by Sam Mariano
“We should’ve brought flowers,” I tell him, as we walk up the driveway.
“She’ll get plenty of flowers.”
“I should’ve brought her a gift. I should’ve picked her out something nice. Food isn’t enough; neighbors bring food.”
“You’ll be fine,” he assures me. “This is all fine. Unnecessary, even, because yes, everyone is going to bring food.”
“Is this dress too tight?” I ask, casting an anxious glance down my body. “It’s too tight, isn’t it? I had some that were less form-fitting, but they didn’t have a high neck. I had one that was perfect, but Mateo gave it to Mia.”
“Francesca, you look perfect. Don’t worry about your dress.” Stopping short, as if just thinking of something, he adds, “Don’t call me Sal.”
I blink, not quite understanding. “You go by Antonio at home?”
“No, Salvatore. Ma hates nicknames, though. If we see Maddie, call her Madeline.”
Nodding my head as we resume walking, I say, “Madeline and Salvatore, got it.”
I’ve never had a mom or anything even remotely close. I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before. I could not be further outside my element.
Sal lets himself in the front door, looking around as he steps past the door, letting me inside so he can close it. I’m relieved by the draft of cool air, but uncomfortable again by the faint perfumey scent in this unfamiliar house. It’s not a small house, though compared to ours it certainly is. Everything is cozier, though. Where our house feels more like a gallery sometimes, and we’re all just living displays, this is very clearly a home. Carpeted floors where children can sit and play, butt-ugly knit blankets draped across the backs of furniture—hopefully handcrafted, and that’s why they kept them. The room is dim, with only a light in the corner next to a recliner.
I suddenly feel overdressed. My gaze drifts to Sal, to his dark wash jeans and short sleeved black button down. It’s far more casual than what I’m wearing, and though my goal was to impress, now that I’ve seen her living room was apparently decorated by an 80-year-old woman who wears hair curlers and a bathrobe while watching soaps, I’m wondering if I’ll come off as stuck-up.
“Ma?” Sal calls out, interrupting my anxiety over my outfit choice.
I follow him to the kitchen, another homey space, smaller than Sal’s. A short, older woman with fluffy dark hair just past her neck stands at the counter, back to us, wiping down the counter. It looks clean to me, but maybe she was just working there.
Sal doesn’t immediately say anything, he just watches her wipe down the countertop. When there’s nothing left to clean there, she moves on to the already-clean sink and starts wiping that down, too.
“Ma,” Sal says, to get her attention.
She isn’t surprised and she doesn’t stop wiping or turn to face us, she just says, “I hope you took your shoes off. I just cleaned the carpets this morning.”
I grimace, looking down at my heels. They’re clean, but they’re on my feet. Sal glances down at his, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned.
“Your sister’s coming over later,” she adds, without waiting for a response to that first part. “I don’t know why she couldn’t cancel her afternoon shoot, but you kids have your priorities.”
The censure is clear in her tone, and it makes my stomach drop.
Do we get points for being here today? Maybe we should’ve been here last night. Going to my family first probably wasn’t what she would’ve wanted.
I realize that attempting to keep both our families happy, even if the business side is at peace, may be extremely trying. Mateo isn’t used to bending in any regard. His family is his family, and he expects certain things of that. It won’t matter to him that Sal has a family who values togetherness just as much.
We only joked about it, but Sal is right; when we have kids, this is going to be a nightmare.
“I called Thomas to come over and go over the will with everybody.” She laughs, bitterly. “Not that it matters. Long as I’m alive, no one gets any money but his bastard.”
Sal’s eyebrows rise in earnest surprise. “He left Willow something?”
“Apparently,” she snaps, scrubbing the faucet more aggressively than she already was. “Probably figured I’d cut her out if he left it to me.”
I’ve only been here for about 90 seconds, and I’m already pretty sure she would’ve.
“So… Willow’s coming here?” Sal asks, frowning.
“Not to my house, she’s not. She can go to the official reading if she has to be there.”
The sink gets another aggressive wipe down, then she moves along to the other counter. A minute passes and she continues to clean, then Sal finally says, “Ma, could you stop cleaning for a minute?”
“I have to get this mess cleaned up. People will be coming over, and I won’t have the house looking a mess.”
I have no idea if I should speak up, since the kitchen isn’t a mess, and it seems likely she’s doing this more to keep busy, to distract herself from her own sense of loss, but I can’t just keep standing here like a house plant.
“I could help you, if you like,” I offer.
The wiping motion finally ceases at the sound of my voice. She keeps her back to us, but stands at the counter, bracing her weight on the edge for a moment, before she finally turns around to face us.
I’m glad I’m holding the casserole dish, because I desperately want to fidget.
Her brown eyes go directly to me, looking me over from head to tie like she’s inspecting a loaf of day-old bread for mold. I stand a little straighter, attempting a smile and then quickly dropping it upon remembering this is a solemn occasion.
Sal takes a couple steps closer to me and she cuts a glance in his direction at the movement.
“Ma, this is Francesca.” Then, to me, he says, “I know you’ve been looking forward to meeting Ma and I already said this, but this is my mother, Yvonne.”
