Chapter 3
Arya
By Sunday, I am almost completely ready to go. On my way to church with my family, my head is full of the plan: steps I need to take still, how I’ll pull it off, and what the timing for everything needs to be.
Meanwhile, my mother is talking about eligible bachelors again as Dad drives. She claims the congregation’s full of them and even reads names off a list at one point. Most of them are too old or too young for me, one of them is engaged to another woman, and another had cheated on a friend of mine. Nope, nope, no, thank you. But I sit quietly and let her ramble for as long as I can stand.
“Now, their son’s not very high-ranking or anything, but he’s got a good reputation, and he’s even handsome. His mom says he only wants four kids, so you can have time for your little computer hobby, too!”
My smile becomes a little strained. “I’m sure he’s very nice, Mom. He’s also nineteen.”
“Well, you always end up raising your husband a little bit—”
My father harrumphs. I roll my eyes. Poor Dad.
I shake my head. “...Mom. That’s not ‘raising’ a husband; that is babysitting a permanent teenager.”
I don’t even know why the hell I’m putting up with this. I’m about to make us $5 million richer with a proof of concept that will keep paying off for us for decades, even if I have to tweak it several times along the way. I don’t even have to entertain this bullshit.
But it’s Mom on a Sunday, and despite the fact that she already has half a dozen grandbabies from her other sons and daughters, it’s her favorite time to push the same old goddamn narrative on me.
“I don’t understand why you’re so hostile to the idea, honey! Why are you so scared of settling down? This isn’t normal.” The patter is so familiar that I start silently mouthing along to her words without missing a single one. “You like guys, right? This isn’t some lesbian thing, is it? Or are you one of the asexual? I read in my Facebook group that—”
“Mom! For the fifth time in the last month, I am none of those things! I like guys! I just don’t pair off and breed on command, okay? I haven’t ever found anyone worth dating steadily, let alone marrying. And it’s not exactly a priority for me right now! I have bigger things on my mind.”
“Please, don’t tell me this is about your stupid computer hobby—”
“Now, honey, I think this is a little more than a hobby for her,” my father actually protests a little, for once. “She did go out and get her doctorate.”
“Don’t encourage her!” my mother snaps. “It’s years of this, and she’s never once done anything really useful—”
“That’s about to change!” I burst out, and my mother suddenly goes quiet.
“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” my father asks, more to fill the sudden, awkward silence than anything else.
“I’ve come up with a way to make us money using the Internet. Lots of money.”
I try not to panic as I realize I just gave away part of my plan ahead of time instead of sticking to what I’d decided and surprising them with the money later. They are both silent, waiting for me to continue.
My heart beating hard, I do just that. “I’m going to use a program that will allow me to interrupt and steal from high-ticket international wire transfers. Millions of dollars at a time.”
Suddenly, the two of them are full of questions, talking over each other, my mother amazed and skeptical, and my father increasingly excited. We need an edge over the Rossis, and this could be it. If I can pull it off.
I field every question somehow, feeling nervous and dizzy and struggling with a million self-doubts that seem to come out of nowhere. Who I’m stealing from? When it’s happening? How to make sure it can’t be traced? On and on.
By the time we’re off the freeway again and fighting downtown San Francisco traffic, I’ve fielded every question, and they’re silent again, both mulling it over while I wait.
“I don’t know about this idea, honey,” my mother says predictably. “It sounds risky. Doesn’t it sound risky to you?”
My father grunts as he deals with the stop-and-go traffic. “I think we should let her try it,” he says, surprising me a little. “If this works, it’ll pay us back for all her schooling and gear and a whole lot more.”
My mother makes an indecisive noise. “But what happens if we get caught by the government?”
“That’s not going to happen. I’ve made very sure that nothing can be traced back to us. The real issue is going to be timing it all right.”
My father sniffs and glances back at me for a moment before turning onto our church’s street. “Look, let’s think about it and talk again after church,” he says while I seethe a little inside. I don’t want to wait for their permission to prove myself. I just really, desperately want to do it.
For many decades, the Families have kept to the Sunday Truce locally. No matter how bad a rivalry, grudge, or full-on feud is, we do not fight on Sundays.
