neighborhood. To be clear, the homes we’d passed weren’t like Nikki’s. These homes reminded me of those outrageously huge English estates like on Downton Abbey . Anyway, whoever said that Texans owned the market on “big” had never been to Rome.
“Whose house is this?” I asked Horse, wondering why we weren’t pulling up to an after-hours, hole-in-the-wall restaurant instead.
“My grandmother lives here.” But as he spoke, I noticed a family crest and name in big huge iron letters right on the front of the gate.
“Abelli?” I whispered in horror. “You’re an Abelli?”
“I thought you knew.”
Oh shit. “So Felix is…?”
“My cousin. And do not look at me like that. Just because I am an Abelli doesn’t mean I’m a murderer or thug. Even Felix has been trying to live a better life.”
Whatthehellever . I have to get out of here .
“Why did you bring me here?” I was about to jump from the car and make a run for it. But at the same time, I didn’t want to raise any suspicion because Horse didn’t seem to have a clue who I really was. The people inside, however?
“Uhh…because my grandmother makes the best meatballs in all of Italy.”
“I can’t go in there,” I said.
“Why not?”
Why not? “It’s almost two in the morning. It’s rude.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Granny Abelli is a night owl; she never goes to bed until after three. Besides, she’s been begging for me to stop by—she’ll be overjoyed to see us.”
I felt my little heart trying to beat its way from my chest. Granny Abelli? Granny Abelli! I remember reading all about her when I did my high school paper on “the family” for my history class. The theme was Organized Crime and Its Impact on Modern Society. Most of the kids chose to write about prohibition or organized crime in New York—everyone loved The Sopranos and Boardwalk Empire —but I chose the infamous Abelli family. Granny Abelli’s husband had been the ringleader in supplying Nazi Germany with hard-to-come-by Western products ranging from American sodas and candy to car parts and ammo. After the war, members of the family went on trial, but every prosecutor who took on the case mysteriously ended up dead. Then in the ’90s, there had been several articles posted about their alleged involvement in brokering deals with terrorists for atomic bomb parts.
Convicted or not, these were not nice people. Of course, Granny Abelli had to be ninety-something by now, but even at her nonthreatening age, I so did not want to be there.
“I really don’t think this is a good idea—”
“I see. You think my grandmother is some criminal. Well, you of all people should know that you can’t believe everything you read. You’re a reporter. You know the newspapers will print anything.”
“Yeah, but—”
“My grandmother wouldn’t hurt a fly. Yes, I won’t deny that my grandfather—when he lived—and some of the other men in my family aren’t upstanding citizens, but not all of the Abellis are Mafia. Least of all my grandmother.”
Horse seemed genuinely offended that I would dare to think badly about his granny, and part of me felt guilty. I got the whole “loving your shady family” thing.
Regardless, the iron gates opened, and I knew I was not going to win this battle. We were going in.
Okay. How bad can it be? She’s an old woman. A really, really shady old woman, but it’s not like she’s going to pull a gun on me.
“Does she live alone?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s why I come by as often as I can.”
The car pulled around back of the three-story, huge frigging home with terra-cotta exterior covered in sprawling ivy, and a red tile roof. It was dark out, obviously, so I couldn’t see much else besides the illuminated front and the acres of green lawn surrounding the place.
As soon as we stepped out of the car onto the gravel driveway, a frail-looking woman with short white hair, wearing a red robe, came from the
“Whose house is this?” I asked Horse, wondering why we weren’t pulling up to an after-hours, hole-in-the-wall restaurant instead.
“My grandmother lives here.” But as he spoke, I noticed a family crest and name in big huge iron letters right on the front of the gate.
“Abelli?” I whispered in horror. “You’re an Abelli?”
“I thought you knew.”
Oh shit. “So Felix is…?”
“My cousin. And do not look at me like that. Just because I am an Abelli doesn’t mean I’m a murderer or thug. Even Felix has been trying to live a better life.”
Whatthehellever . I have to get out of here .
“Why did you bring me here?” I was about to jump from the car and make a run for it. But at the same time, I didn’t want to raise any suspicion because Horse didn’t seem to have a clue who I really was. The people inside, however?
“Uhh…because my grandmother makes the best meatballs in all of Italy.”
“I can’t go in there,” I said.
“Why not?”
Why not? “It’s almost two in the morning. It’s rude.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Granny Abelli is a night owl; she never goes to bed until after three. Besides, she’s been begging for me to stop by—she’ll be overjoyed to see us.”
I felt my little heart trying to beat its way from my chest. Granny Abelli? Granny Abelli! I remember reading all about her when I did my high school paper on “the family” for my history class. The theme was Organized Crime and Its Impact on Modern Society. Most of the kids chose to write about prohibition or organized crime in New York—everyone loved The Sopranos and Boardwalk Empire —but I chose the infamous Abelli family. Granny Abelli’s husband had been the ringleader in supplying Nazi Germany with hard-to-come-by Western products ranging from American sodas and candy to car parts and ammo. After the war, members of the family went on trial, but every prosecutor who took on the case mysteriously ended up dead. Then in the ’90s, there had been several articles posted about their alleged involvement in brokering deals with terrorists for atomic bomb parts.
Convicted or not, these were not nice people. Of course, Granny Abelli had to be ninety-something by now, but even at her nonthreatening age, I so did not want to be there.
“I really don’t think this is a good idea—”
“I see. You think my grandmother is some criminal. Well, you of all people should know that you can’t believe everything you read. You’re a reporter. You know the newspapers will print anything.”
“Yeah, but—”
“My grandmother wouldn’t hurt a fly. Yes, I won’t deny that my grandfather—when he lived—and some of the other men in my family aren’t upstanding citizens, but not all of the Abellis are Mafia. Least of all my grandmother.”
Horse seemed genuinely offended that I would dare to think badly about his granny, and part of me felt guilty. I got the whole “loving your shady family” thing.
Regardless, the iron gates opened, and I knew I was not going to win this battle. We were going in.
Okay. How bad can it be? She’s an old woman. A really, really shady old woman, but it’s not like she’s going to pull a gun on me.
“Does she live alone?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s why I come by as often as I can.”
The car pulled around back of the three-story, huge frigging home with terra-cotta exterior covered in sprawling ivy, and a red tile roof. It was dark out, obviously, so I couldn’t see much else besides the illuminated front and the acres of green lawn surrounding the place.
As soon as we stepped out of the car onto the gravel driveway, a frail-looking woman with short white hair, wearing a red robe, came from the
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