Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

22 | Trouble in Paradise

Boston Massachusetts, January 1955

CARLOTTA BELLUCCI STARED at her husband in their decrepit Boston apartment as he wolfed down his plate of lasagna and defrosted peas, his fork clinking loudly against his plate.

When Tony had insisted that they settle in Boston instead of a small New Hampshire town, Carlotta's dream of suburbia had been painfully extinguished like the flame of a cheap candle. Instead of a picturesque bungalow with a white picket fence, she had gotten a one-bedroom apartment with holes in the floorboards and a non-functional furnace that keened like a wild animal.

The malodour of mould and rotting wood from the walls caught in her nose and made her wheeze, making it nearly impossible to sleep at night. She complained to Tony about the smell, begging him to choose another place. But he slept just fine and didn't see the point in moving again as he couldn't stomach the idea of living in the middle-of-nowhere as a nobody.

He had found a poorly paid job as a car mechanic for an older guy from Calabria. Every morning, he exchanged his sports coats and polyester pants for oil-stained coveralls, laden with sweat and gasoline.

Carlotta envied him for his freedom, but Tony had convinced her staying home was far preferable to someone finding out Don Roberto Mancini's little girl was working in Boston. With her looks, it was hard to go unnoticed. So instead of working, she spent her time leafing through Good Housekeeping magazines, experimenting with recipes and undertaking minor renovations. Sure, the apartment wasn't exactly a pilazza, but at least she could make it nice with a few paint jobs and a new set of drapes.

That night, she had tried to recreate her mamma's famed onion and beef lasagna. When Tony scarfed it all down in a few bites, she concluded it was a success.

"How was work?" Carlotta asked Tony as she fixed the buttons on her blouse. She had gotten dolled up for him, knowing that he liked the shade of sea-green against her olive skin and pale blue eyes. But since he had arrived home all he had done was collapse on the sofa and laugh wildly at the sitcom that was playing on television.

"It was swell. Some guys bought pizza for lunch. It was the best thing I've had in weeks," Tony replied, absently touching the dark growth of hair above his lip. He was intent on wearing a moustache. He wanted to be less recognizable if he crossed paths with anyone from New York.

Carlotta stared at Tony: his uncut hair, his dirty blue uniform, his dirt-smattered face. His bedraggled appearance made him look much older than his twenty-six years. Or maybe she saw him differently because of his violent encounter in Hooksett.

She shook her head, willing herself to forget the violence that had ignited in her husband's gaze that day. They had not spoken about it since it had happened, and Carlotta hoped he wanted to forget it as much as she did.

Tony noticed Carlotta's apprehension and reached over to caress her forearm, his palm rough and calloused. "Some fellas are comin' over after work."

"Some fellas? Who?" Carlotta jolted backward. 

"Yeah, some Calabres' fellas from the repair shop. I told them they could come over for a drink after work." Tony explained offhandedly. "I owe them for the pizzas."

"I thought we were gonna spend the evening together. Alone." Carlotta looked down at her unfinished plate of lasagna, which was utterly grey and depilated. She had spent hours making it. That Tony enjoyed store-bought pizza more than her cooking spoke volumes.

Tony gazed at her with pleading. "C'mon baby, it'll be fun. You always complain about how you never get to meet any Boston people."

"But you didn't ask me! We're supposed to decide together, Tony. As married people do." Carlotta's heart sank as her plans for the evening melted away.