Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Tre
The man is the bane of my existence.
Joaquin Diaz is an earworm tunneling its way into the center of my brain.
I can’t get the sound of his voice—especially his groans—out of my head.
It plays back on a loop in both my waking and slumbering hours.
It’s only drowned out when I’m speaking to someone who interests me.
Any moment of boredom—any moment without a different distraction—has our night together replaying on a constant loop.
I’m going insane.
Like, lock me up and throw away the key.
It’s been three weeks, and my regret hasn’t lessened.
And neither has my pride. I offered him cupcakes, but he declined.
He clearly didn’t change his mind because he hasn’t been to either of Sera’s bakeries.
Vittoria is back from her honeymoon, so I know he hasn’t asked about me to either of my friends.
Not that I’ve asked either of them.
That whole pride thing is keeping me fucking freezing at night.
I don’t regret being with him. Just the opposite.
If I thought he’d want more with me, I’d agree in a New York minute.
But I fucked it up by not explaining that food is my love language as much as it is Sera’s.
I suspect he thought I was paying him for the night with dessert.
Like he was some fucking gigolo. Let me tell you, he’s way fucking hotter than Richard Gere ever was, and he’s not entirely American anyway.
Fuck my life.
You have no one to blame but yourself.
Your misery has no company.
“Tricia?”
“Huh? Sorry.”
I turn toward Sera as she steps into her office.
I’m eyeballs-deep in printed flyer and postcard proofs for the promotional campaign I’m setting up.
I have four different graphic renderings for full wraps to decorate her delivery vans open on my desktop.
That’s on the monitor in front of me while three ad iterations are sitting on the one to my right.
The screen to the left has a calendar that resembles a fragmented rainbow with a color-coding system only I understand—mostly.
“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? Toria and Alejandro are coming.”
My lips twitch before giving in and grinning. “Need a larger demilitarized zone between Carmine and Alejandro.”
“Something like that. They’re always pleasant-ish to one another, and their manners remain impeccable. But the latent hatred simmers the moment we arrive at each other’s home.”
“Wow. I’ve never had such an enticing dinner invitation before.”
“Come on. I want to hear about their honeymoon, and I bet you do too. It’ll keep the conversation so lively that the guys won’t have time to calculate the latest mutual demise. The upside to having husbands so enamored with their wives is that they actually listen to us.”
That brings to mind my conversation with Joaquin.
I’d never felt like I was someone’s entirely singular focus before.
I’m no fool to think he couldn’t close his eyes and tell me where every single person in the room stood or sat.
But I never felt like I had less than his undivided attention.
Like no one and nothing were more important.
“All right. Toria promised she took at least a couple photos she can share. It was sweet that they were cell phone free for the three weeks they were away.”
Vittoria and Alejandro agreed before they left that they would only use their cell phones for music and photos unless it was dire.
Since they took Alejandro’s cousins as their bodyguards, they knew someone could reach them in an emergency.
I love the idea of being that in the moment with your partner now that cell phones seem like a surgically attached accessory for most people.
“Do you want to ride with me?”
I took the subway to Harlem this morning. I prefer public transportation to looking for street parking or circling a lot. Unlike back home, few people in NYC know who I am or who my family is. I’m just a normal woman.
It’s a first.
“Sure. I can be ready in half an hour.”
I’m alone for five minutes before my phone rings. I glance down at the screen and brace myself before answering.
“Hi, Uncle Tommaso.”
“Hello, Tricia. How’re you?”
“Fine. You?”
Fucking small talk with your uncle who happens to be a don. Not a good sign.
“What’ve you been up to lately? Do you feel completely settled into New York now?”
I’ve been here for several months. He’s asked me this several times. He gets the same answer from me each time. I know what he’s fishing for.
“Yeah. It’s a different pace from Boston, and it smells weird most of the time, but I like it. The bagels are better, but I haven’t figured out what the goop is they call chowder.”
“How’s work going?”
Now we’re getting to the point.
