“Eat.” A woman approached us, swallowing slowly as her eyes darted between the two of us. “We have two roast pigs.”
“Must be some celebration,” I spoke, careful to keep the slight accent from my voice. Andi had always said it came when I was either really emotional — or in bed. I pushed at the painful memory, but it clawed itself back into my consciousness, when the woman in front of us smiled warmly and handed me a plate.
She pressed a hand to my wrist and whispered, “Eat.”
Because that made my wife not dead.
Food?
Italians.
The plate felt foreign in my hands and, for a minute, I was disoriented as if I truly wasn’t aware of the purpose it served.
“You put food on it,” Frank muttered under his breath as he moved past me and started pulling at the pork.
The woman’s smile turned into a frown. “Are you… vegetarian?”
And again all talking ceased.
God save me, you’d think she just asked if I’d denounced the Italian flag and didn’t go to mass.
“No.” I forced a smile. “Just… really jet lagged.”
“Oh.” People around me exhaled all together and then started chattering; I wondered if they would kick me out if I said I preferred soymilk?
There was so much food I didn’t even know where to start. Huh, was that how Phoenix used to feel when I made fun of him for not eating? Back in the day, he’d thought that he didn’t deserve any kind of pleasure, that even tasting chocolate or wine would cause him to relapse into the sexual predator that he’d convinced himself he was. Asking the man to eat a grape was a life or death situation — or it had been. Until he was saved.
Damn it.
I didn’t want to be saved.
No saving was needed.
Because the truth of the matter was, I wasn’t really lost. I was just… empty.
The truth hit me so hard, I sucked in a breath. My chest cracked, just a bit as I mindlessly started piling food onto a plate that I knew within five minutes would be dumped into the trash.
“So…” The woman’s eyes were too intelligent for my liking. Her black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and her face was smooth and clear. It was nearly impossible to tell how old she was, but I knew she was at least pushing sixty. I frowned. Or maybe younger? She was beautiful, but clearly old enough to be my mother. “You do not like food then?”
I pressed my lips together in a tight smile and was about to answer, when Frank wrapped a strong arm around my shoulder. “There has been a loss.”
“A loss?” she repeated taking a step back from me.
I didn’t know what to say. What the hell was he doing?
“He has lost himself.”
The woman nodded sagely as if she hung on every piece of shit that flew out of his mouth.
“But he will find it.” Frank squeezed my shoulder. “Because if he doesn’t, I imagine she would be disappointed, and the last thing a man needs is to disappoint the one he lives for. Isn’t that right, grandson?”
Pissed that he was bringing up something that was real in front of a complete stranger I jerked away and muttered, “Bathroom?”
The woman pointed down the hall. I made a beeline around the table heaped with food, careful to keep my eyes averted lest anyone actually recognize that they were the same as Nixon’s, as the Abandonato boss, as the one family who had basically crushed any dreams the Alferos had of being the leaders of the Cosa Nostra.
Hell, they’d probably shit themselves if they knew who they’d just invited into their home.
The Abandonatos and Alferos in Chicago had buried the hatchet a year ago.
But something told me the Alferos in New York were still fixating on a mistake that had happened long ago, when a family turned against itself and blamed the easiest target — the Alferos.
They were powerful — but they’d never recovered.
After going down a maze like hallway with doors on both sides, I finally found the bathroom and was just about to knock on the door when it swung open.
A girl about the age of eighteen let out a little gasp. “You.”
“Me?” I frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we know each other.”
As if horrified, she took a step back then placed her hands against her cheeks, it did nothing to hide the red tinging the outer corners of her sharp cheekbones. On second thought, she looked older than eighteen.
And then it hit me.
It was my turn to take a step backward.
“Valentina,” I whispered her name as fresh pain sliced through my entire body causing every single muscle to tense with anxiety. “You’re Valentina.”
The one that was meant for me.
The girl who, months ago, I would have married, had it not been for Andi. Not that Valentina was even aware of her father’s matchmaking. But that was what the mafia was built on, power, power, and more power.
She looked different than the pictures.
Older.
Andi’s words haunted me. “You’ll love her, Sergio.” I tensed even more, my fingers digging into the door frame. “She needs you… needs you to push her. She loves reading.” Andi’s voice died in my head.