Chapter Two
Aldo Bertinelli lived with his wife, Gloria, and their four children in a three-story brownstone. The neighborhood, once housing a mixture of Irish and Italian families during the Second World War, now boasted more diverse demographics. Crossing the street from Lonnegan’s, Vic and Gio walked past several homes, many of which displayed flags of different nationalities and identities—American, Puerto Rican, Ukrainian. Across the way, Gio spotted one of the enhanced pride flags with the multi-colored chevron.
Vic followed his gaze and chuckled. “Not something you’d see back in the old days, huh, G?” he asked. “I can imagine what the capo thinks, having to look at that every morning.”
“It’s just a flag. Fabric on a pole.” Gio shrugged, pressing the bag with the night’s take under his elbow into his side. “If somebody else’s decorations get your nose out of joint, it says more about you than them.”
“Hey, I got nothing against the gays, but some people aren’t as forgiving as me,” Vic said. “Just sayin’, if I were queer, I wouldn’t advertise like that. I don’t care how safe you think the neighborhood is.”
Gio didn’t argue that point. It was why he kept his own sexuality hidden from the family. Homosexuality might not get one expelled from the San Gaetanos, but individuals within the organization had their prejudices. Gio knew he had a better shot at becoming a made man, fully initiated into the family, if he presented himself in an acceptable manner.
Their destination also bore a flag, one hailing the capo’s favorite football team. One of the middle Bertinelli children—Gio got them confused at times, but like the others she was named for a saint—perched on the wide steps and was talking on her cellphone. Long brown hair, sculpted eyebrows, halter top and denim cut-offs showing off shapely legs. Old world beauty mixed with modern sensibility, and like the other daughters connected to the family she was completely off limits. Poor Vic.
Gio paused on the first step in front of the girl, hand in his pocket, but she kept her conversation flowing. “Isn’t it your birthday next weekend?” he asked over her talking.
The girl pressed the phone’s screen to her breast and rolled her eyes. “That’s my sister, Julia. My birthday is in February.”
That jarred Gio’s memory. February, the Feast of St. Agatha. “You be careful going out tonight, Aggie,” he said, and handed her a ten-dollar bill. That got him a genuine smile, which stayed as she crooked her neck for them to enter without knocking.
“So you’re fucking Santa Claus now, giving away money?” Vic smelled like cigarettes, leaning close to Gio as he whispered harshly, “Girl like that doesn’t need handouts.”
“It’s my money. I’ll spend it as I see fit.” Same with gifting. Vic had a lot to learn about moving up in the business. Aggie Bertinelli might not mention the ten bucks to her family, but she now had incentive to put in a good word for Gio Spatafora to her old man if he ever asked for it.
From a somewhat quiet neighborhood street they walked into Friday evening familial chaos. Footsteps thundered on the flight of stairs by the front door as two younger Bertinellis, both boys, chased each other with plastic light swords fashioned from the latest space opera movie that had the world in a chokehold. Big sister Julia, dressed in a sleeveless dark jumpsuit, yelled at them as she weaved around their duel, and ordered them upstairs.
On seeing Gio and Vic, she let out a heavy sigh. False alarm, apparently. “You guys see a red convertible outside?” Julia asked them while affixing a large hoop to one of her earlobes.
Vic panned his gaze up and down the young woman’s form, pausing at the low point of her deep V-neck. “You ain’t staying for dinner?”
“I’m going out tonight.”
“We haven’t seen a car like that, sorry,” Gio told her. “Traffic’s good, though. He’ll be here soon.”
“What makes you think my ride’s a he ?” Julia asked.
Chagrined, Gio bowed his apology. “My mistake to assume you were dressed to impress a handsome young man.”
Julia thanked him quietly. “I’m going dancing with my friend Stephanie.”
“Girls’ night out, then?” Vic asked, leaning on the dark wood banister. “You be careful out there, especially when you order drinks. These guys’ll slip something in there when you’re not looking.” He shaped his hand like a claw, fingers pointing downward. “Hold your glass like this—”
Julia huffed. “Pop’s in the den with Uncle Gus,” she said to Gio. To Vic she added, “We’ll be fine,” before turning away. Not even the sight of the young woman’s heart-shaped bottom retreating up the stairs eased the sudden roiling in Gio’s gut. Vic clearly fared no better.
