12. I’m My Own Rat
Chapter 12
I’m My Own Rat
Antonella
The beeping of the hospital monitors echo throughout the silent room. The only time my mother and I get together and there’s not a shred of gossip shared. We’re both exhausted. He hasn’t woken up yet. The doctors say to give it time.
But it’s been plenty of time.
The smell of cleaner and overuse of hand soap becomes too overwhelming. I stand to pace around, however, Mama stops me. “Have you been to see your cousin Antonio?”
I shake my head. “Too busy.”
Busy doing what? Who knows. The reality of the situation is I haven’t been able to get in touch with Antonio. He’s somewhere in Chicago—key word— somewhere . If he’d answer my calls, that’d be great. Let us know he’s okay, alive even.
“You or him?”
“Him.” I snort.
She shifts, attempting to get comfortable in the chair. “You know, Zia Maria is going to be at the family reunion this year?”
There it is.
“Is she going to try to cook again?” I wince. Her tripe dish was a complete disaster last time. My cousin Amara threw up all over the dance floor.
“Allora, I don’t want to be a gossiper… But ?—”
“But what?” My eyes go wide, leaning in closer to her. I can’t help myself. I’m a sucker.
“Snuck a peek in the garbage can…” She trails. “She hid it underneath a pile of papers!” Mama sips her tea in a to-go cup.
“Hid what?”
“Store bought sauce. The jar!”
I gasp as my hands fly up to my mouth. “No! Not the jarred sauce. After she claimed?—”
“Sì, sì. She doesn’t make her own sauce.” Mama shakes her head in disappointment.
“And after all that effort, for it to still come out disgusting.” I snicker. “Does she know you know?”
“ No . And you can’t tell her, either. It’ll break her heart. Send her to the hospital with palpitations.” Mama places her hand over her heart. “We’d never hear the end of it.”
“I won’t say a word.” I bare my teeth.
“So, tell me then. What’s going on in the life of Toni?” She gives a solemn smile. Her stare remains locked on her sick husband.
I suppose I’ve left out the tiny details as of late. Where do I begin? She’s gonna have my ass with the wooden spoon. I sit in the chair next to her; where I’ve been uncomfortable for hours. “Well, I got fired from my job.”
“Tone.” The perplexed expression on her face is enough for me. I’ve got to be careful with what I say.
“It’s okay, I promise. Ah, here’s the unexpected twist in events…” I begin divulging the whole story. And while I do, I can’t control the noticeably strong fluttering going on inside my stomach, and the gaudy grin curling up on my lips.
She glowers, furrowing her brows with deeper creases as I talk on and on about his hospitality .
“Rent free. Not a single bill.” I scrunch up my nose. Princess treatment.
She slaps my shoulder over and over with her hand. “Antonella Marie Vitale! He could be a serial killer or something. Sei pazzo ? Oh, Madone! You’re going to give me a heart attack along with your babbo!” She places her hand on her forehead and pretends to faint. “Are you trying to kill your mother? First the moving away, now this!”
Dramatic as always. Wonder where I get it from.
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “He’s not like that, Mama. I wouldn’t have agreed if he was.”
I’m lying, of course. I’m not telling her I have a similar hankering. The whole serial killer thing. Must run in our blood to be so skeptical. Never mind the fact I’d be held against my will back in my hometown. She’d never let me leave.
“You didn’t even know the man!” She slaps my shoulder again, with her scarf this time.
Her slaps don’t hurt in the slightest, but I’ll be damned if I tell her anything. “I do, now .” I awkwardly laugh, lying right through my teeth.
“You could’ve come home, ” she whispers. There’s a shared moment of rare silence between us.
“I quite like him,” I admit quietly, “he’s caring, sweet, generous, not to mention incredibly gorgeous?—”
“Antonella, sei innamorato?” Her eyes widen.
My face heats as I shake my head. I can’t be in love yet. I barely know him. “I can say when a man’s nice and easy on the eyes without being in love.”
“Except for the fact… you are !”
“Che!?” I laugh. “No way, Mama. Amici.” Even the word becomes fire on my tongue.
Sono bugiarda.
“Sì. In time you’ll see. I’ve never seen a little sparkle of amore in you before with the way you talk about him. Though, I don’t like you living with him.” She’s the typical Catholic—not before marriage rule–for everything . She’s unaware of the fact I lost my virginity a long time ago.
Oopsies.
“We’re not even on the same side of the house, Mama.” I scratch the back of my head.
“All the same.” Her hands fly up, in a waving gesture. Again, with the dramatics. “Va bene. Allora, he’s rich, no?”
“Sì, but besides the point. I don’t care about how much he earns. But, he won’t tell me what he does.”
Her eyes widen with concern. “Do you think?—”
I shake my head. “Think what?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She shakes her head as her mouth curves into a smirk.
My father stirs in the bed and both of our heads snap directly toward him. We both stand and walk to either side of him. Mama grips his hand gently and holds it.
