder to live with. He enjoyed throwing me into the wall. He relished my scream when my shoulder was pulled out of the socket. He smiled as I sobbed.

And yes, I wanted him dead.

Now, ten years later, he is dead. And I feel like making a toast of appreciation to the driver of that Queens garbage truck.

Upstairs, there’s a closet at the end of the hall where Mama always keeps extra linens and towels. The door to my old bedroom is closed and I don’t feel an urge to open it. I haven’t set foot in there since I left for good the morning of my wedding.

I extract a plush cranberry-colored bath towel from the closet and quickly return downstairs, where I can now hear a mix of male voices, signaling the whole gaggle of them have returned through the tunnel.

On the other side of a tall window there are two shadowy men communing beneath an umbrella. One of them is Rocco’s presumptive replacement. There’s never been a time in my memory when fierce looking men weren’t surveilling the property and mostly I took no notice of them. Today, however, I dislike seeing them.

The first person I run into is Leo, who is married to Luca’s cousin Bianca.

“Hi,” he says and looks around in confusion. “Looking for a bathroom.”

“Last door at the end of the hall on the right. Have you seen Luca?”

Leo jerks his head and vaguely points. “He was with your father and Richie. They hung back in your dad’s office.”

“Thanks.”

From here it’s a trek to my father’s study where he always hunkers behind an immense desk and pretends he’s the emperor of New York. Along the way I pass through the dining room and pause to admire the layout.

My mother takes her table settings seriously, especially on a holiday. This room was always one of my favorites, with its high ceiling and huge rectangular windows. Stepping in here is like stepping into another century.

The very old tapestries hung on the walls tend to change with the seasons and are worth a fortune. A distinctive piney scent comes from the tall Christmas trees posted in all four corners of the room. The table stretched across the center can comfortably seat thirty people. It has already been set and is covered with a tablecloth embroidered a century ago by some Sicilian great great grandmother. It’s a beautiful piece of artwork that should really be covered with a protective sheet but my mother detests the sight of plastic on her table. She prefers to send the heirloom off to a professional to deal with any stains. And woe to the person responsible for making those stains.

Pillar candles sit on antique saucers up and down the table and they have already been lit. The dishes at each place setting are part of a set that belonged to my grandmother, who I never met and was named for.

The room feels warmer than the others and I’m reluctant to leave. My father’s study is in the corner of the house and I approach with deliberate slowness, the sound of my heels on the hardwood floors scarcely audible. An old habit. Noise in this part of the house was always prohibited and sure to meet with swift punishment.

I hear Richie Amato’s laughter. And the clink of glassware and the sound of drinks being poured.

“It’s been a hell of a year,” says Richie, “and the best is yet to come. Let’s drink to the return of the good old days.”

I know enough mafia history to understand what Luca’s uncle means by ‘the good old days’. For a big chunk of the twentieth century the powerful five families of the New York mafia had the city on its knees with high level corruption, gangland violence and expensive political influence.

Though many of the old legends have long since vanished, the men in that room intend to combine their resources to tighten their tentacles around the city’s throat and they won’t stop at New York. I really don’t know how far my father’s reach extends but it’s significant. From New York to Vegas to Hollywood, from construction to casinos to entertainment, there’s no place that’s safe.

The door to the office is cracked open six inches, enough for me to see Richie and my father holding full shot glasses. My husband completes the triangle with a shot glass of his own.

“Salute,” my father cheers and raises his glass.

“Salute,” Richie repeats.

Luca says nothing as all three men toss back their shots at the same time.

Luca’s hair is still wet from the rain. With the top two buttons of his shirt open and a severe expression that sharpens his handsome features and hardens his green eyes, he’s as absurdly striking as ever.

Yet I dislike this version of him; a cold-eyed, muscled beast of a man without a trace of humor or goodwill. It’s as some fictional evil twin has replaced the outgoing, mischievous boy I’ve known since childhood.

Unsettled by the thought, I back away from the door. None of them would be pleased to find me eavesdropping.

Hugging the thick towel that’s scented with the familiar smell of Mama’s dried lavender sachets, I retreat to the dining room where food has begun to appear on the table.

Big Man Bowie has won Mama over and triumphantly delivers a tower of burgers to the table. He stands back with a rare serious look on his face and considers the best place to deposit his platter.

Heavy footsteps patter in the hallway and Richie strolls in. He gives me a disinterested nod of acknowledgement, grabs a slice of salami from a tray, and moves on.

Within seconds, Luca appears and cuts right across the room without making eye contact.

“Here, this is for you.” I try to hand him the towel but he keeps walking.

It’s possible he didn’t hear me. He did seem preoccupied.

But my face feels hot and the arm holding the towel wilts. I end up tossing it under the nearest Christmas tree before realizing a certain aproned hamburger cook is still in the room. I’m surprised to glance over and see him watching. I’m even more surprised at his wince of sympathy. The look on my face must be particularly miserable.

“Guess what, Anni?” says my brother-in-law. “I made this whole stack just how you like ‘em. Medium well with no cheese. Here, have one. I won’t tell.”

I’m not particularly hungry but he’s being nice and I’m in no position to turn down any gesture of kindness.

“Thanks.” I pluck the top burger off the stack and nibble the edge. “It’s good.”

Big Man Bowie’s usual electric grin is toned down a little as he gives me a kindhearted gaze. “Merry Christmas.”

He begins whistling Jingle Bells and starts to head back to the kitchen.

“Bowie?”

He quits whistling and turns around with a quizzical look.

“I just wanted to say thank you for loving my sister. You’re a really good guy. I should have told you that sooner.”

His smile lights up the room. “Thanks, Anni. And it’s never too late.”