“Uncle Gus? She means Don Salvatore.” Vic sucked in a breath. “You ain’t said nothing about him being here tonight.”
“I didn’t know,” Gio said. He communicated regularly with his capo, and Friday night dinner after the pickup was a long-standing open invitation. It struck Gio as odd that Aldo had said nothing to him this morning about this very important dinner guest.
Either Don Salvatore had paid a surprise visit to Aldo, or somebody had scheduled a punishment in lieu of dessert. Gio side-eyed Vic and noticed his hands trembled. Best that he was holding the bag tonight, or else the foyer might be littered with cash.
“Why the hell did I come here?” Vic asked, and made the Sign of the Cross. “We’re short tonight.”
“Calm down. We’ve done nothing wrong. Let me do the talking,” he said. With Aldo living this close, it was possible he knew about the pub being closed. Gio focused on the possibility of the don’s visit being a social call, and started down the familiar path toward the Bertinellis’ den. Voices raised in volume, as did the music from the Bertinellis’ kitchen radio. He breathed deeply as aromas of sage and cooked prosciutto wafted from the open doorway at the end of the hall. He caught a glimpse of Gloria Bertinelli’s ample backside, bent close to her open oven door, before turning left to greet his bosses.
Gio had only a few friends outside of the family, and none of them knew of his bagman work. Whenever they discussed movies or television shows depicting the mob, they assumed the fictional scenes aligned perfectly with their real life counterparts. They weren’t wrong, for the most part, and while Gio, his capo, and the don were all of Italian descent, they weren’t necessarily true stereotypes. Don Salvatore, the closest person to old world in Gio’s mind, was dressed casually tonight, in shirtsleeves. He wore no ring to kiss or any other jewelry outside of a small watch with a plain leather band. In his few encounters with the man, Gio noticed how the don personified such humility and modesty.
He found inspiration in that, but also understood that humility did not equate to weakness. If Uncle Gus saw reason to have you wiped off the planet, he wouldn’t hesitate to arrange it.
Aldo Bertinelli was busy at his wet bar, filling two highball glasses, when Gio and Vic entered the room. Don Salvatore, seated in the capo’s favorite chair—directly facing the television—halted in his speech to acknowledge them. “ Buonasera ,” he greeted, his voice pleasant and his smile wide. He stood just as Aldo turned, and took one of the pre-dinner cocktails. “If you’ll forgive us for starting without you, Al said he wasn’t expecting you for another twenty minutes or so.”
“We finished early,” Gio said, lifting the bag. “We made all the lights for once.” He wanted to shrink into the walls and disappear at that. What a stupid fucking thing to stay in front of one of the most powerful men in the country. Skipping Lonnegan’s had played a role in their truncated route, and Gio wasn’t ready to admit to a light take so he lied. Last thing he wanted was to embarrass his capo. Better to have simply said yes, sir and let the man lead the conversation.
Yet Salvatore nodded and fixed his sharp gaze on Gio in a silent dare to break contact. Gio lasted to the count of ten before his attention wandered a few inches. He fixed on Salvatore’s hammy fist around Aldo’s cut crystal glass, in particular the many coarse black whiskers curling out from his fingers. It led him to think of how much more of the man’s body was covered in hair. Gio’s friends might have pointed out this trait as typical of a Mafia don, swarthy and shaggy everywhere but on top. To be sure, Salvatore sported a combover and grayed at the temples. Aldo, by comparison, was not as hirsute but blessed with a full head of dark, wavy hair. Maybe ten years separated the men in age, yet appearance wise, the gap seemed wider.
No fault to Salvatore San Gaetano, though. The responsibility of managing the family no doubt brought him great stress. Gio hoped never to count himself as a cause.
Aldo offered to make more drinks, fixing two of the same. Salvatore panned his gaze on Gio, from his high tops to the frayed neck of his T-shirt, his expression one of bemusement. This is how you dress when you represent us? is what he got from the silent appraisal. Normally no, but Gio figured the don wasn’t interested in hearing the circumstances that necessitated his casual state of dress today. It hardly helped his case, either, that Vic had on a nice polo under his blazer, which hid his holster.
“You are Giuseppe, yes?” Salvatore asked him.
“Joseph,” said Aldo, at the same time Gio answered, “Everybody calls me Gio.”
Salvatore then flicked his gaze to Vic, lowering his eyelids while turning his body in a blatant sign of dismissal. He didn’t outright tell Vic to get lost, but when Gloria announced dinner he edged forward, brushing closely past Gio and blocking Vic from view.
