The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,69

a woman with underwear issues.

I glanced around at the group. I could tell that most of the men had fantasies going on. Satisfied smirks grew on their faces. If Lisa was making this up, she was a better storyteller than I gave her credit for. If she wasn’t, the girl clearly had some intense shopping issues.

The room fell silent after her revelation and stayed that way for what seemed like forever. Probably due to the intricate fantasies . . . which gave me a slightly creepy feeling.

Then, just when I was about to give up on anyone in this tight-lipped group of ever saying anything that I might use as a clue, the chocolate-brown-haired guy spoke.

“My name is Giuseppe,” he said in the Italian dialect I could understand. His long hair was styled in that slicked back mob fashion the Sopranos made popular. Up until that program, most of my family never slicked back their hair. After the first season, most of them followed the Soprano style. Even Uncle Ray enhanced the gray on his temples so he could look like Paulie. I wondered if mobsters throughout the country took on the Soprano style, or was that just my slightly demented family.

“Welcome, Giuseppe,” we said in unison.

Giuseppe leaned forward, tugged on his tie like he had a deep aversion to it, glanced over at me for a moment and, I swear, all the air went out of my lungs. Not only did he look familiar, but the man was disturbingly handsome, especially with that scruffy beard. More like he stepped out of a daydream of what a thirty-something Italian man should look like. Thoughts of Adonis and Apollo swept through my mind—even though they were clearly Greek, I couldn’t help thinking of a Greek God while staring at Giuseppe.

“Breathe,” Lisa said. “You’re turning blue.”

I turned to her and mouthed, ohmygod!

“Yeah, but he’s obviously mobbed up, girl, so get control,” she cautioned.

But I couldn’t. It was as if I was hit by cupid’s arrow and I saw only Giuseppe.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Just last night I had sex with my ex-boyfriend who continued to lie to me, and now I was attracted to a gangster, an imported gangster, at that.

I needed serious therapy.

“I came here to do a job, but I found out today that my job was already done for me. So now I come here tonight to make peace with the family.” He switched to English. “But I no can make peace with the family in Calabria until I show that the man I came to, shall we say, erase, is,” he shrugged, “erased.”

His Italian was what my relatives referred to as old Italian. Different regions of Italy had slightly different dialects, thus the reason why I couldn’t always understand book-learned Italian-Americans or Northern Italians. To my family, anyone who lived in a town even slightly north of Calabria was considered a Northern Italian.

Calabria, where this latest import was obviously from, was known for heavy mob activity, and for the ‘Ndrangheta, the most notorious, secretive, and ruthless of all Italian Mafia type organizations. Unfortunately for me, most of my family and honorary family could trace their criminal roots to this region of Southern Italy. My dad was born in a little town called Cariati Marina. He lived there until he was sixteen and told me stories about how he helped his dad pick olives in the local groves and how his mom would clear land for the rich mob boss. Of course, he never actually said the owner was a mob boss, but even as a little girl, I knew how to read between the shrugs and story omissions. My grandfather eventually hooked up with the owner and my dad didn’t have to pick any more olives and my grandma didn’t have to haul rocks.

I guessed that being born a girl I broke the venerated mob chain.

A short silence, feet shuffled, chairs creaked.

“My name is Hetty, and I’m an alcoholic.” My aunt’s voice was deep and loud, and what she said was a complete revelation to me. It explained a lot of her reclusive and nasty behavior.

“Welcome, Hetty,” we chanted.

“I just want to say, I’m glad the bastard Dickey is dead. I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I can’t help myself. I’ve hated him for a lotta years, and that devil finally got what he had coming. I think now I can let some of my pent-up anger go. I’m working on it by meditating