Chapter 13
I was attached. For the first time in my entire life, except for a dog we had when I was ten. I was attached to someone, and I wanted to be around him at all times. And he looked great in a suit, plus, he knew how to use a gun. Which was a huge plus, assuming it was never aimed at me.
We left his mom in peace, and she truly was at peace with her TV shows and her hobbies.
And according to Kalen, she didn’t need to eat or take medication for a while, though he’d left a sleeve of cookies for her on the coffee table, telling me she wouldn’t make anything hot unless the urge struck—and it was hard to tell what urge was going to strike her.
Roland had been standing outside with the car for a while it seemed, but it didn’t matter because he welcomed us with a smile.
A nod of the head was all we needed to communicate with each other about an all-clear signal.
We needed to put a small rush on the rest of the day now, and part of that involved going to meet my mom, a surprise I wasn’t too keen to immediately pull on Kalen.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, securing himself into his seatbelt in the back seat.
We stared at each other for a moment. It wasn’t like I thought telepathy was real, but part of me wanted it to be real for this situation.
“Come on,” he said, giggling. “I’m ready to know what else you’ve got for me. Since you basically said you couldn’t live without me by your side.”
“I did not say that,” I said, tugging the side of the seatbelt to make sure he was securely buckled in.
“But if I did, I had a reason for it.” The reason being, he’d made me feel something I hadn’t—ever.
An identity, a belonging that was more than just the family business, it was a direct calling, right from the soul.
“We’ve got one stop to make before we head to the Palazzo. ”
“Oh, are we gonna go somewhere for food?” He asked, and at the thought of food, his stomach rumbled. “Oops.”
“Probably,” I said, kissing his cheek and settling back in my seat before Roland drove off.
“Could we go somewhere for like all-day waffles, or pancakes?”
Adorable. I wanted to bottle it up while his guard was down. The type of adorable that doesn’t come out when you’ve got a gun in someone’s face and you’re flashing your badge at them. “Probably something else,” I said.
“Mr. Bianchi,” Roland mumbled. “You think she’ll have any gravy ready?”
“I can ask,” I said. “It’s addictive, right?”
Kalen stared now, probably making the connection.
And if he was hungry, the food would most likely be pasta with mom’s tasty gravy—the stuff she cooked all week.
As a kid, I grew up thinking the stove was on all the time, cooking the same tomato pasta sauce—a.k.a.
mom’s gravy—like a bottomless pot. Except I knew the difference now.
She bottled it up each week and handed it out to members of the family, and the business.
“Is it safe?” he whispered to me.
“The gravy?” I teased. “It’ll be safe. You don’t have to worry.” I took his hand, tickling my fingers down the side of his wrist and arm, pushing his shirt sleeve. “You’re with me.” I wasn’t too sure if Santo had already spilled about him, but he’d be there as well.
Every weekend, usually on Sunday, Mom made dinner.
Today wasn’t a big dinner day. It was a necessary meeting.
Since Tomaso was drying out in the cellar beneath the house, and the family business fell on Santo’s and my shoulders, we needed our mom to help us sometimes, or at least facilitate the help we needed.
Shuffling in his seat, Kalen was mumbling all his fears aloud to me.
The fear that he would be killed for his job, and what he’d planned on doing, the fear of not liking her food second to that, and I didn’t know if I could help him with it—it was just a fear, an irrational thought he didn’t need to worry about.
I held his hand, squeezing it every time he shuffled around.
“She’ll love you,” I whispered into his ear as I kissed his cheek. “She has to love you.”
“Or else what will happen?” he asked with a deep groan
In that moment, I realized he needed his stuffed cat teddy to hold as comfort. It wasn’t here, so my arm would have to do, and he held it, clinging to me, pressed against his chest. I felt the heat from beneath his pits and the thump of his heart beating in his chest.