I turn to place the casserole dish down on the round wooden table behind me, running my hands briefly over the bottom of my dress and turning back to offer her an apologetic sort of smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sal—Salvatore’s told me so much about you. I can tell you’re a wonderful mother, and you raised such an incredible son.”
Her lips curve up, but there’s no humor in her eyes. “Francesca Morelli,” she says, putting a slight emphasis on my last name. “My husband never liked your kind. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that.”
There’s a sensation like ice cold water running through me and my halting smile drops completely. I wait optimistically for her to finish that statement with something unexpectedly nice, like, “but I’m not my husband—welcome to the family!”
Instead she wraps it up with, “Morelli Scum, he called your family.”
“Okay,” Sal interrupts, frowning lightly at his mother. “Anyway, Francesca made some muffins for you. They’re really good—she runs her own bakery.”
“Women shouldn’t run businesses.”
I’m not about to argue. “It’s my brother’s bakery,” I offer, like that makes it better.
Her unpleasant smile grows tighter. “Mateo Morelli. Antonio liked him less than anyone.”
My stomach feels like it’s sinking over and over again. This is so not how I wanted this to go.
“Ma,” Sal says, giving her a look somewhere between firm and pleading.
“What?” she asks, turning a sneakily reprimanding look on him. “Your father’s murdered at the hands of her family and I have to welcome her into his home?”
“Don’t do this,” Sal says, shaking his head. “Francesca had nothing to do with what happened to Dad.”
“The hell she didn’t,” she says, raising her voice. Jabbing a finger in my direction, she says, “If not for this girl, your father would still be here right now. How you can even look at her, I’ll never know.”
My stomach roils with anxiety and guilt. She’s right, I just didn’t
think she’d point it out.
Turning her vitriol back on me, she says, “Your brother should be dead, not my husband, but you manipulated my son—”
“Stop,” Sal says, pushing me back and stepping in front of me. “Stop it. I know you’re in pain, but stop. You’re my mom and I want to be here for you, but I can’t do that if you’re going to be mean to the woman I love. Don’t lash out at her. She didn’t do anything. She’s been wanting to meet you for months, and this is the welcome she gets? Come on, Ma.”
I have no idea if Sal defending me will make things better or worse, but my money is on worse. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I lean in so I can talk quietly. “Why don’t I just let you two spend some time together and I’ll go? It was too soon. We should’ve given her more time.”
Glancing back over his shoulder, Sal says, “No.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Honest. I can get a ride and you can meet up with me after you spend some time with your mom.”
Actually, that’s what I want to do now. There’s no coming back from this. No amount of sudden friendliness could erase the unpleasantness of the last several minutes, so I’d prefer to just scrap this day and call it a loss. We’ll try again another time, when maybe her pain won’t be so fresh and she won’t hate me so much.
“Francesca—”
I shake my head, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll just call Vince. It’s fine.” Then, looking to his mom, I add, “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Before she can respond or Sal can try to stop me again, I head back the way we came and flee the Castellanos house.
---
I grab a French fry out of the basket in the center of the table and point it at Mia like a finger. “All I’m saying is, there are perks to joining our family. We may be emotionally unhealthy, utterly dysfunctional assholes, but we’re all basically orphans, so you don’t have to meet our parents.”
Wincing in solidarity, she says, “I’m so sorry it went so horribly. I can’t believe she said all that.”
“To your face,” Vince adds, grabbing a communal fry and popping it in his mouth.
After Vince rescued me from Yvonne’s house, we dropped by his to pick up Mia. Sal didn’t want me to leave by myself, but I assured him we would hang out and wait for him, then we could have a friendly meal with people who don’t hate me. Now we’re commiserating in a corner booth at a quiet little diner, waiting for Sal.
“I can’t believe she made me miss my family. I’m not dreading family dinner tomorrow anymore. Mateo has already made peace with Sal, there are no more assholes on Sal’s payroll with a hard-on for killing Mateo; everything should be just fine.”
Mia’s gaze drops to the table, a little glumly. “Yeah, no more of those murdery assholes to deal with. Hooray.”
My eyebrows rise. “You want him dead now? What’d he do?”
Vince shakes his head, smiling a little bitterly as he grabs another fry. “Nah, she wasn’t talking to you. Don’t mind her.”
“Yeah, don’t mind me,” Mia says, shooting an unpleasant little look at Vince.
I grimace, glancing between them. “Is today a fighting day? I should’ve called Adrian.”
Vince snorts. “Yeah, Sal would’ve been psyched to have Adrian pick you up at his mother’s house. No doubt.”
“We’re all family now,” I say, almost as glumly as Mia now. “I don’t want there to still be a big divide, I want things to be nice.”
“Then you should’ve fallen in love with a goddamn accountant,” Vince states, grabbing his pop and taking a drink.
“I would’ve loved that, but I don’t meet many accountants. I love Sal, I just wish things were easier with our families.”
“He sounds like a bit of a momma’s boy,” Mia observes. “I bet you’ll have to spend every holiday there.”
“In theory, I loved that he was close to and protective of his female family members. If they all liked me as much as his sister, that would’ve been awesome. If his mom never gives up this grudge, though… Jesus.”
