The Spia Family Branches Out

by Mary Leo

  “Then how did she get it? It’s a substantial sized diamond. And please don’t tell me she bought it for herself, because I’m not going to believe you.”

  “I do not know where this ring has come from. But it is of no consequences. It is you who I will marry.”

  I nearly choked on my iced tea. “Me? We hardly know each other. I’m not marrying you to save some trees or because my father says we should. He has no authority over me. He gave that up when he abandoned my mom and me when I was a kid.”

  He suddenly became very serious, as if this was an important subject that he wanted me to understand. Trouble was, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that he was in my bed, recovering from a bullet wound, and he may have killed people. “Our marriage will join our families together and our families will work together to save the ancient olive trees. This is an honorable reason.”

  I drank my bottled sweet tea while I tried to once again fully absorb the fact that my family was willing to marry me off to a mobster for reasons that seemed archaic to me. And with the evidence I’d gathered from the road, my dad might possibly be up to something much more sinister.

  “You seem like a nice guy and everything, if I overlook your ties with the underworld and that bullet hole in your shoulder, along with who might have put it there and why. However, as you know, I’m dating Leo Russo.”

  “Ah yes. The winemaker. Do you love him?”

  I stared at Giuseppe for a moment, panini . . . or panino, depending on if I was using the correct Italian version of the word . . . held midair. No one had ever asked me that question before. I mean, of course I loved Leo, but did I love him enough to marry him? To start a life with him? To have his children, like my cousins Rocco and Alessandra were doing? That was asking a lot.

  “You hesitate to answer. Do you not know?”

  “Of course I know.”

  “Then what is your answer?”

  He was pressing me and I didn’t like it. I put my sandwich down on the plate, pushing the surrounding crumbs around with my index finger, watching them slide off the plate and onto the lavender colored tray I’d bought at the Art and Wine Fair in Sonoma a couple years ago when I was into lavender.

  I was into a softer olive green now, like the Farga olive, exactly like Giuseppe’s eyes.

  Damn him!

  “That’s rather personal, don’t you think?”

  “I answered that I do not love Angelina. If it is personal, I still give you my answer.”

  “Gave you my answer.”

  “No, you have not.”

  “I didn’t mean that I . . . I was merely trying to say . . .”

  “That you love Leo?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we, well, we have a past.”

  I certainly did not want to spill my past with this man . . . the cheating . . . the drinking. We weren’t always good for each other, but we were better now . . . at least I thought we were.

  “It is a good past?”

  I shrugged. “Not really, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a good future.”

  “A good future like Angelina and me? We will be friends in the future, without the benefits.” A wide grin stretched his perfect lips. “Nothing more.”

  I couldn’t help being charmed by this man. He had me chuckling.

  I had to tell him my suspicions about Angelina. “How well do you know her? I mean, is she capable of shooting someone?”

  “Angelina, how do you say . . . is complex. She would take care of anyone who betrayed her or your father. Yes. She has learned how to take care of these matters.”

  A cold chill washed over me.

  “Do you think she would shoot you?”

  He shrugged. “It would not be wise if she did.”

  “Other than she might kill you, how else would this not be wise?”

  “I do not believe she would do such a thing, and I know she did not do this. It was impossible. You do not know all the facts, and I can not tell them to you, yet. Just know that whoever shot me, the cazzo, stronzo. This person is an amateur. A minchia who deserves to die, for what they tried to do. I will find the dog who did this and put an end to them.”

  His face turned bright red, and I could see the deep anger in his eyes, despite his attempt at remaining calm.

  Okay then, it seemed as though he had no problem calling the shooter a fuck, an asshole and a shit. I would think that translated into the fact that he would have no difficulty whatsoever putting a bullet right between that shooter’s eyes.

  For now, it might be best for everyone involved if I kept my suspicions about Angelina to myself.

  Oh yeah, Giuseppe was definite husband material.

