Cold Fury by T. M. Goeglein Page A

business.”
    “Yeah?” she said, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow. “ Which business?”
    Then it was my mom’s turn on her feet. I was surprised at how fast she crossed the room, right into Greta’s face. In a tone that was quiet but full of nails, she said, “We don’t discuss that business in front of the children. Not in this family.”
    “I’m just as much a part of this family as you are, Teresa! And don’t you dare think that you’re entitled to more than Buddy and me just because you have them . . . with their blue eyes . . . especially him . . . ,” Greta huffed, pointing at Lou.
    Her words drifted around the room like balloons broken free of their strings.
    I should have stood and demanded to know what they were talking about, just like Willy had advised me. But I didn’t because Grandpa Enzo had just died, and Lou was burrowing into me like I had burrowed into my mom, and—and because I was scared to know. Even though I’d held it at bay, even trying to punch it away, I’d been frightened since I was a little kid of my parents’ whispered conversations about money, and “doing the right thing,” and especially Uncle Buddy’s increasing anger and steady withdrawal from our lives. I wanted everything to go back to how it had been when I was little, one big, tight-knit, happy family; I wanted Uncle Buddy to rise up and stand between Greta’s accusatory finger and us. But he just sat there inspecting his hands, satisfied to let her do the dirty work she was so good at.
    My mother cleared her throat and said simply, “Get out.”
    They left without a word and without looking back.
    I heard Uncle Buddy’s convertible cough to life and squeal from the curb.
    I didn’t see them again until Grandpa Enzo’s funeral at Our Lady of Pompeii, which was so packed with mourners that people stood in the aisles and outside the doors. Our family was on one side of the first row of pews and Buddy and Greta sat on the other. While my grandma wept quietly and touched her nose with a white lace handkerchief, Greta attempted to set the hysterical-crying-at-a-funeral record. Each time the priest murmured Grandpa’s name, Greta shrieked with tears like she’d been touched with a cattle prod and buried her face in a bright-red handkerchief. After one explosive outburst, I couldn’t help but glance over. Greta peeked from beneath the red silk square and sneered at me, mouthing some Russian obscenity.
    Afterward was a hundred-car procession to Mount Carmel, where Grandpa was laid to rest inside a family mausoleum built from mossy limestone. Our name, RISPOLI , is etched on the green bronze door, while the small building itself is topped by a molasses barrel carved from marble. Waiting inside were my great-grandparents, Nunzio and Ottorina, each of whom died decades before I was born. When the service ended and it was time to leave, Grandma Donatella touched Grandpa Enzo’s casket and said, “ A presto, mi amore. See you soon, my love.” I had never witnessed anything so sad in my life. I was still thinking about it later, at Gennaro’s on Taylor Street, where the entire neighborhood had come to dinner to honor my grandpa.
    As I pushed fettuccine around a plate, I felt a small elbow in my ribs.
    Lou wiped red sauce from his mouth and said, “Who are all those guys talking to Dad?” I looked up at a line of men of all sizes and ages in dark suits waiting patiently to mumble to him. At first I thought that they were offering condolences, but then I noticed something that froze me a little—Uncle Buddy sat only one table away, but none of the guys paid him the slightest attention, much less spoke to him.
    Uncle Buddy, however, was paying attention to my dad.
    He was staring at him hard enough to burn holes in the back of his head.
    Greta hissed something at my uncle, who nodded, straightened his tie, stood up, and forcefully tapped my dad’s shoulder.
    After exchanging a few muttered words, they