Sunday is for family, for community, and, of course, for church. The truce allows us to do things like attend the same services without brawling in the aisles or visiting violence on each other in the parking lots. It lets us go out with our families, even if we pass someone we were exchanging gunfire with just days ago on the street. In short, it’s one of the better old mob traditions to keep around.
And good thing it’s kept because the Rossis go to the same damn church, and today, Michael’s at the same service with us.
He’s here with his brother and his brother’s family, and he doesn’t see me at first. I’m glad of that. He doesn’t need to notice how I immediately find myself unable to look away from him for long.
He’s actually in a suit. He only wears suits to church and funerals, as far as I know. He looks damn good in charcoal gray tailored, though. Especially those shoulders.
But if he catches me looking, he’ll take it as an invitation to saunter over, tease me, and flirt in ways that will get my mother overexcited. I’m not risking that. I already feel like duct-taping her mouth.
I wouldn’t even mind the flirtation; he’s hot, smart, and pretty charismatic, but he’s also a rival from a family that doesn’t get along with mine. He doesn’t seem to care about those things, but I absolutely do. I have to prove myself in such ways he doesn’t, basically, because he’s a man, I’m a woman, and the Mob and my family are... the way they are.
Sometimes, I almost wish I could explain it to the big dumbass so he’d stop teasing me. But I’m really left wondering if he would even listen. So few do. They’re all too wrapped up in their agendas to think about the people around them.
I wish he didn’t cross a room so well. Watching him get up for Communion is an exercise in self-restraint, especially in a well-cut suit. I don’t mind jeans guys, but there’s something about a guy who cleans up well that I can’t even put my finger on.
Once I’ve gotten my bite of doughy Host and sip of vinegary wine, I head back to my seat—and catch him watching me. His eyes are bright and friendly, and when he catches me looking back, he smiles and waves.
My cheeks start burning. The audacity of this guy! I have to force myself not to hurry back to my seat. He would find that way too amusing if I did.
I spend the rest of the service trying not to think about him, thinking about him anyway, and being mad at myself for thinking about him.
After the service is the usual lunchtime potluck that has almost everyone in the congregation piled into the church’s small community center. Mom’s on another of her diets and has brought salad. I had to talk myself out of bringing cookies, getting a cheese plate with crackers instead.
Michael is there because, of course, he is buzzing around the room, socializing before we line up to fill our plates. He’s always shaking hands, laughing with that person, or getting everyone around him to listen to one of his stories. I’d think he was a ray of sunshine if he was less obnoxious about it.
As it is, he’s a pain in my butt, and I can see he’s circling me. Subtly, watching me, swinging into my line of sight, even sitting in my line of sight once we fill our plates and sit down. I do my best to ignore him, feeling awkward and overheated.
Damn him, he’s got me wolfing my food and thinking about waiting in the car just so I won’t be caught staring again. But, instead, I’m stuck making nice with some of my mom’s friends, who have planted themselves across the table from us and started chattering nonstop.
“So, your mom says you’re still not seeing anyone,” bottle-red-haired Mary is prying at me. I manage to keep a polite smile on my face as she goes on. “You know, my cousin’s boy is about your age. I could set you up if you’d like.”
Damn it, Mom . Now she’s got her small army of busybody friends after me, too. It really makes me want to beg off and go home.
At least fending them off distracts me from the Michael Show happening behind them.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m wrapped up in a work project right now and won’t have time for at least another few weeks.” By then, hopefully, Mary, who has an attention span as short as a six-year-old, will have moved on to something else.
“Well, how about after that?” Her smile is unnerving, mostly because her lipstick clashes with her hair, and she has flecks of it on her teeth.
“You know, I don’t see why not. Could you tell me more about him?” I am never, ever, ever going on that date, but if it will appease these women and my mother long enough to make them shut up for a while, I’m happy to play along.
Deep inside, though, it angers and depresses me. I wish I had a cool rebel aunt who never got married and could guide me through all this constant pressure. But I don’t. My aunts, largely, are just like my mother.
Once the holidays roll around, they will doubtless be after me, too.
I just wish there was one person in my entire family who saw my side and stood up for me. My sisters, my brothers, my dad, they try to understand a little, but they join right in with the chorus once my mother gets started.
Suddenly, I’m watching Michael just to look at something hot so I won’t be quite so depressed. But he catches me again and again until it almost feels like he’s laughing at me.