He picks up Jingle Bells right where he left off and trots back to the kitchen. I have a feeling his final comment had something to do with Luca. Big Man Bowie might possess more wisdom and depth than I ever guessed.

I’m still standing around and eating my hamburger when a flood of people and food trays arrive. Mama throws me an irritated look, as if I’m a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Tough. Big Man Bowie wanted me to have this burger and I’m going to keep eating it.

At least she’s too busy with serving food to chase me around. The wine is poured, enough food is added to the table to feed a stadium and people start plopping down into chairs. I end up sitting between Big Man Bowie and Sabrina with Luca seated directly across.

He shakes his napkin out with one angry motion and then tensely waits with both hands curled into fists on either side of his plate.

“This is perfect, Giulia,” says my father and presents his cheek for my mother to kiss.

She blushes and pecks his cheek, willing to accept any crumb of affection from the man who scarcely notices her most of the time.

One particularly annoying feature of family mealtimes is how my mother still serves my father his food. She darts around the table and quickly spoons helpings of his favorite dishes onto a plate until it’s full.

Watching this play out is a stark contrast to Big Man Bowie and Daisy. It’s fun to watch him run around, making sure my sister has everything her heart desires so she doesn’t need to lift a finger.

“Babe, you want some of this macaroni stuff? How about some butter for your bread?”

She’s still wearing her Bowie Loves Daisy apron and somewhere she found a poinsettia flower to stick in her hair. She gives her husband an indulgent smile and lets him pamper her, which he clearly enjoys doing.

Across the table, Luca frowns at the food and only takes meager portions. I’ve just realized that he’s lost weight lately.

Beside me, Sabrina chatters excitedly about her latest video game design to Aunt Donna, who must have made the mistake of asking her about school.

I hear my name and look to the head of the table to see my mother pointing in my direction.

“And Annalisa made my torta di mele this year,” she says with pride and holds up the glass dish up for all to see.

I wish she wouldn’t do that. My contribution looks distinctly unimpressive when compared to the rest of the table and we’re not even having dessert yet.

But now my father is squinting at me. “You made this?”

“Yes.”

He nods with approval. “I’m glad to see you’re learning some useful skills. Cut me a piece. And cut her husband a piece as well. He deserves it.”

Talk about pressure.

I glance across the table at Luca but he’s not looking my way. His frown has deepened as he watches my mother cut small pieces of cake. She places them on small plates and hands one to my father. The other one is carried to Luca, who doesn’t seem too excited to receive it.

He stares at the slice, pokes it with his fork, then quickly looks up at me. He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by an outbreak of gasping coughs coming from the head of the table.

My father’s face is bright pink and he’s choking out wet crumbs. “WHAT IS THIS?” he demands and then starts choking again.

Mama thumps his back and hands him a glass of water. I’m clueless about what just happened but I can tell it isn’t good.

Did I leave the freaking cake in the oven for too long? Did I forget to add an ingredient?

“Anni,” Luca says but I ignore him because I have bigger problems right now.

My father’s face is contorted with anger and he points a finger of accusation at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Mama is now dissecting the slice of cake with a fork. She shears off a tiny bite, holds it to her tongue, and promptly spits it out. “Annalisa! What have you done? You were supposed to add cinnamon.”

“I-I did.” This I’m sure of. I remember using half the spice jar.

She shakes her head and takes another taste. “No. No, this is hot, like pepper.”

Pepper?

It would seem like a weird mistake. Except for the fact that there’s one person at the table with an obnoxious history of pranks. Pranks such as ruining desserts with hot pepper.

And he happened to be skulking around in the kitchen this morning while pissed off about his super duper special pen.

Slowly, I turn my head to look at my husband.

Luca’s not smirking. He’s not happy. Not horrified either. If anything, he looks slightly bored by the entire spectacle.

“Anni,” he says again.

Too much. My Christmas cup runneth over. Between too little sleep, too much marital angst and a trio of annoying cooking blisters, the dam breaks.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” I scream.

“Annalisa!” My father bangs a furious hand down on the table.

I don’t care. Let him screech.

Luca’s slice of cake is untouched because he knows it will taste like shit. But he still doesn’t get to have it. Nope, I’m taking my cake back right fucking now.

The next chain of events is fuzzily surreal.

I lunge across the table to grab Luca’s plate.

My elbow knocks into a lit pillar candle and it falls, lighting a loose napkin on fire.

Daisy throws her glass of wine on the flame and a fire cloud balloons like a circus trick, igniting Mama’s heirloom tablecloth.

Mama unleashes a long horror movie scream.

Luca’s cousin’s baby starts howling.

Sabrina tries to stand up and falls out of her chair.

Big Man Bowie comes to the rescue by grabbing the napkin that started the fire. It singes his fingers and with a yelp he tosses it away, where it bounces off a wall tapestry that probably survived the Renaissance and the plague and multiple bloody revolutions but must be unusually flammable.

The thing lights up like a torched haystack.

Then a skinny guy, one of Richie’s capos, jumps up, yanks his gun out of its holster and wildly spins around in search of more incoming threats.

Meanwhile, the fire jumps to a neighboring tapestry. At this rate the whole house might be turned to ashes but Luca finally has the presence of mind to tear both tapestries from the wall and beat down the flames with his jacket.

Multiple water glasses are thrown on the charred remnants of Mama’s irreplaceable tablecloth and the room is now full of smoke and lots of hysterical people.

Sabrina pops up from the floor with her antlers askew. “Holy shit.” She surveys the scene and then grimaces at her hand. “I think I sprained my wrist.”

I look at Luca and he looks at me.

All at once the fire alarms in the house begin simultaneously shrieking.