Another humph was his disgruntled response.
“So, you’re gonna raise my grandson miles away from me?” snapped Angelo.
Alana tensed. We hadn’t chosen to know the gender of our child before birth, wanting it to be a surprise, but my father’s unyielding persistence in declaring that it was another strong Varasso boy always made Alana bristle. I knew she wanted a daughter. In fact, I wanted a daughter, too. There was already far too much masculine energy in the Varasso family, especially now that Valentina was dead and my father’s mistress was banished. The family needed to be softened, lightened.
“Your grandchild will be around plenty,” I replied.
Across the table, Marco, Alessandro, and Gabriel quietly pushed their food around on their plates, doing their very best to mind their own business. They were lucky. Lately, all of the attention and disapproval had been directed at me during our Sunday dinners. Angelo preferred to nitpick everything his oldest son, his heir, did, rather than bother correcting the behavior of his younger, less important sons. Less important in his eyes, of course.
Angelo took another sip of whiskey.
“Well, Alana,” began my father. “Once my son decides to grow a pair of balls and propose, I think you will make a lovely wife for him. A beautiful mafia wife,” he said, chuckling to himself. He leaned forward across the table and Alana nervously met his gaze. “You remind me of my Valentina. So pretty, in different ways, of course, but you are also supportive. You are the kind of woman that my son can depend on, especially in our line of work.”
I could tell that Alana was insulted, and my stomach squirmed. She would always support me, yes, but that wasn’t her only purpose in life. Our relationship was more about equality; supporting each other in balanced ways.
Still, Alana bowed her head and replied with a polite, “Thank you, sir.”
I placed an assuring hand on her knee underneath the table. She shifted slightly in her seat, rubbing soft circles on her stomach. She’d been so uncomfortable lately in the final stages of her pregnancy; I knew we were both eager for it to be over and to finally meet our child.
“Valentina was supportive,” muttered Angelo, continuing on in his soliloquy. “She was the perfect wife. Devoted. Patient. Submissive.”
I could sense the response coming from Marco, who immediately tensed up and fixed our father with a practiced, piercing glare. I knew that whatever was about to come out of his mouth wouldn’t end well, but it was like watching a trainwreck happen right before your eyes… I was frozen, unable to stop the disaster before it occurred.
“If she was so perfect, why did you cheat on her for thirteen years?” Marco hissed.
About ten things happened then, all at once.
Gabriel glanced up at me, eyes wide. He always tended to shrink into an invisible shell the moment our father’s infidelity was mentioned; his mother had been Angelo’s mistress, after all.
Angelo snapped, standing up and chucking a china plate against the far wall in one smooth motion. In perfect synchronization, Marco also stood up, squaring his shoulders against our father with a determined frown on his face.
Alessandro’s phone rang.
Alana cursed quietly under her breath, her grip tightening on her stomach.
A maid hurried into the room, dustpan in hand, quickly cleaning up the shattered china. It was like she’d been standing outside the dining room waiting for that very thing to happen. I didn’t blame her; Sunday dinners usually resulted in an unfortunate twist of events. Having a dustpan at the ready was simply smart planning.
I sat frozen in the middle of all the commotion.
With a low growl, our father gripped the front of Marco’s perfectly pressed oxford button-down and threw him against the wall as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Marco flinched, but he was used to violence. Even as Angelo pressed his forearm firmly against his second son’s throat, Marco maintained his furious eye contact with him.
The room was so quiet, I was sure I would be able to hear a pin drop on the plush red carpet.
“We do not criticize each other in this family,” snarled Angelo, his face mere inches away from Marco’s as he put more pressure on his son’s throat. Still, only the tiniest gasp for air betrayed any discomfort on Marco’s part. He was exhibiting the strength and resolve that was expected of Varasso sons. In just an hour, I was sure Angelo would praise him for his honorable behavior in the face of a physical threat.
Angelo wasn’t done giving Marco his lesson, though.
“We face threats every damn day of our lives,” he growled. His voice was a deep rumble. Like an earthquake. “Do you think we built this empire turning on each other? Do you think everything we have could survive a Varasso civil war?”
Marco shook his head, mouth open slightly in hopes of tempting in air. Angelo loosened his grip slightly, but didn’t let go of his son quite yet.
“You think you’re tough, asking me about Valentina over the dinner table she brought into our home, in the middle of the dinner tradition she started for us. She was the backbone of this family. You will not criticize me or belittle her contributions or speak ill of your half-brother.”
Gabriel looked at his father nervously. No one thought that Marco was insulting Gabriel, but it was still a sensitive topic even over a decade later. Marco loved Gabriel, just as I and Alessandro did. Angelo knew that deep down.
Alana once mentioned that she thought Angelo was self-conscious of his infidelity. That he maybe even felt guilty about having a mistress when his wife was so faithful. Perhaps, Alana had once suggested, Angelo blamed himself for Valentina’s untimely death.
Alessandro’s phone rang again and he swore, standing up to take the call in the far corner of the room where Angelo had thrown the plate.