“You sit next to me,” he said. “I’m very interested in learning more about you.”
Gloria’s veal saltimbocca paired well with the polenta and sauteed spinach served on the side. At least one icy stare accompanied Gio’s meal, coming from Vic, relegated to the far side of the table between the two Bertinelli boys. Gio focused on the sound of Salvatore’s voice to ignore it, and answered the don’s every question.
Yes, he finished high school. He played sports, but not well enough to earn a scholarship or go pro. Yes, the Bertinellis treated him well. He’d met Aldo through a cousin who worked for another of Salvatore’s captains. Yes, shame about what happened to him. It impressed Gio that Salvatore, who had well over a hundred people under him, knew almost every name attached to the family, even though he had trouble placing faces.
A bite of veal lodged in Gio’s throat after he heard the next question. He pressed his napkin to his mouth and willed his body to relax, then swallowed hard before a sip of wine.
“No, sir,” he said, licking his lips. “I am not married, nor do I have a girlfriend.” Gio would give away his bank account number before discussing his personal life. He’d been aware of his same-sex attraction well before high school. The young girls in their red plaid jumpers and shiny black shoes, jumping rope and hopscotching on the concrete playgrounds, had done absolutely nothing for him growing up. Anytime a friend or relative questioned his bachelor status this late in life, he offered the same explanation he gave Salvatore.
“I suppose the right one hasn’t come along yet.” Tall, slight figure, nice ass to fill his large hands, and a thick dick to fuck his hole for days on end. Gio had a type.
The old man’s shoulders shook with his quiet laughter. “Well, there’s plenty of time for you, but don’t keep a nice girl waiting if you want a family,” Salvatore told him. He nodded in Aggie’s direction. “They say the longer a woman waits, the greater the risk of birth defects. These kids now, they either have weird allergies or autism. All because women feel they have to have a career first. It’s nonsense.”
Gio fixed on his water glass, watching for the telltale ripple meant to warn of a coming shitstorm. He didn’t have to side-glance the Bertinelli girl or her mother to understand neither of them shared the don’s chauvinistic worldview. He figured Aldo had schooled his family to show respect to the don when he visited, and was therefore surprised when Aggie opened her mouth.
“Is it?” she asked, stirring her spinach and polenta. “We’ve always had autistic kids and severe nut allergies. We simply hear about them more now because it’s important to bring attention to people who require care, rather than feel ashamed of them.”
Gloria, in a clear attempt to restore diplomacy, pointed at her daughter with her fork. “Agatha, your veal is getting cold.”
Aggie ignored her food, laser-focused on Salvatore. “By the way, transgenderism isn’t a new phenomenon, either. Did you know during the Civil War—”
“Agatha.” Gloria raised her voice, firm without shouting. That one word silenced the table until Gloria scraped her chair backward. Rising, she lifted the empty glass pitcher and beckoned for her daughter to follow. “Come help me with the tiramisu.” When Aggie opened her mouth for a presumed protest, one sharp look from Gloria shut it all down and she obeyed.
Salvatore leaned closer to Gio and nudged him as if to say, Women, huh? Gio offered him and Aldo a tight smile and finished eating.
* * * *
After a tense dessert course, Gloria shooed the kids upstairs and handed Vic a takeaway container of leftovers. Gio locked gazes with his associate and transmitted a shared thought—that their bosses no longer required Vic’s presence for the evening.
“I got that rideshare app,” Gio said as he walked Vic to the door. “I can call you one.”
Vic declined. “I’m not getting in a car with some weirdo. There’s usually a cab driving past. I’ll flag one.” Halfway out of the door, he turned and flashed Gio a sympathetic smile. “I envy you and I don’t right now,” he said. “Call me at home later, maybe? Let me know you lived.”
Gio laughed to show he got the joke, but every step back to Aldo’s den took on weight. His heart pounded in his ears, speeding up when he rounded the entrance and saw the night’s take spread out on the coffee table, bills stacked by denomination. Salvatore and Aldo sat together on the couch, each with a nightcap.
“So you know,” Gio said, standing before them, “Lonnegan’s—”
Salvatore waved his hand. “We know about that. Hugh Malloy all but dropped dead a few days ago. He’s not there yet, but word is they’re setting up a home hospice so it’s only a matter of time.”
