Epilogue #4
“My sisters will get her up to bed once they notice she’s still celebrating. She win anything?”
“Ten grand.”
“How much has she spent?”
“Nine,” he said with a laugh.
“The place looks good,” I told him.
The casino was hopping, despite how early it was.
Remo had offered to shut the whole place down for our wedding weekend.
We’d decided that half the fun of a casino wedding was the thrill of it actually being open.
So while we reserved the ballroom for the ceremony and reception, we all filed in and out of the pit to have some fun between dancing, drinking, and eating.
The photographer had some great shots of Roe at a blackjack table in her wedding gown, her arms thrown in the air when she won.
“It’s been good. People are responding to the renovations.”
“And they let you up the prices of the rooms.”
“Exactly.”
I knew the money had been good. I’d been getting my monthly kick-up and watching it increase month by month.
The overhead and payroll on places like this were insane, and Remo had to kick up to Luca and me, pay Roe, and cut in his brothers. Even so, with the casino alone, he was doing well for himself. Add in the mob shit? He was creating something generational for himself.
Suddenly, all the work he did to get the place made a lot more sense.
“You two still heading out tomorrow?”
Roe was doing a set later that night.
Then in the morning, we were off on a two-month honeymoon across Europe.
I think we both knew that as soon as we got home, we were planning on starting a family, so we decided to do it up, soak everything in, then go home and start on the baby-making.
“How are things going here?”
“Good. I mean, you know how shit goes. Money is good. Stress is high. But we keep ending up on top, despite the odds being stacked against us at times.”
“It’s all worth it if the books balance at the end of the month,” I said, shrugging.
“Yep. Heard the new house is nice,” he said. Which he’d heard from Santino, who’d visited us a few months back to personally bring the kick-up to Navesink Bank.
We’d had him over for dinner.
I’d cooked.
Roe was, yeah, still… learning.
She almost didn’t turn the pasta to mush the week before. It was an improvement.
“You oughta come up sometime. From what I hear, you haven’t left this town in two years now.”
“Love it here,” he said with a shrug. “But when your woman pops out a baby, I’ll come up for a cigar. Shit,” he said when there was a loud song and an even louder cheer.
“What was that?”
“That was your mother getting a fucking jackpot,” he said with a bemused smile. “Get that woman to bed before she bleeds us dry.”
With that, he walked off.
I got my mother up to her room before going back to my suite, just as Roe did a whole body stretch in bed, the blankets falling down, her rings catching the morning light.
“Hey,” she said, shooting me a sleepy smile.
“Morning… Mrs. Grassi,” I said, going to the foot of the bed.
Her hand went to her heart.
“God, I like the sound of that.”
“You know what I like the sound of?” I asked.
Then I grabbed her ankles, pulled her down the bed, spread her legs, and buried my face between them to show her.
Roe - 9 years
“That’s better, huh?” I asked the infant who was looking up at me with round, trusting eyes from the changing table in the nursery.
It was a room that had gotten a lot of use over the years. Like the other Grassi couples, once we started, we just couldn’t stop.
“No more spittle, no,” I cooed when something out the window caught my eye.
I sighed and reached out to push the window open.
“If you throw that at your little brother, I’m going to make you go to grandma’s all weekend to weed her garden!” I yelled down to the six-year-old who was about to toss what looked like a muddy ball of leaves at his little brother.
Weeding was the ultimate punishment in the Grassi family. Everyone hated it. It worked like a charm. Except for Adrian, who really did need a hand now and again with all that work.
“Boys,” I said, getting a mouth-bubbly laugh from our youngest—and only daughter.
“You wouldn’t throw mud, would you?” I asked, lifting her up in her cute strawberry-printed onesie.
She made little popping noises with her mouth.
“Exactly. Disgusting. I’m worried I am going to need to hose them off before they come back inside. ”
“Thought I heard you,” Milo said as we moved down the steps to find him dropping his keys into the dish inside the front door. “How are my girls?”
He moved over to wrap an arm around me, pressing a kiss to my head, then to our daughter’s.
“We’re good. Just got changed. Was about to try to figure out what to throw together for dinner.”
“Or we could order from Lucky’s and make life easier.”
“I’ve been keeping a terrible secret from you for years,” I told him, watching his lips quirk up.
