Mafia Chic by Erica Orloff Page B

how to open the freezer door himself. He actually is a member of the twenty-first century.” In all my years of Sunday dinners, I had never seen a male member of the family in the kitchen except to bitch that the women were taking too long getting food on the table. And though I knew Tony did like making pastries—in fact had asked me for recipes—he was hardly known for waiting on anyone. In my world, that was for the women. The men didn’t clear their plates. They didn’t make their beds. Even if they moved out of the house, they brought their laundry home to their mothers.
    I walked into the kitchen, where Tony had, all by himself, figured out where we kept both gallon Ziploc bags and kitchen towels. He had her makeshift ice pack all ready. I felt like I was Dorothy, and I’d just stepped foot in Oz.
    I went to the refrigerator and opened it. Typical refrigerator of two single women. Stacks of old Chinese takeout and to-go boxes from Teddi’s. A jar of mayo. Twelve cans of Diet Coke. Four bottles of champagne. I pulled one out and uncorked it, pulled down three glasses from the cabinet and went into the living room, where Tony had Di’s foot propped up on two pillows on top of his own lap, and was holding the bag of ice, wrapped in a dish towel, on her ankle.
    “Champagne?”
    Di nodded. “I could sure use a drink after tonight.”
    I stared at her, willing her to shut up.
    “What happened tonight?” Tony asked. “You mean your ankle?”
    “Yes,” she recovered, and smiled, batting her eyes.
    “I’ll take care of you.” He patted her knee.
    I blinked hard at him as I poured three glasses of champagne. Tony was my closest cousin in age—twenty-seven. And he and I had grown up in the strange and colorful Marcello clan. He had tormented me when I was a kid, hiding my favorite doll, Verushka (having already tired of my unruly family as a child, I aimed to name my dolls something as far-flung and removed from Italy as possible), and playing monkey in the middle with me always in the middle. When my teen years arrived, he was only too happy to point out to all my boy cousins that I was wearing a training bra. And when I went through a slightly chubby summer, the year before ninth grade, he called me Porky.
    We both went to college—not everyone in the family did. Uncle Carmine had put himself through night school to get a degree in business, but he was the only one of that generation, though two of my aunts had gone to Katharine Gibbs secretarial school. In my generation, most of the cousins were pool hustlers and bookies, and a half dozen worked for the Marcello pizza chain managing restaurants. My brother, Michael, started college but dropped out sophomore year. Only Tony and I had actually earned degrees. And Quinn, but he was from the Gallo side of the family. However, Tony and Uncle Lou ate at Teddi’s three times a week for lunch—the Marcellos and Gallos all ate at Teddi’s to be certain we survived. And over time Tony and I had developed a sort of grudging affection.
    I sipped my champagne and looked at the two of them, cozy on the sofa. “You know, I think I’m going to go to bed.”
    “Don’t, Teddi. Please…stay out here with us,” Di urged. That was a trait I truly admired in her; even if she was interested in a man or had a boyfriend, she didn’t pull the “I’ve got a boyfriend and now I have amnesia where my friends are concerned” act.
    “That’s okay. I’m really, really—” I affected a yawn “—tired.”
    “Good night, Teddi,” Tony said a little too quickly.
    “Good night, you two,” I said, and turned to go to mybedroom. As I walked down the hall, I could hear the faint murmurings of sweet nothings between my cousin and Lady Di.
     
    I punched my pillow and kicked my covers onto the floor. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw Agent Petrocelli’s smirk, and I heard him say that Diana would know why he was tailing us. Nothing made sense. Most