The memory of Lucille and Sofiya and Max and Johnny makes me sad for a moment. Sure, I talk to them on Skype—all except Sofiya—but it’s just not the same.
“It must have been some fantasy,” Alda says slyly.
I wink, though my throat is dry. “A lady never tells.”
Really, it was about Dad. Those were the days when freedom was still new to me. I would often just sink into horrible memories. Sometimes, they felt so real it was like I was reliving them.
“Alda,” I say a while later. “Can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
“Carlo, has he—I mean—has he ever …” I trail off.
“Has he ever had a steady romantic relationship?” Alda guesses.
I nod as I whisk the flour and cream and cornstarch.
“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?” she asks lightly.
I shrug. “Forget it. I don’t care.”
“I’ve never told you how I met Carlo’s father, have I?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to say anything that will ruin the moment, because, I have come to learn, it’s hard work getting the De Maggios to talk about the past. Not that I can say much.
“I was working in a Russian sweatshop as an indentured servant. This was years ago, when the Bratva still rivaled the big Italian Families. They’d killed my mother and father in a botched robbery and taken me as their prize.”
“Oh, Alda, I’m so sorry.”
She waves a hand. “I have had enough tragedies that I do not have to linger on those old wounds,” she says. “The point is this, dear. The Italians raided the sweatshop and killed the Russians, and Carlo’s father, cuore mio, he saw me and had to have me. He took me to his mansion—here, the place that would become my home—and at first, I hated him. I had just escaped one controlling hell. I was not eager to burn in another. But over the weeks and months, I saw sides of him I had never dreamed of. I came to love him. I came to know that I could not be without him.”
She pauses, looking at me significantly. I don’t exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out the subtext here. She’s saying that the same thing could happen with me and Carlo.
“It’s not the same,” I tell her. “Your husband took you because he wanted you. Carlo took me because he didn’t want my blood on his hands. He doesn’t care about me.”
A wicked twinkle comes into her blue-green eyes. “Are you so sure about that? We could put it to the test.”
“How?” I ask.
She leans in conspiratorially. “Oh, just a little trick.”
It’s dark in my hiding spot in the pantry. I feel a little cruel for what we’re about to do, but on the other hand, screw Carlo. If he’s not going to tell me the truth about how he feels about me, we’ll go with Alda’s plan.
Anyway, it was her idea. I have plausible deniability.
Through the slats in the wood, I can see Alda. She’s composing herself as though she’s about to go on stage. I guess she is, in a way. Then—once she’s amped herself up for an Oscar-worthy performance—she throws her hands in the air and lets out a scream. I have to give it to her. It really is blood-curdling.
Ubert rushes into the room, hand at his hip.
“Mrs. De Maggio!” he roars. “What is it, ma’am? Ma’am?”
“Where’s Carlo?” Alda cries. Okay, she’s going a little over-the-top now, what with all the hand waving and jumping up and down. “Something terrible has happened!”
A moment later, Carlo is there, dressed in a steel-gray suit with a strand of night-black hair falling across his forehead. I have to resist the urge to run out there and brush it back into place. He agreed to eat dinner with us before he left for the club (the soufflé is for dessert) and I can see in his face that, at first, he expects some cooking accident.
Alda launches into her lie before he can guess something’s up. “Hazel’s gone!” She turns away from her son so he can’t read her face. “She ran out to the garden, and, oh, she climbed that tree at the back, the one near the fence. She’s gone! She jumped over the fence!”
“What?” Carlo roars. The color drains from his face. I feel a pang in my chest. He turns to Ubert. His lips are trembling. His eyes are suddenly dark. “That fucking woman,” he murmurs. “Doesn’t she know the danger she’s in?