Mia nods. “I guess I don’t envy that.”
“You’re welcome,” Vince says lightly, grabbing the ketchup bottle to squeeze out a little more on the tray.
“Vince has lots of good attributes,” I acknowledge, to be fair. I still like the idea of Mia with Mateo better, but since he’s shacked up with the maid and showing no signs of ceasing his self-sabotage anytime soon, I should probably keep my eggs in more than one basket.
“He does,” Mia agrees. “He just needs anger management or something.”
“Sitting right here,” Vince states.
“I know,” she says, with an aggressively plucky smile.
“I don’t need anger management,” he mutters, a bit darkly. “I need a loyal girlfriend.”
My eyes widen and Mia guffaws, equal parts shocked and reluctantly amused. “Wow. Cool. Make sure you say things like that when Sal gets here so he thinks I’m a cheating ho-bag.”
Vince lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t respond.
Mia scowls at him and elbows him hard in the side.
They’re buckets of fun.
“I can’t wait to give a toast at your wedding,” I tell them, flashing them both smiles and grabbing a fry. “Remember before I left when you threw him kisses and things seemed pretty okay between you?” I ask. “What happened to that?”
“Things change,” Mia states, losing interest in the French fries and digging her phone out of her purse.
As she starts texting, Vince doesn’t even attempt subtlety as he bends his head to look at her screen.
“Would you like me to read aloud as I type?” she asks mildly, not taking her eyes off the phone as her thumbs fly across the screen.
“Nah, I’ve got eyes.” Apparently the text is nothing to worry about, because he stops monitoring her messaging and grabs another fry, glancing at me instead. “Did Sal say when he’s coming? I’m hungry.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Salvatore
After the shit show of trying to introduce Francesca to Ma, I’m feeling more than my share of anxiety about the future. I didn’t want to let Francesca leave; I wanted her to stay so Ma would see that I wouldn’t back down on that. I couldn’t blame Francesca for not wanting to stay in such an uncomfortable situation, but I still felt shitty letting her flee my mom’s on her own.
Now as I hustle inside the diner, my gaze searching the dining room, I see her in the corner, looking almost as uncomfortable as she was last I saw her. I thought hanging out with her own family for a bit would chill her out, but as I approach the table, I pick up a weird vibe. Vince’s broad back is to me, a girl with long dirty blonde hair beside him, but she’s paying more attention to her phone than anything else.
Francesca’s gaze lands on me and relief transforms her features. “Oh, thank God.” She climbs out of the booth, even though there’s room next to her for me. Throwing her arms around my neck, she gives me a big hug and my anxiety drains right out of me. All the stress of the day, all the bullshit, it doesn’t stand a chance with Francesca in my arms.
God, I love this woman.
Stepping back, she takes my hand and holds it even as we slide into the same side of the booth. “Guys, this is Sal. Sal, Vince and Mia.”
I have to be honest, I was curious to see what Miss Coconut Hair looked like. I don’t know what I expected, given she attracts dodgy men like bees to a honeycomb, but it’s not the innocent-looking young girl grinning across the table at me. Of course she’s incredibly attractive, and even though I feel a little pervy checking her out, she’s wearing a little pink shirt that’s little more than a bra with a black, sheer tank top over it. I don’t need glasses to see she’s got a great figure. But she reads as much more open and sweet than I expected. Even though literally no one has described her in such a way, I expected her to be a little manipulative, purposely wielding her feminine wiles, and the guys who get sucked in are just too close to see i
t.
“Hi,” she says brightly, grinning at me like I’m Ryan Gosling. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
Vince merely nods. We already know each other, so we didn’t really need an introduction.
“Yeah, you too,” I tell Mia, nodding at her. “I’ve certainly heard enough about you.”
“Only good things, I hope,” she jokes.
Vince rolls his eyes at her as he reaches for a fry. “Who could say a bad word about you?”
Mia ignores him and remains cheerful.
I’ve only been here for fifteen seconds and I’m already starting to see why Mark hates this kid so much.
Well, aside from the fact that he gets to fuck Mia every night and Mark is just plain jealous. That’s a pretty big part of why he hates Vince, but I’m already agreeing with him about the rest and they’ve barely interacted. I’m probably too biased.
“I only ever have good things to say about you,” Francesca says lightly, also ignoring Vince as she grabs the menu wedged up against the wall and passes it to me. “We’re all starving. No pressure.”
I flash her a smile, cracking open the menu. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
Mia’s phone vibrates on the table and she picks it up to check it. Vince looks over and reads the message, like it’s a normal thing to do, then goes back to picking at fries.
Raising an eyebrow, I look to Francesca for a reaction. She shrugs. I can’t tell if the shrug is her saying this is totally normal and of course Vince should monitor Mia’s every move, or if it’s new and she doesn’t understand why it’s happening either. Hard to tell with her family.
The waitress comes over to ask what I want to drink, but since they’re all starving I tell them to go ahead and order while I look at the menu.
Once the waitress is gone, Mia makes it her mission to get to know me. Being well versed in mob families now, though, she doesn’t know what she’s allowed to ask.
