Page 18 of Mafia And Maid
Marco frowns as he takes a pizza slice which looks floppier than it should be. He pokes at it. “The crust is soggy.”
I shrug. “That’s not my fault. The deli must have got something wrong with their dough.”
Alessio slams his fist onto the counter. “For God’s sake, I told you that I wanted properhomecookedfood tonight.”
Oh fuck, I wasn’t supposed to mention the deli’s contribution. “I made sure that it’s organic and all that shit,” I say in defense of myself. “It’s not my fault that they don’t know how to make proper pizza crust.”
“Why are all the toppings burned?” Marco complains.
Jeez, not him as well. “There must be a problem with the oven,” I reply.
“There’s no problem with the oven,” he growls.
“Yeah, there is. I mean, your wife’s managed to burn every single thing she’s ever tried to cook in it…”
His dark eyes flash at me—he doesn’t take it well when we criticize his wife’s cooking even though he knows everything we say is true. But before he can say anything else, Alessio takes a large bite out of a piece of corn. “Fuck! This corn is raw!”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, er, I know. Isn’t it great? You can really taste all the vitamin C and all the, um, sunshine, that went into growing it…”
“For Christ’s sake, Camillo,” Alessio snaps. “There’s no way this can be described as an adequate dinner.”
I drop a bit of pizza on the floor for Mr. F. But taking one sniff at it, he gives a whine and then wanders off without a single bite. “Traitor,” I mutter after him.
“Maybe we should try again to get Savona back?” Alessio suggests in a desperate voice. “We could promise that Millo will go daily to confession for two whole months.”
“No way.” I fold my arms across my chest, but a slight panicky feeling comes over me. There’s no way in hell that I could endure two months of going to confession daily. “You know how hard it is to find anything to confess about. As we can’t mention any of the killings or other stuff, I always have to resort to confessing inane shit—and the priest always knows I’m lying by not confessing the really bad stuff we do. I mean, last time I went, I even had to pretend to feel repentant that I washaving dark thoughts about Maximo being the reincarnation of the devil.”
Marco narrows his eyes at me as soon as I mention his eldest son. “You saidwhatabout my son?”
“Come on, you can’t be surprised about that. I mean, the little shit did put superglue in my shampoo bottle just a few weeks ago…”
Marco’s obviously in one of his volatile moods—as always—and he looks like he wants to grab me by the throat and choke me.
“Don’t worry, we’re gonna have a proper homecooked meal tomorrow night,” I say quickly.
“And how do you think you’ll manage that, numbnuts?” Alessio clips.
“Because I’ve found a maid.”
“You did?” Marco looks impressed, his attention instantly diverted from me insulting his son.
“Of course, I did...”
My brothers look relieved. But all I can think is…why the hell did I just say that?
***
As soon as dinner is over, I hole myself up in the office and dial the casino, telling them to give me the number for the woman from today. Then I call her.
“Um, hello?” she answers.
“Do you still need a job?”
“Who is this?” she says softly.
“Camillo Marchiano. Are you still looking for a job?”
“Yes…”