Chapter 21
FRANKIE
Ijumped the gun when I asked Sofia to dinner. I haven’t spoken with my father yet. I know I can correct my mistake just by keeping her informed, but I hope it won’t come to that. With any luck, my father will be pleased to meet her, and all my concerns will just evaporate into thin air.
But I can’t stop myself from thinking about all the negative things that could happen.
What if Dad sees my romance as a security breach?
What if he thinks I need to focus on my work?
What if he decides that the right thing for me to do is break up with Sofia so that I can give my full attention to the family?
I drive home, trying not to panic. I haven’t experienced full-blown, chest-pounding attack that I suffered when I first learned that I was supposed to follow in my father’s footsteps. But in the back of my mind, I’m waiting for the next shoe to drop.
Each time I go out with Uncle Gio, I become more comfortable with the work.
I’ve been on several trips where people were hurt, and while it doesn’t get any easier, I’m becoming less distressed by the sight of violence.
And every envelope of cash we hand to a corrupt police officer disgusts me less and less, even though I do understand that we need them to keep an ear to the ground.
I’m actually kind of settling into a routine.
I get up in the morning, have my coffee, and go off with whoever I’m shadowing for the day. We work for a while, sometimes until the sun goes down, sometimes only until noon. With the rest of my day, I study law.
I hope my father will see that Sofia fits easily into my life.
I’m not abandoning my duties to spend time with her, and I haven’t told her anything about the family business.
I really like her and I’m sure she likes me.
So, the next obvious step is to meet my parents, and that’s all this is.
It’s just an innocent dinner with my girlfriend.
Provided my father gives his approval, we’ll all be able to sit down and get to know one another.
But no amount of reassurance can stop the anxiety from wrapping itself around my stomach.
I’m feeling nauseous as I park the car in the garage and walk into the house.
There’s no time left to sit on the fence.
I eliminated that by asking Sofia to join us for dinner so soon.
I’ll just have to go through with my plan to ask my father’s permission now.
I stop in front of his office door, nodding to the guard. There’s no way of knowing whether my father is in a meeting. He doesn’t post a schedule for obvious reasons. I’m sure he’s here because all of his men are in the house, but that doesn’t mean he’s available.
I knock once, then build up my courage to knock again.
“Come in!” He calls.
I push the door open and step inside. He’s alone, which is both good and bad. If he were in a conference with Uncle Gio or Edoardo, I might have an excuse to come back later. But it looks like now is as good a time as any.
“Hi,” I begin.
He looks at me carefully, already alerted to the fact that I’m nervous. “Son,” he responds, waiting for me to continue.
“I have a request to make,” I say.
“Which is?”
“I met someone,” I answer, taking a seat across the desk from him.
His face brightens, and I’m filled with relief. I can already tell that this conversation is going to be easier than I expected.
“Her name is Sofia, and she’s a writer,” I say.
“Congratulations.” My father applauds. “How did you meet her? Tell me about her.”
“We met at the library when I was studying for the bar,” I respond. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”
“Excellent,” he says excitedly.
“I’d like to invite her to dinner,” I respond, leaving out the fact that the invitation has already been delivered.
“Great!” He exclaims. “When were you thinking?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, “Or Thursday. Whichever works for you.”
“Tomorrow is fine,” he responds. “Let me get Marlena in here. I’m sure she’ll want to hear this.”
I sit back and watch as he texts his wife. Because the house is so big, we often text each other from different rooms. My father plugs away at his phone for a minute before setting it back down on his desk.
“She’s on her way,” he reports. “So, tell me more about Sofia.”
“She lives in a very small apartment,” I respond.
“She likes comedy shows.” I cast around for other tidbits of information to share.
For some reason, I don’t want to tell my father that Sofia lost her brother.
That seems too personal. Instead, I describe a few of the dates we’ve been on.
“We go out for coffee, or to some restaurants that aren’t on my map. ”
Dad laughs, knowing exactly what I’m talking about.
He has relationships with the owners of at least a dozen restaurants and knows that I don’t want to take Sofia to any of those.
I wonder if my father has ever been in my shoes.
Has he avoided eating somewhere while out with Marlena because of some business or another?
Of course, he must have. He didn’t get to his position overnight. But I have a hard time picturing Dad breaking knuckles or accepting gifts of cash under the table. He seems too old for all that.
I don’t know when it happened. I never thought of my father as past his prime before.
Actually, I expected that his marriage to Marlena would make him seem younger, but it hasn’t.
I think I can see a bit of gray hair at his temples, and the bags under his eyes look firmer than they did a few months ago.
It must be the stress of his position, I tell myself.
He couldn’t have aged a decade in the past year.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finally getting ready to step into his shoes that I finally see the toll this life has taken on him.
I guess being a mafia don ages you significantly.
I wonder if the same will be true for me.
Will I look like I’m eighty when I’m only fifty-two?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but it seems like the responsibility of his role is catching up to my father.
“How are things going?” I ask, filling the time while we wait for Marlena to arrive.
“Okay,” he says, “How are things going with you?”
“I’m learning a lot,” I respond.
That’s the understatement of the year. There’s a delicate dance that we perform whenever we’re together.
There are things we both know shouldn’t be said aloud.
For example, I can’t say that I watched Dante beat up the man from the bakery, or that we passed a wad of cash to Councilman Jennings.
I can only speak in vague terms about the things I’ve witnessed, not because my father doesn’t know about them, but because not sharing gives us plausible deniability.
“Good,” he says. “Do you feel like you’re starting to understand the organization?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He changes the subject. “And how is it going studying for the bar?”
“Fair,” I respond. “I’m still nervous, but each question I tackle is a little easier.”
“That’s good to hear,” he decides. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
I nod, accepting his support. I’m still not sure if he knows something I don’t.
I wouldn’t put it past him to bribe someone into letting me pass.
I hope he has faith in my natural abilities, which he says he does.
Whether I pass the bar or not, I want it to be on the merits of my knowledge.
I can always take it again if I fail and knowing that I did it myself is important to me.
Marlena arrives finally, looking a bit tired. She’s wearing a house robe over a pair of silk pajamas. I can see a slight bump, and I’m guessing that she’s more or less uncomfortable. She seems to have a difficult time and prefers to spend time in her room sleeping.
I stand up to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing?” I ask.
“Okay,” she responds. “I feel like I have to use the bathroom constantly.”
I try not to laugh. Dad looks at me sharply, warning me to behave. It’s clear he’s walking on eggshells, trying not to upset her. He’s been through this before, and he knows what he’s doing. For Marlena, this is her first pregnancy, and she’s not in the mood to joke around.
“Frankie has something to tell us,” Dad announces.
Marlena turns to me, composing herself as she does. I watch her features transform from irritated to interested and take that as a good sign.
“I met someone,” I say.
“Oh!” she cries, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “I’m so happy for you!”
I hug her gently, careful not to put pressure on her stomach. I take her hand and help her sit down. Then I sit beside her and fill her in on all the details. She has many more questions than my father had, and it takes a while to satisfy her curiosity.
“He’s invited her to dinner,” my father says.
“That’s wonderful,” Marlena declares. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” I say. “If that’s not too soon.”
“Not at all,” she insists. “That gives me a full day to get ready.”
I feel all my anxiety slip away. I’m not sure why I was so worried.
My father and his wife are acting just like enthusiastic parents, eager to meet someone new in my life.
I wrap things up, letting them know that I still have a lot of studying to do.
I slip out into the hall to let them converse with each other alone.
Passing the kitchen, I hardly even notice the handful of guards eating sandwiches and beer.
Hopefully, my father will instruct them to move their party elsewhere when Sofia arrives.