Chapter 15: Married With Malice: Chapter 14

I forgot all about wrapping paper and ten a.m. on Christmas morning is probably too late to acquire any.

The small white box looks plain even with the name of the jeweler embossed in dancing script across the lid. Yesterday, I killed two hours hovering over a jewelry counter. I’m pretty sure the paunchy, balding sales associate was ready to throttle me by the time I made up my mind.

In the end, what I chose was a silver charm bracelet. Anni doesn’t wear an excessive amount of jewelry. Her wedding ring stands out because it’s far more flashy than her usual choices. The bracelet struck me as her style and I liked the idea of picking out the charms that suit her best.

A pair of figure skates.

A palm tree as a reminder of our honeymoon.

A heart-shaped charm engraved with the words ‘#1 Sister’ because Anni guards nothing more fiercely than her devotion to Daisy and Sabrina.

And a charm in the shape of a tiny diamond ring, not unlike the larger one on her finger, a symbol that she’s mine.

Maybe the gift will help to melt this iceberg-thick deadlock between us. For the past week we’ve both stayed stubbornly planted on opposite sides of the battle line.

But right now she’s busy assaulting the kitchen appliances. I’m all the way on the other side of the house and even with Mariah Carey’s voice crooning about all she wants for Christmas, I can hear every slam of the oven door and each angry clang of a utensil landing in the sink.

“You bastard,” Anni curses amid the sound of metal furiously scraping a bowl. “Just what the fuck does it take for you to get fluffy?”

That’s my Anni. Snorting a chuckle through my nose feels weirdly foreign. I’m out of practice. There hasn’t been much worth laughing about lately.

When I’m not here provoking vicious fights with my wife, I’m out making death threats to financially strapped business owners who can’t cough up Richie’s dues. I’m not the first wave that’s sent out, not even the second wave. They know by the time they see me coming they’re in the deepest of deep shit.

Sometimes they cry. They always beg.

“Just a little more time.”

“I have a family.”

“This store is my life.”

“My dad opened this restaurant fifty years ago.”

“Please please please….”

But one way or another, before leaving them behind in a puddle of piss and snot, I’ve extracted a solution, making it clear that the late penalty is blood.

A quick glance at the assets, both legitimate and illegitimate, that make up the Amato empire should support the conclusion that Richie has more than enough to keep track of without gutting a family-owned hardware store in Queens to pay for some poor slob’s addiction to the Atlantic City blackjack tables.

But I’ve swiftly learned that there’s no such thing as ‘enough’ in the mafia. The brutal hunt for more and more and more just never fucking ends.

And while I’m earning my cruel reputation, I get to be the trench coat-clad Grim Reaper who brings the consequences.

A crash comes from the kitchen. Annalisa cuts loose with another string of profanity. She became a domestic cyclone at the crack of dawn, determined to bake some apple cake recipe of her mother’s called torta di mele.

She didn’t tell me that. I overheard her talking to Daisy on speaker phone while asking for cooking advice. Anni doesn’t tell me much at all. We circle each other like two jungle alpha predators locked in a cage together.

I don’t know how we got here. I can’t stand fighting with Annalisa. What I want is to hold her and protect her and make her feel good.

But the foulest parts of my job have started crowding out everything else in my mind and each day brings a sinister new shadow to nibble at the edges.

How long until I turn into Richie Amato? Or into Albie Barone?

Ruthless and cold blooded, ready to order an execution over an unpaid debt or an insult before casually sitting down to a plate of Aunt Donna’s lasagna.

I suspect I’m halfway there already.

This is what Cale warned me about.

This is why he always threw himself on the sword, a futile bid to protect me from a fate I willingly joined anyway.

Though my brother is the only person who could relate, I’ve kept all the havoc to myself. Even if there wasn’t some cloak and dagger omerta code to honor, Cale has earned his happiness and I won’t bring my darkness into it.

When we spoke this morning, I got a kick out of hearing his excitement over impending fatherhood. Cale will be an excellent father. I’m deeply proud of him. I’m sure he wishes he could say the same about me but things are what they are.

I shake the lid off the square jewelry box and examine Anni’s charm bracelet. I thought about giving her this peace offering last night but she was gone, attending midnight mass with her mother and sisters. I’m not too keen on stepping into a church these days. My presence will probably boil the holy water.

With my fingertip, I trace the tiny sterling silver palm tree charm. That sun-kissed week we spent on the beach feels as distant as an ancient golden fantasy.

A pan clatters to the tile in the kitchen. Anni calls it a motherfucker. I pop the lid back on the box, figuring the gift can wait until she’s not being tormented by kitchen accessories. Maybe she’ll forgive me and crack a smile. But for now the box goes back into my drawer.

I haven’t sat in this chair since the day of our argument, although ‘argument’ feels like the wrong word, kind of like calling D-Day a scuffle.

All the ugly Christmas decorations she dumped in here are gone. The paperwork that was scattered on my desk is also gone. Just some contracts that can always be reprinted.

Anni must have had quite a tantrum after I stormed out. In addition to tossing my contracts and removing all the Christmas crap, she saw fit to clear off my entire desk, down to the pens.

