Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

16 | Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

New York City, Brooklyn, December 1954

PAMELA STOOD BEFORE Johnny's mother, with her skin nipped by the cold and her teeth chattering from trekking through the snow for so long. The wool socks inside her boots were soaked through with melted ice, and she wanted desperately to warm herself by a furnace or any source of heat.

But she wouldn't be able to do so without a confrontation.

Johnny's mother was a slight woman with greying black hair wound around her ears beside her temples, and a horizontal crease carved neatly across her forehead. She had eyes identical to those of Johnny, but a pair of wire spectacles and hard set laughing marks framed her face. Her complexion was also lighter than Johnny's, her cheeks olive-pink instead of beige.

She wore a worn white blouse tucked into a long navy blue skirt: an outfit that had not been in fashion for years. Her silver-black hair was also long and uncut, swinging at her waist and making her appear like an American pioneer from one of Pamela's old childhood stories.

"You the Americana?" She twisted her lips, crossing her arms across her chest and puncturing Pamela with a glare.

"Yes..." Pamela found her voice, sticking out her hand to greet her. "My name is Pamela Kelly. Johnny invited me. I-I'm sorry if I'm causing you any kind of trouble."

Without speaking, Johnny's mother looped a sturdy arm around her back and led her through the tenement room. Though she was at least a head shorter than Pamela, she walked with such compact strength and determination that she reminded Pamela of Napoleon the little general.

The tenement's walls hung low and lights gleamed dimly. The furniture was at least three decades old. Perhaps they had been purchased when Johnny was in diapers. The building itself was archaic—tenements like the one Johnny's mother lived in had been prohibited by New York State law back in the thirties for their poor living conditions.

Pamela had only ever read about the atrocious excuses for housing that had lacked bathrooms and were meant to contain poor immigrant families recently arrived in the country.

Regardless of its shabby appearance and cramped configuration, the particular unit was warm and clean.

There was one, rectangular-shaped radio in the corner, the type that Pamela's parents would have listened to during the Great Depression. The red-carpeted floor bore no stains or spots. The drapes were pristinely ironed, and a small potted plant dwelled atop the mantle, where heirlooms and family photographs encompassed it. The kitchen was to the left of the living room and contained a miniature fridge and a single table and chair in the centre.

Pamela wondered why Johnny hadn't paid for more suitable accommodations for his mother. He could certainly afford to. His suits were always expensive and his automobile was one of the newest models. Why had he covered the costs of personal frivolities and neglected to fund the basic needs of his mother?

Disgust rose in her throat, and she remembered how unsavoury his character was. How could she flirt with the idea that he was anything but? He didn't deserve her admiration.

Johnny's mother drew her from her contemplation. "Do you cook?"

Pamela raised her eyes to Silvia, lifting her chin. "Not very well. I can boil an egg, put together a sandwich, make a stew if I have to. But..." she was about to add that the help had always taken care of her culinary needs, but she thought better of it.

Silvia was critical, her deep frown revealing she believed that any young woman should be able to cook for her husband and family—not that Pamela had any to show for.