As we pulled into the drive, Santo’s car was already there, and even my heart skipped now. I had to be the one to tell Mom about my—my Kalen. She appeared in the doorway, signature apron on with her hair all nice. If there was one thing you had to give the family, we were always well presented.
“I’ll get out first,” I told him, giving him one long kiss on the lips.
Mom called me over to her when I was out of the car. She continued to stare at the car door, waiting for it to open again, this time for Kalen to get out, but he wasn’t—not yet.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked, hugging me. She tiptoed as I bent so she could kiss me on the cheek.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I know what he is,” she said. “But I’ll define him by what he is to you.”
“We’re dating,” Rocco said. “And this is last minute.”
She chuckled, batting the back of her hand at my arm. “I highly doubt it. Your brother said you’d bring him.”
“He did?” I tried looking past her to see if Santo was peering out the door.
He was probably helping himself to some of Dad’s scotch collection—technically ours, but it was still his, and we didn’t drink to his memory with it, we drank to the future we finally felt we had without him. “Please be nice to him.”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s not every day you have a federal agent in your home.”
“He’s just an analyst.”
She laughed. “So he’s intelligent too, and not just someone running around with a gun. Even more dangerous.”
“Please,” I said again.
Kalen stepped out of the car, and my heart skipped. I didn’t know how she’d react to him—even if she’d been nice in this moment, it was hard to tell if that was all for show, or if he’d end up in the basement cellar with Tomaso, ready for someone to decide his fate.
Santo appeared in the doorway just as Kalen walked up, his feet crunching on the gravel with each step he took.
I tried looking at Kalen, but Santo was doing his best to distract me, holding out a small glass of scotch.
The glasses were monogrammed with a swirling fancy letter B for Bianchi.
“Come on,” he whispered, unable to hold back his grin, like he was watching some trashy TV show.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Mom said to Kalen.
I took the glass from Santo and with the lightest clink against his glass, I poured the aged amber into the back of my throat and swallowed hard. “Another,” I said.
He laughed. “Are you coming in? Or are you gonna stand out there all day?”
“We’re coming,” I said through gritted teeth.
They hugged. They were actively hugging, and she wasn’t trying to stick him with a knife—not like she would, especially not out in the open. They were having a moment, and I could ease into it. She’d welcomed him into the fold, and I definitely needed that second glass of scotch now.
Inside, Nonna was there with Santo’s boyfriend, Isaiah. They were in the kitchen, tasting the gravy from the large silver pan. They were doing it in secret, I think, since when Mom arrived, they were rinsing off the spoons and giggling with each other.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Mom said. “Rocco has brought his boyfriend.” She announced it to Nonna and Isaiah who didn’t seem to care at all. “He’s an FBI agent. Analyst. Whatever.”
Nonna’s face changed, and her forehead wrinkled like it had sucked something sour.
“You know how to pick them,” she said, approaching me.
She pressed a finger into my chest, looking up at me from her hunched position.
“I just hope this doesn’t become an issue.
” She turned to Kalen. “But it’s nice to meet you. ”
Kalen looked at me to guide him. I nodded.
It was pretty simple. If they didn’t approve, he wouldn’t have made it inside.
I assumed everyone knew everything that had been in the file, and that meant they also knew about his mom, who was going through a lot—even if she wasn’t aware or acknowledging it.
“You know he can’t be around when we talk,” Mom said, whipping a hand towel over her shoulder. She strutted over to the pot on the stove with the lightest flame licking at it. “Now, would you like a taste? It’s all homemade. Warning. It’s addictive.”
He laughed a little. “What’s in it? Cocaine?”
The kitchen erupted into chuckles; he was disarming everyone with humor. The chill on my neck and a drip of sweat were a sign of light relief.
“No,” Mom answered with a big grin. “It’s sugar.”
He tried it, and we all waited for his response.
I took a spoonful of it as well. It was home. The taste of it was like a hug, and maybe it helped that the entire kitchen was like a sauna from the oven being on, the stove lit, and the boiler in the corner cupboard.
