Chapter 18
GINA
Later that evening, Dante and I sit side by side in the back seat of the black limo speeding towards Silvio’s mansion.
“Quiet, Biscotti,” I whisper, trying to calm the puppy twisting and turning in my arms.
Dante warned me not to bring him. “Best to leave him at home, Gina. Silvio isn’t the type to tolerate dogs.”
But I had insisted, unable to leave my new pet alone even though Ciro would be there to care for him.
Now I’m regretting that decision.
Especially when I see the dark, reflective look on Dante’s face. Clearly, this is not an ordinary family get-together.
Already, the dress Angie and Antoine picked for me at Saks squeezes my ribs so tightly I can barely take a full breath. Worse, its corset-like structure digs into my sides every time I shift.
Finally, our driver Thomas, and my new bodyguard, veers off the road.
A massive stone mansion comes into view.
“We’re here,” says Thomas.
I hold Biscotti a little tighter as Thomas helps us out.
I’m not sure if it’s the sight of the gloomy looking mansion or plain nerves, but I’m getting an ominous vibe.
“Please be good,” I whisper in my puppy’s ear. Dante was right. I should have left him at home.
As soon as Biscotti’s paws touch the gravel, he pees on Thomas’s shiny black Italian shoe.
“I’m so sorry!” I say, mortified.
But even-tempered Thomas only forces a smile. “It’s okay, Signora Ricci. It’s part of the job.”
I hold back, hoping Dante will take my arm, but he’s engrossed in the messages on his phone.
As I walk towards the mansion with Biscotti on his sparkly leash, my gut twists. This will be my first real mafia dinner.
When we reach the mansion, Dante puts his arm around me and I realize he’s armed.
Armed for a visit to his uncle’s house?
Across the street, I see a car filled with his men already stationed there. Why? This is only a friendly family get-together, right?
“Welcome!” says a uniformed staffer as the door opens. He holds a tray of Champagne flutes and offers me one.
“No, thank you,” I say. Dante also refuses a glass. Tonight, he’s clearly keeping his wits about him.
As soon as we’re inside, he lets go of my arm and moves toward some other men.
I float toward the laughter in the living room.
To my relief I find Angie among the guests. She’s wearing an attractive, conservative black dress.
We both fit right in with the women around us.
The younger wives have tight, curve-hugging dresses that stop just above the knee. Their necklines are low enough to tantalize but too elegant to be called trashy. The older women, the “aunties” Angie mentioned, wear looser-fitting black sheaths.
“Ah, my new niece!” Silvio exclaims, appearing at my elbow. “Welcome to my humble home.”
“Uncle, thank you for having us. Your house is absolutely beautiful!”
“Kind of you,” he says, lowering his voice. “Dante told you it was my home?”
“Oh, I just assumed it was...”
I cringe internally as I realize that in the process of being polite, I’ve made a faux pas. Over our pizza dinner, Dante and his brothers explained the complicated ownership.
Silvio looks over at Dante across the room.
“Thank you for the compliment. The truth is that it’s belonged to the Ricci family since Salvatore Ricci purchased it in 1901. He was just twenty-one then, about your age. Rumor has it there are hundreds of dead men buried beneath our feet on this property.”
Silvio delivers this statistic with a certain amount of pride.
As if in response, Biscotti yips sharply.
Silvio looks down, seeing my dog for the first time at the end of his pink sparkly leash.
His face twists into a snarl.
“Zitto, piccolo topo, prima che ti dia in pasto ai cani veri,” he growls in Italian.
I’m not fluent in the language and have no idea what Silvio just said.
But it doesn’t sound good. And Silvio’s voice was loud enough to send Thomas running towards us.
“I’ll take Biscotti now, Signora Ricci,” Thomas says, appearing by my side.
“What? No! I’ll keep him close,” I say, picking Biscotti up and holding him close to my chest.
“It’s okay,” he says, prying the now trembling puppy from my arms and quickly moving away.
I meet Biscotti’s terrified brown eyes as Thomas whisks him around the corner.
My stomach lurches.
“It’s alright, niece,” says Silvio, suddenly all smiles as he pats my arm.
He walks me towards a black-and-white photo mounted near the front door.
“Behold Dante’s great-great-grandfather, Salvatore Ricci. He came from Sicily with nothing but a desire to build a dynasty. By the time he was twenty-one, he’d bought this house.”
“That’s a fast trajectory,” I say, forcing myself to sound impressed.
I’m still shaking from Silvio’s outburst and having Biscotti ripped from my arms.
But if I want to remain a part of this family, I must shake away my worries and convince myself that Biscotti will be okay.
“Yes. Salvatore was a true pioneer. You’ll learn more about him at the ‘From Docks to Dynasty’ exhibition tomorrow night.”
Before I can ask anything else, a man whispers something in Silvio’s ear.
“Excuse me, niece. Duty calls.”
When Silvio walks away, I turn back to the photograph of Salvatore Ricci.
The man has dark, dangerous eyes. He looks remarkably like Dante, except his expression is decidedly cruel.
“Here you are,” says Angie, kissing me on both cheeks and taking a step back to look at my dress. “I like it! You seem like a different person in this getup.”
“I feel like a different person,” I say.
“What did you wear to fancy parties in L.A.?” she asks.