  Orange Olive Oil Muffins – Level Four (*risk factor)

  1 1/3 cups flour

  1 cup sugar

  1 tsp. salt

  1/2 tsp. baking powder

  1/4 tsp. baking soda

  1/2 cup delicate EVOO (a light EVOO)

  3/4 cup milk (whole or low-fat)

  2 large eggs (be careful not to use extra-large eggs) at room temperature

  1-2 tsp. freshly grated orange zest

  1/3 cup fresh orange juice, and Grand Marnier (half OJ/half GM mixed) Important: (this is what raises this recipe to a level four due to the *risk factor) DO NOT drink any remaining GM. Instead, store this in a safe place, preferably at someone’s house other than your own.

  Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C). Set eight paper mini-Panettone or free standing muffin cups on a baking sheet (or set eight muffin liners in a muffin tin), but the mini-Panettone cups are much prettier!

  In a large bowl, add the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Give it a couple swirls with a wooden spoon to blend. In another medium bowl whisk together the olive oil, milk, eggs, orange zest, and combination of OJ/GM.

  Make a well in the middle of the dry ingredients and pour in the olive oil mixture. Stir the combination with a soft spatula until just combined. DO NOT OVERMIX! There may be some minor lumps in the batter, which will be fine. (Too much mixing will produce tough muffins)

  Fill the muffin cups 2/3 to 3/4 full of batter. Bake until they just feel set in the center and the tops are golden brown, about 35 to 40 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool on a wire rack before serving.

  Muffins can be stored for up to three days in an airtight container. They will lose their crusty top, but the GM flavor will be more pronounced, which will only make them better. You can even add a little more GM to the bottom of the muffin when you store them for extra flavor. WARNING: this can cause a real desire for more GM. Make sure you give these soaked muffins away.

  Muffins can be frozen for up to ten weeks.

  TEN

  It’s All About The Muffins

  Giuseppe mostly slept for the rest of the day and into the night while I busied myself with some bookkeeping, then fell asleep on my sofa around midnight. No one bothered to come knocking for dinner, not even the lovely Angelina who had seemed as though she didn’t want to let him out of her sight . . . so much for that idea.

  I had a feeling Angelina was all show and little do. Women like Angelina usually were. They liked to talk a big game and make everyone think they were going to act on what they promised, but seldom if ever did they carry through with their bluster . . . and that was all she had . . . bluster.

  Somewhere in the middle of the night, after tossing and turning about a million times, I decided that I truly missed my bed and contemplated sneaking back into it. Of course, I’d sleep with my head down at the foot of the bed, on top of the comforter. I’d bring my own blanket from the sofa. I went over the plan a few more times of how I would carefully crawl in my bed with Giuseppe and try my best not to disturb him . . . or myself for that matter. I could only hope the close proximity wouldn’t then keep me awake with an over-the-top sexual fantasy. He had a masculine throaty sound to his light snore that made me want to curl up right next to hi
m, even though I knew it would be like curling up with a sleeping lion. Still, it was sexier than anything I’d ever heard before.

  Those sexy thoughts were twirling freely around in my head when a noise coming from the kitchen stopped me cold in my fantasy tracks.

  I presumed the Italian Stallion had already awakened and was fishing around in my kitchen. But for what? Food? A drink? Olive oil? What could he possibly need at . . . I gazed at the small clock I’d placed on the floor next to the sofa . . . 4:16 in the morning?

  I didn’t want him to know I was awake so I tried not to move. I hoped he’d find whatever he was looking for and go back to bed. No way could I sneak into his bed now that he was awake. My stealth plans had been foiled by a late night visit to my kitchen. I couldn’t decide if I was angry because I’d have to remain on my uncomfortable sofa longer or if I felt cheated out of my sexy dreams about Giuseppe and me. Not that I was hoping anything would happen, but if it did . . . no, I couldn’t go there. I was back with Leo so I tossed those dirty thoughts right into my virtual trash bin.