“Mhm,” he let out. “It’s nice.”
“Roland wants a jar, actually,” I said. “I should get that to him so he’s not waiting around all day.”
“Of course,” Mom said, pinching my cheek. “I’ll get him two. And we need to talk about tonight. It’s the first time you boys are doing this alone. Without your father.”
Like we needed reminding. It made me feel small to be reminded of him, and how the reputation of this dangerous man was anchored in every part of our lives.
“It’s why it’s important we set a new precedent,” Santo said. “Show everyone we’re in charge.”
Isaiah cuddled up to Santo’s side, giggling.
“Isaiah and Kalen can hang while we talk business,” I said. “They might have something in common.”
Santo laughed. “Besides us.”
“Good idea,” Mom said. “They can go into the lounge. And you two can help me make this focaccia.”
Nonna clapped. She was so full of energy, practically rounding Kalen and Isaiah up to send them out of the kitchen.
There was no need for Kalen to worry now, she’d practically accepted him as he came, and I think seeing that he didn’t look like a threat helped.
And threats usually came out guns blazing, so I knew why everyone was apprehensive about Kalen, but he wasn’t packaged like that—even when we’d first met, the only weapon he’d had on him was a sharp tongue he wanted to lash me with up and down.
Talk immediately turned to Tomaso.
“You’re not going to see him,” Mom said.
“I took soup down to him,” Nonna added, shaking her head. “He barely ate anything.”
“I don’t know why he’s doing this,” I said, rolling my sleeves up.
Making focaccia was messy business, especially when you had to knead it, oil it, then stub your fingers in it to make those aerated holes.
I’d been doing this for a long time with the family, but I couldn’t tell you how to actually make the stuff—just how to wrestle with it.
“We all grieve differently,” Mom said. “I’m glad he’s home. Thank you both for bringing him.”
“Well, we weren’t going to let him stay at the restaurant,” Santo said. “I asked him how much money he’d spent. I’m trying not to think about whether he drained his bank account—or worse, one of the companies.”
Mom stared at Santo. “He should not have access to any of the books.”
“Except for the one he’s in charge of,” I said. “He’s got a lot of them. The butchers. Dad personally gave him that space.”
Nonna laughed. “He might be drunk, and he might’ve lost some of his faculties, but he’d never do anything to put the family in jeopardy.”
I wanted to believe her, to think the same, but Tomaso had always been more of the problem child when we were growing up, and was even more so now when he didn’t have a curfew or anyone to report to.
We all had small fortunes in our bank accounts, but most of us weren’t liquid, putting our money into making more money. I couldn’t say the same for Tomaso.
“He came to the restaurant, he thought the poker game was last night,” Santo said. “If that doesn’t spell problem, then I don’t know what does. He needs real help.”
“And he’s getting it,” Mom said, grabbing an additional glass dish. “And he’s going to eat. We’ll make this one plain for him. You know how fussy he can be.”
Santo redirected the conversation to tonight’s poker game. All the high rollers who were coming into town to play. The millions that were about to be played with tonight. Not only did we facilitate the games, we also made sure the players weren’t going to be seen coming into the restaurant.
Since the prohibition, there was a secret tunnel system in Boston, and my family owned most of those routes.
It was one of the ways we’d managed to take control over our slice of the city.
And all those people were coming through those tunnels to settle bets, to put their feuds on the poker table.
And to the victor went the tax-free spoils.
“Your boyfriend should watch,” Mom said.
“An analyst, well, let him analyze and make sure nobody cheats. And I’ll warn you, Rocco, he’s your responsibility.
If he brings an investigation into the family, we’ll have to take him out.
” The tone shifted as I acknowledged what could happen.
She pinched my cheek. “Good, now let’s put these in the oven.
You wash up, and I’ll get the pasta in the water. ”
I nodded.
Kalen was my responsibility, and I was going to keep him safe, no matter the cost.