“Both of my girls are here,” he murmurs. “What do I owe this special occasion?”
“Babbo, you had a heart attack.” I choke on my words as tears prick my eyes, stinging my nose.
He reaches out and caresses my cheek with a chuckle. “Polpetta, I’m okay.”
“Marco.” My mother’s arms cross over her chest, foot tapping away.
“I’m fine, tesoro. I promise.” A soft smile spreads across his face as she kisses the back of his hand.
Seeing my parents still in love after all these years should gross me out, however, it brings a great comfort. Hope.
“So you say, yet here we are. I told you to lay off the carbs!” She smacks him directly on his shoulder. Should she be hitting him after he had surgery? Oddio.
“Yeah, yeah. What good is life if I can’t enjoy the food in it? I’m a sucker for the cannoli!”
“I made some for Giordano.” My mouth curves up into a grin, but swiftly drops. Right . He wasn’t in on that conversation.
Oh, Hell.
I ratted myself out.
Not because my mother wouldn’t have told him, anyway. But, I wasn’t planning on it coming out this easily.
“What the fuck is the Giordano?”
“The man she is living with.” My mother says with an evil grin on her face. She knows what she’s doing.
Wicked woman.
“What?!” The monitors of his heart rate increase at the same time a vein becomes prevalent on his forehead. Oh, man.
“Oh, look! Another grey hair!” My mother runs her fingers through his short salt and pepper hair.
“Mama, are you trying to give him another heart attack?”
“This is the place for it.” She throws her head back with a hearty laugh, joking around. The crows feet around her eyes become deeper.
I don’t find it funny.
“Toni, tell me you’re not living with a man,” Babbo pleads.
My lips purse as I nod. “His name is Giordano Marzano. He’s helping me while I’m in between jobs. He owed me a favor.”
His eyes go round. Both of theirs do. “Marzano? As in the Marzano’s?”
“Do you two know them?” My eyes narrow.
“Antonella, please tell me you didn’t get yourself in trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” I snort in disbelief. “Giordano has been nothing but nice to me. I bought him a cup of coffee because his card wasn’t working. He said he owed me a favor. The next day I got laid off. We ran into each other again…” I continue to give him the same exact spiel I gave my mother earlier. Babbo relaxes back into his pillow. “He likes my cooking.”
“You be careful with those Marzano’s, Antonella.” Mama waves her index finger at me .
“What’s bad about them?” I swallow hard.
“It’s a speculation… but they’re known to be the Italian Mafia in Chicago. Vito Marzano’s death was a huge thing all over the news a year ago. Seriously? You didn’t see?”
“No.” I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Sei pazzo. He said he works at an office about a block away from the café I’m working at right now.”
“How do you think they run their business? It’s a front , polpetta. Has he told you exactly what he does for a job?”
No—this is honestly way better than what I theorize.
Is it? They do a lot of killing in the Mafia. Or they do in the romance books I love to read.
My heart’s now palpitating in my chest—a million miles an hour. I need to consult with someone about this anxiety. I take a deep inhale of air through my mouth, and exhale it through my nose.
He doesn’t want to tell me what he does for a job, however, he did say if he told me— it’d be dangerous .
Can what they’re saying be true? I mean, why would my parents lie about this sort of thing? I mean sure, they don’t like the idea of me living with a man before I’m married. But we’re not even in a relationship . We’re roommates and he’s helping me until I find a place and a new job.
Exclusively friends—he doesn’t owe me anything else now, not even the truth. Because why should I bother getting myself involved in something more? I’m going to ignore all of it.
Every.
Single.
Thing.
I’ll keep telling myself that.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my racing thoughts. A nurse walks in with a large vase, packed to the brim with a mixture of at least a hundred yellow and orange roses .
My eyes widen and then quickly narrow in suspicion as she quietly places the vase on one of the dressers.
“Oddio,” I whisper. It takes me a moment before I pad over to the vase of flowers and snatch the card up off of the plastic stand.
Auguri per una veloce guarigione.
— Giordano Marzano
Of course they’re from him.
How ?
I told him absolutely nothing about the hospital or which room. Zero details were given. Internally, I’m rolling my eyes. Externally, I’m cool, calm, and collected.
“Who are they from, polpetta?”
“Giordano.” I smile, placing the card back onto the stand. Completely covering up the fact he tracked down certain— private — information to get these to my father.
Appreciate the gesture, friend . Thanks for stalking my location even though you said you didn’t need it, friend . See you soon, friend . Side note—why am I so turned on by this, friend ?
“For you . He wishes you a speedy recovery,” I say.
“Give him our many thanks. They’re stunning.” Mama grins. They’re right about something. And it’d be more logical than a stalker-slash-serial killer.
Fuck.
Because if he wanted to kill me, he’s had plenty of chances to do it by now. He is in the mafia, isn’t he? There’s also the option he’s like an FBI agent, too.
Okay, points for the FBI. A bad one.
Serial Killer |
Mafia Man ||
FBI Agent |