  I heard the glass lid on the cake stand rattle, then settle back down. I’d saved three orange muffins on that cake stand, so I figured Giuseppe must have been after a muffin.

  Well, after all, they were exceptionally good, if I did say so myself. And I’d soaked these muffins in the extra Grand Mariner, so they would be extra yummy.

  Not for me, of course.

  After a few more seconds, I heard the familiar click, click, click of one of the stove burners getting lit. What could he possibly want to cook at this hour? Then a moment later another click, click, click only faster this time. Didn’t he know the burner wouldn’t light without settling on the clicks for a moment? Then another click, click, click even faster, and another. What the heck? I waited, wondering what he could possibly be doing when suddenly the sound of Giuseppe’s soft snoring rumbled through me causing a shiver to literally slip up the middle of my back and radiate out to my fingers and toes.

  If he was snoring, then who the hell was in my kitchen?

  It was at that exact instant when the pungent stench of gas filtered up through my nose and tickled the back of my throat.

  I jumped up knowing that it most definitely couldn’t be Giuseppe in my kitchen, but rather some intruder who had entered my apartment in the middle of the night in order to snitch a muffin and use my stove? I mean my family was fairly lax (several people on the orchard had a key to my apartment) when it came to visiting each other’s homes, but this was ridiculous!

  Then it hit me as the smell of gas began to permeate everything with its horrid stench. This intruder may not be friendly. Someone could purposely be trying to asphyxiate Giuseppe . . . and I would simply be collateral damage of their deadly fixation. After all, the hit hadn’t been successful with a bullet, so now they were trying to asphyxiate him . . . and me!

  “Who’s there?” I yelled at the person dressed entirely in black, wearing a large droopy hoodie, standing next to my stove in my kitchen. They had their back to me so I couldn’t see a face, but from the slight body I got the feeling this was a woman . . . Angelina? I wondered if she could be this bold?

  A lamppost shone right outside my apartment and it shed light into the front part of my apartment. Enough light seeped in so I could see all my orange muffins had been pinched. “And how do you get off stealing my muffins? What are you, some kind of muffin thief? If you wanted some, all you had to do was ask. Aunt Val? Is that you? Audrey? Who the hell . . .?” I coughed then, but still kept talking. “And what’s with all the gas?” More coughing. “Are you purposely trying to kill us?”

  No answer.

  The person in black began to slowly creep towards the door.

  “I have a gun,” I said, but if the muffin thief happened to be anyone who knew me, they would remember I’d gotten rid of my personal handgun years ago. Drinking and firearms didn’t mix.

  The person in black suddenly raced out of my open doorway, turned and slammed the door shut from the other side, lingered there for a few seconds then jammed down the stairs in a light rumble. Obviously the stealth muffin thief didn’t weigh very much or their speedy decent would have caused much more of a reverberation.

  I could barely take in a deep breath the scent of gas was now so strong. I grabbed the front of my T-shirt and pulled it up to cover my nose and mouth, but it didn’t help much. I just kept coughing.

  “Che cos'è? What is wrong?” Giuseppe said, sitting straight up in bed, pointing his gun at the door. I had no idea he had one. The man had been brought up to my apartment half naked. Where could he have possibly have hidden it?

  But then I answered my own question: one of my relatives more than likely brought it up for him. None of these ex-mobsters were ever too far from a weapon.

  “You’re too late,” I said in between coughs. “Somebody broke in and left,” I told him still trying to breathe.

  “Where is he? I’ll shoot him,” he said, jerking his gun around the now empty room.

  “I think it was a woman, and she already left,” I said through several hacking coughs.

  “And you let her get away?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “It . . . happened . . . too fast.” The tickle in my throat had reached an uncontrollable state.

  “Then, Angelina is right. We must make it clear you are no longer my fiancée.”

  “Are you saying this was meant for me?”