“Something brighter. Maybe a print.”
“Ha! Dressing like that could get you confused with a hospitality girl around here. And that could get you in big trouble with Dante.”
“What’s a hospitality girl?”
“The girls employed by the casino to keep the guests happy,” Angie explains. “Come, let me introduce you to the aunties.”
We cross the room, and she presents me to a gathered group of older women.
“Good evening, aunties. You all met Dante’s new bride at the wedding. Gina, these are your aunties.”
“I spoke to your mother at the wedding,” one of them says. “Lovely woman. I hear she works outside the home.”
“Yes. She’s a librarian.”
“Imagine,” the other woman says. “How did she have time to raise you?”
I don’t know what to make of that. Clearly, these women have never worked.
As I smile, I scan the room for Dante. He’s in a shadowy corner, his face intense.
But when he sees me looking at him, he excuses himself and comes to my side.
“Good evening, ladies. Would you mind if I whisk my wife away for a moment?”
The ladies titter their consent.
“How are you enjoying the party?” Dante asks.
“It’s fine. But Dante, Silvio cursed at Biscotti. And then…”
“You knew the consequences of bringing him. Yet you defied me.”
“No, Dante, I didn’t —”
“Enough. Focus on your own comportment. Would you like a brief tour of the house?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, realizing I’ll need to walk on eggshells around Dante tonight.
Dante takes my arm. As we pass a group of younger men, I feel one watching me too long.
Dante’s hand finds the small of my back and stays there. His mouth is suddenly at my ear: “Eyes forward, wife.”
I square my shoulders as we continue our promenade. “So you grew up in this house. Tell me about it.”
He shrugs. “Nothing much to tell. A normal childhood.”
“Did you get to the city much?”
“Not until college. I went to NYU for a few years until my father called me into service.”
“NYU. That must have been a fun time.”
He nods. “It was. I lived in the dorms. Made friends. Even worked at Ricci Fine Wine as a part-time job.”
“Your family had a wine shop?”
“A wine shop front,” he clarifies. “Salvatore had purchased the space back in his bootlegging days. The catacombs beneath it were great for storing his giant rum barrels. But back when I worked there, it was a legitimate wine shop.”
“Cool. Can you take me to visit? Show me the catacombs?”
“The family sold it off years ago, but I’m still friendly with the new owners. Sure, I’ll take you if you want.”
The sound of the dinner bell frees me. Dante takes my hand and leads me to our place at the table. One of the uniformed servants pulls out my chair.
With the scars on his face and a tattoo on his hand, he doesn’t look like a waiter. He looks like a soldier in a waiter’s tuxedo.
When we’re all seated, Silvio stands. “I propose a toast to the new member of our family, Gina Ricci.”
Everybody turns to me.
I look to Angie, but her pasted-on smile gives me no indication of what to do. Gut instinct tells me to stand and raise my glass.
“Dear family, dear friends. Thank you so much for honoring me with your presence.”
Dante caresses the back of my arm in an approving way as I sit down.
Almost immediately, the first course arrives. It’s pasta with fresh tomatoes and truffle sauce. As the aroma wafts toward me, a fellow guest stands to deliver the longest, most boring speech in history.
Then another speech follows, this one in Italian.
I take a forkful of pasta, but Angie looks at me with alarm.
She shakes her head and discreetly points to my spoon.
I glance around and notice everyone else is twirling their pasta against their spoon instead of directly on the plate.
Thank God for Angie, or I would’ve looked like an idiot.
After the second course arrives, another man launches into a speech.
Bored, I reach into my purse for my sketchpad. Silvio is talking, and I can’t help but notice how perfect his face is for a caricature. His bald head, dark eyes, and that nose jutting out like the bow of a ship.
I lose myself in the sketch, until a server stops at my chair.
“Signora,” he says.
Before I can react, he plucks the sketchpad from my hands and carries it to Silvio.
The room goes quiet.
Silvio’s face turns dark. He holds up the drawing of his exaggerated nose and dome-like head.
“Gina!” Silvio says, looking daggers at me.
My heart pounds. I glance at Dante, but he remains still.
Then, after a moment I see his right hand move towards the gun I know is in his waistband.
“What is the meaning of this?” Silvio barks.
“I’m so sorry, Uncle. I didn’t mean any disrespect,” I stammer.
“Why would you make me look like this?”
Something in me snaps.
I push my chair back and stand up.
“This is my profession. I’ve been sketching caricatures since I was seven years old.”
He scoffs. “Profession? Insulting respected men with a cartoon drawing?”
“With due respect, the drawing was not meant as an insult. It is a specific form of art called a caricature. Its purpose is to find and communicate the elements of a person that makes them unique.”
“So you admit you see me as a monster, then?” Silvio asks.
“That’s not the intention of this drawing,” I insist. “I meant it as a sign of respect. Everyone at this table admires you. And as your new niece, I wanted to show my admiration through my art. I made this sketch as a memory for you to keep.”
Silvio looks from me to the sketch, then back again.
“I like it,” he finally says. “And though my features are deeply exaggerated, I can see it represents the ‘real me.’
The crowd breaks into relieved applause. I exhale so hard I nearly collapse. Dante wants me to defend myself against threats from outside. Perhaps first, I have to navigate the dangers of my new family.