Gio bowed his head. The obligatory moment of sympathy soon passed in favor of business. Sorry for the family, but the man had debts, Gio learned. Hugh Malloy had been behind on protection payments and other favors owed to the San Gaetanos. Gio had worked for the family long enough to know that Malloy’s death wouldn’t cancel them.
“To compensate for Malloy’s financial negligence,” Salvatore said, “we’re taking possession of the building. My lawyer is working on it with the Malloys’ lawyer. We’re taking the estimated value of the business and subtracting what they owe, plus interest.” Of course. “The soon-to-be widow’s gonna need some money to bury the poor man.”
“Yes.” Gio thought of his own mother in that moment, and how she’d have to deal with tying up loose ends in such an event. He liked to think the San Gaetanos would step in and assist, so hearing that the don showed some sympathy for Mrs. Malloy heartened him. He figured once the family took the building’s deed, they’d sell it to a developer for a profit.
It therefore surprised Gio to learn the true reason for this meeting. Salvatore pointed his rocks glass at Gio, forefinger extended. “Aldo says you do good work. Whatever task he gives you, moving goods or collecting, you do it without complaint. I like that.”
“Thank you.” Gio flicked his gaze toward the smiling capo.
“It’s why I asked you to collect in this district,” Aldo said. “Get you familiar with the neighborhood, since you’ll be spending more time here.”
The ice in Salvatore’s drink tinkled. “Lonnegan’s will reopen under new management, you. It’ll be a new base for family business. Operations will resume as normal, with new staff.” After a sip, he added, “Who knows, Gio? If you succeed, this is one step closer to the call.”
“The call,” Gio echoed.
Salvatore nodded. “Aldo says good things, as does your late cousin’s capo.” He left the implied go unsaid. Gio needed two family members in good standing to sponsor him for initiation. Once made, he’d have full protection of the San Gaetanos.
Gio stood there, stunned. Happy, perhaps. Also curious. He knew nothing about running a business, or bartending, but gave only his thanks to the don. If Salvatore had this mindset, no doubt he was thinking ahead on all the what’s and how’s of making this work. He found it interesting, too, to set up a family meeting place so close to Aldo’s house, but one glance at the capo’s reaction revealed Aldo seemed to have no choice in the matter.
That neither man offered Gio a drink spoke to him of the meeting’s brevity. Indeed, after the news about Lonnegan’s, Aldo rose to escort Gio to the door. “I’ll be in touch with details,” he said. “Meanwhile, it’s Friday night. You’ve earned your fun.”
“Thanks, Aldo.” They shook hands and Gio put on his jacket. He moved the gun from the pocket back to under his belt. “Whatever I need to learn about running a pub, I’ll do it.”
“Eh, Gus’ll take care of it,” Aldo said. “Your job is to keep the place clean and make sure everybody behaves. The idea is not to make too many conspicuous changes.”
“Right.”
Aldo raised an eyebrow. “I can tell you this, though. First item of business, we’re scraping off that fucking rainbow sticker. Like hell are we gonna run some gay bar, eh?”
He chortled and punched Gio’s shoulder. Gio laughed along, his stomach churning.
* * * *
“The owner’s sick. That’s why they’re closed.”
Conor pushed back from the pub’s door at the sound of a deep voice. The approaching figure, tall with broad shoulders hunched due to hands in jacket pockets, approached and paused under the corner lamppost. The pale yellow light illuminated a handsome, long-jawed face and a grin made charming with crooked front teeth. The smile added youth to an otherwise mature posture, but Conor put the dark-haired man at about his age.
He didn’t recognize the man, but figured him for a regular if he knew about Hugh. “I’m sorry to hear it,” Conor said, choosing anonymity for now. Best to keep family business private and prevent unnecessary rumors. He glanced down at the pride flag sticker and traced the stripes. “I hoped to have a drink.”
“You’re not from here.”
Conor looked the man’s way. He’d come closer, with stealth, and widened his amber-gold eyes in appraisal. His ears stuck out from his shaggy dark hair, and when he tilted his head back, Conor noted the plush lower lip jutting forward. In a different context, it might have come as an invitation for a kiss.
This man seemed to have no problem getting into Conor’s personal space, but Conor acknowledged the neighborhood’s history. He’d grown up among Irish and Italian families with statues of saints visible in windows. Progressiveness usually amounted to lip service. This man grew up here, too, he guessed. Bit warm for a jacket , Conor observed, but he attributed that to some eccentricity.