“Same as usual. Sera’s really grown her business in the last few years. I think she’ll open a third location soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if she did have a chain one day.”
“Have Carmine as her stock boy?”
“He would if she asked him.”
“She’s the best thing that ever happened to that little idioto. He’s lucky she keeps putting up with him.”
“He knows. He says as much.”
“Anything new going on?”
“Not really.”
I wish he’d just come out and ask me what he wants to know.
But that’s not how this game works. We both know our phones could be tapped, so no direct questions.
It also means no direct answers. But I feel the pressure to fulfill a ridiculous factfinding mission—one that was futile the moment they gave it to me.
One I rarely think about except for when I’m on the phone with my family.
“You’ve got some old friends in the city. Have you seen any of them recently?”
“Not in a while. I am seeing Toria tonight though. Sera invited me over to dinner since Toria and Alejandro are back from their honeymoon.”
“That should be nice. Just the five of you?”
“I suppose so.”
“You should take time to reconnect with your Boston friends, Tricia.”
That’s a not-so-subtle order. He’s not worried about me being lonely here when both of my close friends are married.
I don’t know what they think I can accomplish when the women always have guards—often family members—and I have no reason to discuss anything with the men.
It’s an albatross around my neck that refuses to fly away.
“You know my friends have their own families.” Who don’t trust a Vizzini getting too close out of the blue.
When I decided I wanted to move away from Boston, my parents understood my wish for more independence.
They supported it. My uncles and aunts did too, but it came with a cost. Women aren’t supposed to be part of Mafia business—at least not directly.
But you never stop being part of la familia.
Everything you do is in support of the family.
“And those families already accept you, la nipotina. I’m sure they’ll include you if you let them know you want to be.” Little niece.
Moving down to NYC gave me freedom on a leash.
Independence with strings. Since I have a set of working eyes and ears, I’m expected to put them to use.
The men may be the muscle and even periodically the brains—usually it’s a woman whispering in their ear—behind the operations, women are more observant. At least, in my family I am.
Tristano, my brother, along with my cousins Rocco, Dante, and Edmondo are extremely situationally aware.
So are Steven, Elle’s son, and Emilio Mancinelli, Don Salvatore’s nephew.
They all have a sixth sense for danger. A natural intuition for when someone’s trying to kill them.
They read people and understand human nature from seeing—and possibly doing—some of the worst our species has to offer.
“You want me to invite myself over then.”
“No, but you can drop some hints, Tricia.”
But I’m more observant about people over time.
I have a memory like a steel trap, so I can recall subtle differences in people’s mannerisms, speech patterns, body language.
I’m better at remembering how someone interacts with strangers and those they know.
It started when I was a kid, and I’d do imitations.
It shocked my family how many details I could recreate.
I didn’t realize for several years why my uncles and dad would encourage me and ask about specific people after family gatherings.
It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I realized they’d groomed me to be a spy.
“I’ll do my best. Maybe I can think of something to do with Toria now that she’s back in town.”
“Good idea.”
I hang up with my uncle and finish my tasks that can’t wait until tomorrow while Sera finishes up in the kitchen.
Then we’re joining her guards and sliding into a town car.
It’s nearly half an hour between the shop in Harlem and Sera’s home in Queens.
We chat about the promo materials I’m sending to local businesses that align with ours.
I also mention the commercials I want to run on radio and local TV.
We’ve barely made it inside the house through the garage before the doorbell rings. I glance toward it as Carmine opens the door.
“No. Absolutely not. Your fucking cousin is not welcome here. I might allow one stronzo, but I don’t allow two. Vaffanculo.”
I struggle to see around Carmine’s broad shoulders to see who he called an asshole and told to fuck off.
“Car, I invited all three of them.”
Sera hurries forward to get to her husband before he slams the door in all the Diazes’ faces. I inch closer, my stomach in knots as I suspect it’s not Pablo, Javier, or Jorge. Why would it be? They have wives to have dinner with.
“Fina.”