“What’s that?”
“I only married you for the food connections.”
“Might be a little truth in that,” he said, reaching for the baby.
“Nope. You’re on boy duty.”
“Why? What did they do?” he asked. We’d been at this long enough to be suspicious whenever the other tried to push off the older three onto the other.
“Well, they’ve put the past week of nonstop rain to good use.”
“They’re covered in mud, aren’t they?”
“Only from head to toe.”
“Would you be furious if I hosed them off like a dog?”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Alright. I’ll see what I can do about that. You wanna order?”
“Already on it,” I said, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
With that, Milo shrugged off his jacket, took a steadying breath, and strode through the house toward the back door in the kitchen.
I made the delivery order with the baby cooing on my hip before walking into the kitchen.
When I looked out the window, what did I see?
My damn husband with a wadded-up leaf/mud/God-knows-what ball in his hand and a body covered in impact zones from the boys nailing him with the mud balls.
“And here I was thinking I only had three boys,” I told our girl, kissing her soft forehead. “You wanna see me hose down your daddy?” I asked, getting a little squeal.
Out the window, Milo scooped up our youngest boy, using him as a human shield as he shrieked and flailed.
Alley hopped up on the windowsill, watching the scene, then looking back at me.
“I know,” I said, nodding at her. “That’s our man, huh?” I said as the remaining two boys took advantage of Milo slipping and falling to his knees and dog-piled him. “I think we chose pretty well.”
Milo - 25 years
“Is it just me, or is she really good?” I asked as our daughter stepped off the little stage inside the building that served as Cressida’s Entertainment Academy. Named after Roe’s grandmother.
It was a place that held classes for dancing, instruments, and, of course, voice lessons and singing.
And maybe I was partial, but I felt comfortable saying that our little girl was the star student.
“No,” Roe said, coming to stand next to me as our girl went from singing to stretching at the barre. “No, she is really that good. Like scary good. Like I’m kind of envious of my own daughter good.”
“To be fair, she’s good at everything.”
Our youngest child was also the most high-achieving. If there was an activity in school or a club to join, she was all over it. Then, within weeks, she was scoring all the goals, breaking records, or leading initiatives.
She was so into everything that it was hard at times to figure out what she was doing just to look good on her future college applications, or what she genuinely loved.
But seeing her sing or dance made me think she had that same passion her mother and great-grandmother had.
Whether or not her high-achieving self would allow her to pursue that kind of future was anyone’s guess.
But it was amazing to watch her sing or dance. It was like all the stress she carried on her shoulders melted away, and she was authentically herself.
“She is,” Roe agreed. “The perfect mix of intelligence, talent, and beauty. She’s going to be a force to be reckoned with. Just like her great-grandmother,” she said, looking at the pictures on the wall.
The academy became the home to much of Cressida’s memorabilia. Including some notes from a few very rich and famous men.
Though I did insist that we add a few pictures of Roe on stage from her various appearances at Remo’s casino over the years.
Once she’d settled into her role as a mom, she largely saved her singing for the kids. But as the kids got older and she had more free time, she had an idea to bring the joy of singing (and dancing and music) to as many kids in Navesink Bank as she could.
Unsurprisingly, it had been a big success.
Their Christmas showcase had brought in enough money to start a scholarship for kids from harsher socioeconomic backgrounds to take classes.
“What time is it?” our girl called, making us jump.
“Um… four,” Roe said. “Where are you going?”
“I told Grandma I’d be there at four-thirty.”
“For what?” I asked.
“She’s teaching me to make Sfogliatelle Ricce.”
“Do you need a ride?” I called as she gathered her stuff and rushed to the door.
“No, my brother is picking me up.”
With that, she was out the door.
“Sfogliatelle Ricce,” Roe repeated. “Isn’t that the hardest Italian dessert?”
“Yep.”
“I fail at basic brownies.”
Yeah, she did.
I found her lack of cooking or baking skills even after all these years charming. Completely inedible, but charming.
“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked, reaching around her to pull her to my chest.
“Famiglia?” she asked, her tone and eyes hopeful.
That was not what I was going to suggest.
But I couldn’t deny her.
You see, I thought I walked into that lounge all those years ago to do business.
Turns out, I walked in to lose every negotiation for the rest of my life.
And be over the moon to do so.