“Your accent,” the man said in clarification. “Irish?”
“Dublin. I’m in town for a little while…on business.”
The man nodded. “Everybody has business here.” He noticed the pride flag sticker, too, then panned his gaze back to Conor’s face as though doing the math in his head. “You won’t find another place like Lonnegan’s in this neighborhood, though.” He then added, at a lower volume, “JT’s on the River, just over the bridge. You ever hear of it?”
JT’s wasn’t the only gay bar in the city, but it was the closest to the Malloys’, so of course Conor was familiar with the establishment. Site of his first same-sex kiss, and later blow job—on the receiving end. Conor played it cool. “Is it nice?”
“I’m headed there myself. I’m Joe.” Joe put out his right hand to shake while aiming his left, holding a key fob, to unlock the car parked out front.
Conor smiled back. “Joe. Conor. Good to meet you.”
“I like the way you talk,” Joe told him. “You don’t hear many accents around here anymore, not like when I was younger.” He gestured toward a row of brownstones. “The people buying these homes now aren’t like my parents and their friends, the first generation Americans who brought their parents from the old countries to live with them. That way of life faded quickly.”
“I can imagine.” Being first-generation American in his family, Conor knew it. Of course, his decision to move to the old country came of his own volition, and unless he hired a surrogate, the line stopped with him. One could argue he hadn’t helped the neighborhood in that respect. “Maybe change is good, though, but it’s not really for me to say.”
“Maybe.” Joe looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a sleepy smile. He turned the key fob in his hand, flicking his gaze at it as though contemplating an offer of a ride to JT’s. Tempting, but the age-old warning of getting into cars with strangers, in his mother’s gentle voice, rang in Conor’s ears.
To discourage the gesture, Conor backed away a few steps and pivoted in the direction of his parents’ house. “Well, if I decide to head that way, maybe I’ll see you there,” he said.
“If so, maybe I’ll buy the first round.” Joe winked and shuffled around his car toward the driver’s side door. “If not, you have a good evening.”
“Thanks.”
Conor walked slowly, listening for cues of Joe’s departure—the initial rev of his car’s engine, the scrape of tires turning in place, and the eventual push forward into traffic. When he thought it safe, he spun on his heel and watched the car shrink into the distance a block before turning out of sight.
“Keep walking, Conor,” he told himself, and every step back to the house took on weight as he contemplated the alternatives. With his father settled into his hospice bed and left to fate, there wasn’t much for him except a vigil. His father, ever the bartender, would no doubt berate him for passing up an invitation to a drink, one with a handsome young man at that.
Indeed, the lecture he predicted played out the moment he arrived home to check on his parents. Conor sat at his father’s beside, holding his frail hand, and took the admonishments in stride.
“Son, there are better things to do than watch an old man die.”
“Da , I love you,” Conor said, flicking his gaze toward his mother, silent and watchful in her corner chair. “It would be selfish of me to leave you and Mam in your time of need.”
Hugh’s laugh devolved into a coughing fit, sending Conor into greater worry. He refused the glass of water Conor poured for him but allowed a swipe across his mouth with a tissue to pick up the spittle. “What can you do, Con?” Hugh asked, his voice a deep rasp. “You’re not a doctor, or a priest, and I’ve long ago given up on miracles.”
Conor’s heart sank to hear the resignation. Seventy-two wasn’t old anymore, and people bounced back from hospice care. “This doesn’t sound like the same man who taught me to stick up for myself when classmates bullied me.”
The smile Hugh spread brought some life to his face. His too-pale skin and thinning hair, more gold than the same vibrant red on Conor’s head, countered the brief moment of vigor. “Con,” he said, “I’d rather you spend a Friday night drinking and dancing with a fine-looking man than watching your father fade away. Would it help if I told you it’s my dying wish?”
“So it’s not for me to move back and take over Lonnegan’s myself?”
Hugh let his smile fall. “One thing at a time,” he said, and put his energy into squeezing Conor’s hand. “Go see about your new gentleman friend. If I’m alive tomorrow, you can spill all the dirty details.”
“Fine. If you’re lucky, I’ll fall madly in love with the first person I see.” Conor kissed his father’s brow, then repeated the gesture with his mam before his reluctant exit from the house to call a car.