All the fucking pens.

Shit.

I jump to my feet and start frantically rifling through drawers in search of the engraved pen given to me by my brother. The last time I saw it was right here. The pen was in my hand when my wife stormed into the room in the midst of a wrathful decorating spree.

Now there’s no sign of that pen or any other pen. My desk is pen free and one of the few possessions that actually matters to me is now being held hostage by the sexy human tornado currently abusing cookware in the kitchen.

A deep sigh of irritation does nothing to enhance my mood. Anni can do whatever she likes with every other pen on the planet but I’m getting that one back.

Approaching the kitchen right now is not unlike sticking my hand in a beehive. However, the view from the doorway more than compensates.

Annalisa is on her hands and knees in front of the sink and mopping up a wet spill with a dishtowel. There are smudges of flour on the black yoga pants molded to her body. The energetic rhythm she uses to attack the floor speaks straight to my cock.

I end up gripping the back of the nearest barstool and suppressing a lustful groan. Sleeping on the couch for the past week hasn’t been fun. There’s nothing I’d love to do more than close these last few feet of distance between me and my wife, then strip off her flour-speckled clothes and fuck her into oblivion where we stand.

I’m aware this is an unproductive fantasy.

Our most recent argument was the worst one yet and it was all my fault. I was jealous and cruel and she paid me back. Our old push-and-pull cycles are getting nastier. This is becoming a rotten habit, the way we keep daring each other.

Anni straightens up and throws the sopping dishtowel into the sink. Her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail with long strands escaping. Her cheeks are flushed. She notices there’s a flour handprint dusted on her right thigh and attempts to rub it off with her palms. Then she looks up and recoils with a gasp at the sight of me standing six feet away.

“Can you make a noise the next time you go skulking around behind me? I’m not in the mood to pass out from shock today.”

“I didn’t realize I had such power. I wonder what else I can do with it.”

With a deep exhale, she crosses her arms. “Are you here to torment me or is there another reason?”

My eyes trace the contours of her body. The pink fleece top she’s wearing slides off one shoulder and the hem has been cut just above her navel. Her pants sit low enough on her hips to show off a tempting slice of skin. She still maintains the toned body of a figure skater. I’ve memorized every inch of her. Fucking perfection.

“Another reason. With your permission, I’ll try to get my caffeine fix without shocking you into blackout mode.”

Her shoulders bounce with a shrug. “You have free use of the kitchen.”

Anni stays rooted to the spot as I cross directly in front of her and pick out a ceramic mug from the cabinet. We come within inches of touching as I fill the mug with water and nuke it in the microwave. I don’t have the patience for the high maintenance espresso machine right now.

The rest of the room is a disaster zone. The kitchen island is crowded with spice jars and browning apple peels. Half a stick of butter is lying in the sink amid mixing bowls and spatulas. And a few of the cabinet panels are somehow painted with streaks of dripping yellow batter.

The oven beeps and Anni springs into action. She pushes her hands into puffy red oven mitts and carefully lifts a round baking dish full of raw batter and topped with misshapen apple slices. She carries the dish in both hands, slow walking to the oven like she’s got the holy grail in her grip.

She gets all the way to the oven, then realizes she can’t open the oven door with the baking dish in her hands. The noise of frustration she makes is somewhere between a sigh and a scream.

“Would you like some help?” I ask.

“No!” She looks around the kitchen in search of a better savior. The dish wobbles in her hands, in imminent danger of being sacrificed.

The kitchen may not survive the fallout from such an event.

Annalisa stiffens as I reach around her and pull open the door to the wall oven. She smells like vanilla and sugar and her skin radiates warmth. It’s not easy to refrain from putting my arms around her after she slides the pan into the oven.

“Thanks,” she manages to mumble just as her phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. She snaps it right up and her tone immediately changes, becoming damn near perky. “Hey, I just put it in the oven. All I need to do is dust the top with cinnamon when it’s finished. You and Big Man Bowie need to promise you’ll eat it even if it’s not as good as Mama’s.”

Obviously, she’s talking to Daisy again. I’m always amazed by how quickly her personality turns into warm mush when she’s talking to her sisters. She even trills out a fragment of laughter.

The microwave is done heating my mug of water so this gives me something to do while I eavesdrop on Anni. The container of instant coffee in the pantry has just enough left for one cup and I stir the crystals as she chatters away.

“See you in a few hours,” she says. Her eyes swing to me and a slight frown pulls at her mouth. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Love you too.”

Some of the coffee crystals float to the top and the first swallow tastes as if it was scavenged from a puddle in a city gutter. I’d scrap the whole mess if I wasn’t so desperate for an energy jolt. My sleep patterns have gone to shit lately.

Anni checks on the oven and sets the timer. “Daisy said to wish you Merry Christmas.”

“That was nice of her. What did you do with my pen?”

She returns bags of sugar and flour to the pantry before answering. “There are some pens in the drawer next to the sink. Take your pick.”

“No thanks. I’d rather have mine.”

Anni carries more items back to the pantry. “Now you have a special pen? Is this like a security blanket situation or what?”

