Romeo, who’s like a brother to me. My Don.
He knows I don’t like to sit still and never have. He knows I like to get my hands dirty, whether that’s changing the oil on one of my cars or breaking legs as punishment for a crime committed against the family. Romeo knows that the best way to really punish a guy like me is to take him away from anyone who matters and to make him do fucking menial labor.
As I head inside, a car pulls up the long drive. It’s hard to see with the setting sun, but I cover my eyes to block the outdoor lighting and try to see. Ah. One of Tavi’s, then. He’s come to pay a visit. I wait, but he’s busy on his phone so I give him space.
Tuscan homes are rustic and sturdy, many built centuries ago. The home set at the vineyard’s no exception. Stone columns and benches line the walk to the main house, the most modern part of all the recessed lighting and spotlights in the garden. Here, the smell of ripe grapes fades a little.
Laughter comes inside from the kitchen Maurice, an older guy who’s cooked for the Rossi family for decades, makes magic in the kitchen, unless Tavi’s wife Elise is here. Elise can cook her ass off. But Elise is pregnant, and hates flying on a good day, so Tavi’s got her home with The Family.
I wonder why he’s here.
Another burst of laughter floats through the warm evening air. I clench my fists. It’s been way too fucking long since I’ve had a chance to talk with brothers of my own, to feel like I had a tribe that actually welcomes me. I know what’ll happen if I go to the kitchen.
I’ll find Maurice regaling staff with tales of his many exploits from when he was a young guy in the Italian army. It’s how he met Narcisso, the late Rossi family Don, and how he got the job here. Kitchen help in the army.
They’ll be sitting around the large, rustic kitchen table with their pints of ale or glasses of wine, probably with a heavy antipasto plate at the center table. Maurice is famous for his antipasto boards—handmade cheeses, cured meats, olives cured from the Rossi’s private collection, with jams and dried fruits. They’ll drink and eat and talk in perfect amiability.
Until I walk in.
Tavi’s still sitting in his car, probably catching up on emails.
I decide to test my theory.
I amble toward the kitchen. Sure enough, the whole crew’s sitting around with their drinks and food, and Maurice is speaking animatedly in Italian, waving his hands for dramatic effect. He winks at me and continues his tale. Maurice has known me since I was ten years old, and he isn’t afraid of me. That makes one.
I stand against the doorframe, leaning my hip against it listen to him.
“And the girl, she says, buddy, you want more than one tonight? I’m a triplet.” Snickers and chuckles. Maurice waggles his eyebrows. “And I say to her, I’m glad you told me. Thought I was seeing triple. Still, I only got one dick, sweetheart.”
The guys laugh out loud, slapping their knees.
“Ah, Maurice,” I say from the back. “Don’t sell yourself short, brother. You’ve got two hands and a tongue, too.”
The laughter dies as the guys look back at me, their eyes wide with fear.
And then it begins. First one stands and feigns a yawn and heads off in the other direction toward staff headquarters. Then another, then another, until it’s only me and Maurice left. Like a goddamn leper.
“Santo,” he says warmly. “That hot, you take off shirt?”
“Yeah, sweatin’ like a pig out there.” In here, it’s much cooler. I head to the laundry room off the kitchen where the housecleaner does our laundry and grab a clean tee. I pull it on, wondering what’s taking Tavi so long. I won’t invade his privacy, so I’ll wait until he comes in.
“They scatter like ants when you come,” Maurice says with a laugh. “They don’t know the Santo I do. I remember you were just a boy, ten years old, the first one who ate everything. So thin I could see your bones.”
I turn my back to him and close my eyes. I remember, too. The sleepless nights when hunger clawed at my belly until I cried. The way the boys at school made fun of me for my skinny legs and thin, emaciated body.
I remember how I beat the shit out of every one of them in high school, too, and how no one made fun of me then, not after Tavi showed me how to lift and Orlando showed me how to fight.
“Yeah, you could say I’ve filled out,” I say with a laugh. I pat my belly. “Maybe even need to lose a few pounds, eh?” I’ve put on weight in Tuscany, but still workout, so I’ve bulked out.
“You don’t need to lose weight, Santo,” Maurice says. “Extra weight looks good on you.”
It’s extra muscle that looks good on me, I think to myself.
“Santo,” he says softly. I turn to look at him. He’s laying a hand towel across a ceramic bowl, probably covering the dough so it rises overnight. “Does it make you sad that they leave when you come?”
“Sad?” I laugh. “I don’t give a fuck if they like me. I want them to do what they’re told.”
Maurice waves a wooden spoon at me. “And that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. You still have the same trashy mouth you did when you were ten.”
I laugh. “Only now you don’t smack me with that spoon like you did back then.”
He rolls his eyes heavenward. “Didn’t do any good anyway, did it?”
He’d whack me good for my foul language, and Romeo tried to clean up my mouth a time or two, but it didn’t work. The men of my brotherhood swear like sailors, and I always wanted to be just like them.
Always.
It never quite worked.
He takes the spoon, lifts the heavy lid on a pot in the back of the stove, and stirs. “They leave because they’re scared of you, Santo.”
I know. I know they do.
“Yeah.”
“You should try… well, to be a little gentler with them.”
“Maurice,” I say dryly, turning away from him when I hear the side door swing open. “I don’t fucking care.”
I leave the kitchen to great Tavi in the living room.
“Hey, brother,” he says with a grim smile.
Shit.
Something’s wrong.
“Hey. You okay?”
Tavi brushes a hand through his wavy brown hair and heaves a sigh. He’s got the Rossi family blue-gray eyes and strong, muscled physique. “Campanelle’s calling foul, man.”
Shit, shit, shit.
The Campanelles, one of the many rival families that give us shit, have been crying wolf for years. We never listened to them. Romeo assured us that he’d settled outstanding accounts and they had no claim on us anymore, but right after Tavi’s wedding and my subsequent exile, the Campanelles provided evidence that the Rossi family owed them several million dollars, thanks to a deal their father made back in the day.
I sit down on one of the heavy sofas and cross one leg over the other. Tavi walks over to the sideboard and pours himself a glass of house Chianti, the very same that’s won awards throughout Tuscany.
“What happened?”
He takes a sip of wine and exhales in contentment. “Fuckin’ missed this. Haven’t touched it at home because Elise can’t have it.”
Tavi’s wife Elise is pregnant and can’t touch wine for a while.