An Arrangement with The Family
A New York Mafia Romance
Chapter 1 (Isabella)
Like the swath of a Renaissance painter's brush, there's a perfect mixture of fiery red and brilliant yellow on my right as I start down 5th Avenue towards Mulberry Street. I love the way the sun bounces off the Hudson at this time of day. I can't think of a better way to spend a few hours late in the day than at the New York City Library. It's a gorgeous building, but it's what is on the inside that interests me. I can travel the world when I dive into the books held there. I truly am in my happy place.
My dad may not be as happy with me, though, as I will probably be late for dinner. Again.
There is a ton of activity happening in New York City, like always, but I dart in and around people in order to make my way home more quickly. Our home may be nothing in comparison to the grandeur of the library, but we have a lot to be thankful for.
Monteleone's Grocery is the pride and joy of my father Angelo and his brother Arturo. When we came to America eight years ago, my father knew it wouldn't be easy, but he also knew that the opportunity was ripe for the taking. He and his brother worked hard, manual labor jobs for five years before we were able to rent the first two floors of a building on Mulberry Street. The first floor houses our business and the second floor is our home. All fifteen of us.
There's my parents, Angelo and Verona, my sisters Angelina and Madonna, my brothers Angelo, Jr., Leonardo, and Mario. Then my uncle's family: he and his wife Palmina, their sons Arturo, Jr., Dominick, Gennaro, Geno, and his daughter Bambina.
Up until five months ago, I shared a bedroom with my sisters and female cousin. Then Bambina got married, at only 19 no less. Well, more room for us. She can have it, married life. I don't want it, at least not for a while. I want to go to college and read as many books as I can, maybe see the world. Then, who knows what? Bambi's belly is already showing; she's so proud of it. Don't get me wrong, I like kids and would like to have a family some day, but not right now. I'm only 18. No sir, no man's gonna catch me for a long while.
Opening the door, I see everyone seated at the table. My father looks none too happy.
"Isabella, you know that dinner is served at 6:30." He looks down at his watch. "You are twenty minutes late. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Sorry, father. I got caught up reading a book."
"Oh, you and your books! I have a right mind to marry you off, so you have something else to fill your time instead of all these books." He grins at me as I take a seat at table, ignoring the glares from my hungry brothers.
"Oh, you wouldn't dare, father!" I retort back. I love my father dearly, but I know he likes to tease me.
"Oh wouldn't I?" The gleam in his eye makes me laugh.
We have a nice and loud (as usual) dinner. Two Italian families in one apartment in New York City in 1912 are going to be loud. I guess I'm used to it. My sisters and I take a walk after dinner and soon it's time for bed. As I drift off to sleep, I'm a princess in the story I read at the library today.
"Isabella!" comes the call from downstairs.
"Yes, father, coming." I get on my smock in order to head downstairs and into our shop. Trying and failing at taming my unmanageable black hair, I finally enter the store. My father is stocking shelves. He always gets up early in order to get the store ready for opening.
"Bella, I need to get the fruit and vegetables outside. Be quick about it. We don't want to miss any sales."
"Yes, il padre." My parents speak mostly Italian to each other and to us kids, but I was 10 when we came to America, so English is easier for me than Italian.
Business is going well. At least I think it is. I mean we always have food on the table, which wasn't always the case in Italy or even here in New York City. Sure, we're not high class, but we are doing much better than many of our immigrant brothers and sisters. Which is one reason I hold a grudge against my father. He made me quit school at 14 so I could help at home and at the grocery. I felt like I was barely in school long enough to learn English. There was so much more I wanted to learn.
Still, I love him so. "Father, you know you can count on me."
"I know, my little Bella. I know I can always count on YOU." It was a slight dig at my older sisters. My oldest sister Angelina thinks she is above manual work, though of course she did it when she was younger. At 22, she's unmarried not by choice and no one is as surprised as she is about it. She spends most of her time fixing her hair and going out with boys. I say boys, but they're men now. She and father fight about it constantly. And Madonna isn't much better. She'll come down to help, but she daydreams and loses focus and just doesn't get much work done. Not me. I love hard work. Especially manual work. I lug around basketfuls of potatoes and apples like nobody's business, which surprises almost anyone who sees me. Barely 5 feet 2 inches on a good day and pretty skinny, I take pride in being able to carry even the heaviest of baskets.
After getting everything set up and going back inside, I bring up the same old conversation with father. "They are offering Education courses at NYU, father. I was hoping..."
"Well, keep hoping, Isabella. You know I can't spare you. Especially not right before Fall Harvest. Who's going to carry all of those big squash for me, eh?" He squeezes my tiny biceps. He always does that: compliments me and then does the jokes. But the answer never changes. It's no. It's always no. He's old school: women stay at home, work at home, have babies, and raise them. I try to tell him we are in America now and things are changing, but he has too much old Italy in him.
"Aargh, father!"
"What's aargh, my baby? You and and your Americanisms!"
"Mannaggia, padre. Mannaggia!"
"That's better, dear," He says with a smile.
Darn. I can't stay made at him. Still, I'm not going to quit trying either. I'll get what I want, someday.
Chapter 2 (Roberto)
"You know, I wanted to do this the easy way, but you just couldn't. Huh, paesano?"
The sweat is pouring off his face after I doubled him over with a shot to the gut. "Out of respect for your dear madre, I won't hit you in the face. But still, you gotta pay us back. Ain't that right, Nico?"
"That's right, Roberto. Not paying back the Raffaelli's is a very dangerous gamble. And seeing that losing at gambling is what got you here, well, you shouldn't press your luck."
"Okay, okay," he says, holding up his hand. "I know a way I get some money. I can get it by Friday." I raise my big fist in the air before he stops me, "I mean tomorrow. Yeah tomorrow."
"It better be as you say. Nico will be coming by your place at 6 to get it. If you don't have it, mother or no mother, you're gonna get a real beating. Now get outta here!"
Our debtor runs off down the street.
"Think he's good for it, Roberto?"
"Yeah, I think we scared him good. Christ, I thought he was gonna piss his pants."
"Well, that really worked up a hunger for me. What's mama cooking tonight?"
"Her famous meatballs. Of course, that also means my Uncle Cosmo is in her kitchen, changing her sauce, saying he knows best. She knows hers is better, but it's family, what are you gonna do?"
Nico agrees and laughs.
Family. Yeah, it's important. I guess it's my line of work. "La Famiglia" is what they call us. I was about 17 when we came to America. My father and his family settled quickly in New York and carved out a nice business. Nico is like a little brother to me, but he's not blood. I found Nico more or less living on the streets when he was 15 and took him under my wing. Over time, he became my best friend. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him and vice versa. I'm a capo now, but, one day, I'll take over the family business from my father. I have great respect for my father. I would do anything for him.
I just didn't know it would get tested tonight. After a delicious and raucous meal at my house (and which ones aren't?), my father calls me into his office. It's covered in deep mahogany, rich tapestries, and beautiful paintings. That along with the thick carpet makes it the quietest room in the house. I always get a sense of awe entering this room and this time is no different. One day, it will be my office.
"Roberto, son, come here." My father beckons me over, stands and kisses me the old Italian way, kissing me once on each check.
"How are you father?" I notice it was a little difficult for him to stand. Certainly more difficult than it was a year ago. He's only 52, but it's been a tough life for him. He literally fought his way out of Italy and then fought and clawed once here to get where he is.
"Fine, son, fine. Please, son, sit." He gestures to the thick leather chair sitting opposite his desk. "Roberto, you know I expect you to take over the business when I get old."
"Yes, father, I'll be ready."