“No, but if you’re offering security blankets, I’ll take one. Might make the nights on the sofa more comfortable.”

She swivels around and pops a hip. “I never ordered you to sleep on the sofa.”

“Consider it a favor. You wouldn’t want to risk coming into contact with my sperm. You might be tempted to do something dangerous with it.”

“I’ve never abused your sperm. You were being a complete jerk that day and I wanted to make you sweat for a minute. Besides, I’ve already touched, swallowed and hosted enough of your sperm to – forget it, this is ridiculous. I am NOT discussing sperm on Christmas.”

“Too late. Sperm and blasphemy everywhere. Angels are weeping.”

“Not funny.”

“More sperm jokes incoming unless you cough up my pen. I’ll even save a few of my best ones for Christmas dinner with your parents.”

“I don’t have your pen!”

“It’s got to be with all the other shit you took from my office.”

A glimmer of uneasiness flashes in her eyes. “Things had spilled off your desk and were all over the floor.”

“I guess that’s true. Our last fuck fest did get a little wild.”

“Psychotic is more like it.”

“Definitely not our best day. What happened after I left?”

She throws up her hands. “It was a mess in there.”

I take a pointed look around the kitchen. “Suddenly messes bother you?”

“I bagged up all the junk and anything that was lying on the floor.”

“Perfect. Where’s the bag?”

She sniffs and looks out the window. Snow was promised in the forecast but so far there’s only cold rain.

“Garbage pickup was yesterday morning,” she says.

When my response is angry silence, she chews the corner of her lip.

“Look, I never knew you had a special magic pen,” she says. “I’ll order you a new one.”

“It wasn’t magic,” I say. “The value was purely sentimental. Just like the tux you burned on prom night.”

She quits biting her lip. “You said it wasn’t really your father’s tux.”

“I was trying to spare your feelings.”

“Since when do you spare my feelings? You’re the guy who told Matthew Pentone that I was an evil bitch and convinced him to dump me. Now you get your laughs by throwing him back in my face whenever you get the chance.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, forget about that disgusting prick already. And yeah, I spared you the mortification of knowing how Matthew Pentone bragged to the whole tri-state area that he popped the cherry of the big mob boss’s daughter. But at least you can now stop telling yourself he’s the good guy who got away.”

The shock on her face says it all.

She never suspected. Fuck.

This sure went bad in a hurry.

If I’d wanted to play the hero then I would have made sure Annalisa heard all the details of the locker room beat down I gave Pentone six fucking years ago when I learned how he was running his filthy mouth.

But I never wanted to force her to feel any gratitude toward me. I still don’t.

The shock passes and her eyes go flat. “For your information, I’m not even slightly hung up on Matthew. If that’s your version of sparing my feelings then don’t bother. I’d return the favor but now that your soul has been sold to the mafia, you have no need of a heart.”

We face off with dueling glares. She’s ice and I’m stone.

Not long ago, I would have shaken off the tension and found a way to defuse the situation with a wisecrack.

When did I lose that ability?

Call it an occupational hazard. The cost of spilling blood. I’m already so used to wearing the mask of a pitiless killer that it’s starting to stick to my skin. Pretty soon there won’t be a single line I’m unwilling to cross.

Anni is now looking at me funny, waiting for some quip or retort that isn’t coming. I gulp back some more weak coffee and toss the rest down the sink.

If I give her a Christmas gift right now, she’s as likely to run it over with her car as she is to say thanks.

She’s still watching as I rinse out the cup and add it to the dishwasher. When I remain silent and casually lean against the sink with my arms crossed, she sighs and grabs a spice jar from the table. “We’re supposed to be at my parents’ house at one.”

“I know. Richie and the whole family will be there too.”

Anni cracks the oven and peeks inside. Satisfied, she closes it again and sets the spice jar on the counter beside the oven. “Until then, I’m going to wait for my cake to finish baking, add the cinnamon and go enjoy a nice hot shower. All I want for Christmas is for you to allow me to accomplish those things in peace.”

I have no intention of interfering with her ‘peace’. She waits for me to offer a verbal agreement to her demands. I don’t feel the need.

After ten more seconds of frosty silence, she turns the Christmas music up and starts cleaning up the mess on the counter. I could offer to help but I won’t.

Anni is annoyed that I’m in the way, still standing in front of the sink. She tries to push me aside and doesn’t succeed so she turns the faucet on full blast and switches to the spray setting.

While I don’t care if she gets my suit wet, nothing good can come from this interaction so I may as well return to my office before there’s another outbreak of petty squabbling.

On my way out of the kitchen, I notice something funny about the spice jar Anni left by the oven. I heard her say she planned to add a dusting of cinnamon to the apple cake when it was finished baking. I wonder if she thinks this is cinnamon, despite the fact that the label clearly says ‘Cayenne Red Pepper’.

I look back and see her moodily filling the dishwasher. “Hey, Anni.”

She fumbles with a plate and spins around, practically vibrating with contempt. “WHAT?”

“There’s flour on your ass,” I say and leave the room.

I’m sure she’ll double check the label before she does something really stupid, like cover Christmas dessert with hot pepper.