Chapter 8: Nico (Past)

The antique clock chimed on the hour as I strode into the dining room, my father and brother already seated at their places, digging into their dinner. My father, Vincenzo, aka Vinny, looked up at me as I pulled out my chair. His lips turned into a sneer when his eyes moved to my neck, no doubt making note of the hickey that would be forming there.

One of the maids quickly placed a plate of veal scallopini before me, the rich scent of lemon and herbs floating up to me. I nodded at her in thanks, avoiding eye contact with my father. I could feel him staring at me, his jaw clenched.

“Dad was just talking about the problem with the Valenti’s,” my older brother, Antonio, informed me. He was 23, three years older than me, though we were constantly mistaken as twins. We had the same height, same build ... yet for all our similarities I was constantly reminded about all the ways I fell short.

“Don’t bother, Tonio,” my father scoffed. “If he wanted to know about our business, he would have showed up on time, instead of fucking one of his whores.”

Irritation prickled up my spine, my muscles tensing for the fight that was looming. My father insisted on having ‘family dinners’ every fucking Sunday. It was tradition, he would say. A tradition he would not let go of since the 12 years that my mother had passed. It was a farce, a sad mockery of the beautiful thing it had once been. Back then, my mother would make the best homemade lasagna and tiramisu from scratch, letting me lick a spoonful of the whisked mascarpone. She would give me a secret smile and say, “Not too much, Nico. Our little secret eh?” as she ruffled my hair and hummed an old song. Now meals were served with sharp criticism and thinly veiled disappointment.