  “I can not be sure, but . . .” He abruptly stopped talking in mid-sentence, his voice sounding tight, as if the stink was finally getting to him. “Dio mio, è gas?” He began coughing in earnest then and had a hard time stopping.

  “Yes,” I said, finally rushing towards my stove. “We . . . have to get out of here.” Then I began coughing and couldn’t stop. I could hear Giuseppe doing the same thing.

  I grabbed for the knobs on my stove and turned them all off, but the gas had already filled my tiny apartment with its potentially deadly and highly combustible stench.

  “And the dirty bastard took . . . all my muffins,” I yelled as Giuseppe pushed on the door.

  “He tried to kill us with gas and . . . you’re angry over food? You are a curious woman.” He coughed again, this time with even more urgency. We had to get out of here, but damn, I was angry.

  “They were hard . . . hard to make because of the . . . the liquor that I love but couldn’t drink. Dammit!” More coughing. “And now they’re all gone,” I said, then I coughed up a lung.

  “We have . . . a bigger problem . . .” the stench seemed to be taking its toll on Giuseppe. He could hardly speak. “I can . . . not . . . open . . . the door.”

  “It can be tricky,” I told him rushing over to where he was standing, then grabbing the handle and pushing on the door. It wouldn’t budge. Something was in the way. I tried to see what, but there wasn’t enough light on my deck.

  It was then that I noticed Giuseppe wore very-tight, dark-blue, clinging-to-everything-he-owned underwear. Not only did the man have a chest and arms that made my insides melt, but mother nature had been more than generous when she handed out his private body parts.

  Mama Mia!

  “I . . . we need to grab a hold . . .” I told him, referring to the doorknob and not the hefty bulge between his legs, “and push!” This whole escaping the gas stench would have gone a lot smoother if he’d worn actual pants.

  He did as he was told, but the door refused to open. “There is something in front of it,” he managed to say.

  And sure enough, the gassy muffin thief had somehow managed to move a heavy planter in front of the door. Whoever this thief might be had arms of steel. That planter had to weigh a hundred pounds.

  Okay, so now panic began to creep in. Funny how that works when you can’t breathe!

  More intense coughing ensued.

  “We must break the glass,” Giuseppe said, his voice a low rasp. He looked around fo
r anything to hurl at the door.

  In the meantime, I had a different idea. “Maybe we could . . .” I told him, but he wasn’t about to listen.

  Instead, he came barreling up behind me ready to fling my pretty Italian hand-painted planter that held my little olive tree at the door. Granted, I didn’t know how effective he’d be considering he cradled the planter with his good arm. Still, for the sake of my tree, I tried to stop him, but his momentum was too intense. In what seemed like an instant, he twirled around a couple times and flung the planter at the glass door.

  The explosive impact of the glass bursting into a million tiny shards along with the burst of rich plant soil dredged everything within two feet with glass slivers and dirt, including Giuseppe and me.

  I didn’t move, nor did I want to.

  “You were saying?” he asked, slowly turning to me, his face covered with a fine dusting of rich black dirt.

  “Ummm, . . . that maybe we could open a window?”

  “That might have been a better idea,” he said while he gently removed glass shards and dirt from my hair.

  “Ya think?” I said, afraid to move. Bare feet and glass weren’t the best combination.

  The good thing about the large hole in my door was we could breathe again. Unfortunately, when I added up all the bad things . . . well, let me just say that the stealthy muffin filching, gas burglar should enjoy her last days of freedom, because I was most definitely back on sleuth detail, and nothing would stop me from catching this sneaky would-be assassin.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Of course there was no sleeping for the rest of the night. As it turned out, Andrew had been lured away from his watch by what he thought was a gunshot coming from the back of my mother’s house. Apparently, that was long enough for gas bandit to sneak into my apartment and try to kill us, which apparently only took a few minutes. By the time the gas bandit went tearing out of my place, Andrew was just returning from scoping out my mom’s backyard so he couldn’t catch whomever it was who did the nasty deed.