Martin, Lou Prima—fuck even Tony Bennett, though the asshole changed his last name. You can't have an authentic Italian restaurant and not show off what we're proud of, ya hearin' me? That's part of your culture, son. God, what do you see in this shithead, Gabriella?" Frankie grinned and winked at me, ignoring Michael's grumbling.
"Can't I have something that's my own? That's what every Italian restaurant does, zio! Huge crappy posters of all "the greats"! But everyone knows who they are already! They don't need to come in here to know those guys existed! They come in here to taste real, authentic, Italian food and that's what I'm giving them! Lay off me, old man." Michael punctuated his remark by putting a glass in front of his uncle, filling it half way with bourbon.
"Alright, alright. You little know it all. At least tell me someone's going to use the piano and it's not just fuckin' decoration or some shit!" Frankie arched a brow, knocking back half of the glass afterwards.
"Actually," I spoke up, a grin forming on my face. "Michael is going to play on Wednesday and Friday nights. And occasionally we're going to have different musicians come in—we'll have themed nights with special dishes, and only a limited amount of tables." I threw a smile Frankie's way, knowing he'd be happy to hear Michael was performing.
"That's more like it. You two finish up, I gotta get back to Elena." He finished the drink and got up, heading out the door without another word.
"God, he's the worst of all of them, you know that?" Michael sighed and turned to me, sliding his arms around my waist. I rolled my eyes and pressed up against his chest, raising my hand to push the few locks of hair that fell in his eyes.
"Stop it. You know they just want to you to be successful. Your parents would be so proud of you Michael." I smiled solemnly, hoping he knew just how true that was. Over the past few weeks I had learned a lot about his parents. Every time we had to take on a new issue with the restaurant, Michael would recall how his father would handle it. Often when Frankie or Elena stopped by they would talk fondly of being in the old restaurant; and shortly after the family stories would begin. I could see Michael's eyes soften, his expression unclear as he considered his words.
"I wish you could have met them," he said after a few moments, his fingers trailing up and down my arms. "They would've loved you like their own." He leaned over and pressed a slow kiss to my forehead, his warm breathe tickling my skin.
Once we cleaned everything up we locked up and headed to the front door, Michael's fingers tangled with mine.
"You bitch."
The words hit us the second we were outside. I turned to find Mrs. Genovese standing in front of us. She looked tired, dirty, and angry. Her beautiful pearls, perfect hair, and expensive clothes had been replaced with a loose ponytail and a pair of gray sweatpants that looked too big for her. A plain white shirt clung to her upper body, and her feet were donning a cheap pair of sneakers.
"I have you to thank, right?! Pissy cause you lost your job so you had to get back at me? We were fuckin’ even, you whore. Who do you think you are, you little cunt! I was ARRESTED. Most of the estate was cleaned out as "illegally earned funds". Every dollar we had left I had to use for my bail. I spent two weeks in a cell, you insolent little bitch. All so that you could be my husband's slut?" Her voice had become higher and higher, the rage hitting me in waves.
"I never slept with him. Not once. And the only person at fault for this is you," I spit out, gripping Michael's hand tightly.
"You stupid little girl, you can't treat me like some common moron!" she yelled before pulling a gun from the back of her sweat pants. Her body was trembling; her fingers gripped the black metal tightly, as though the gun was what tethered her to reality. My eyes frantically moved from her face to the gun, panic seeping into my veins. The
"Can't I have something that's my own? That's what every Italian restaurant does, zio! Huge crappy posters of all "the greats"! But everyone knows who they are already! They don't need to come in here to know those guys existed! They come in here to taste real, authentic, Italian food and that's what I'm giving them! Lay off me, old man." Michael punctuated his remark by putting a glass in front of his uncle, filling it half way with bourbon.
"Alright, alright. You little know it all. At least tell me someone's going to use the piano and it's not just fuckin' decoration or some shit!" Frankie arched a brow, knocking back half of the glass afterwards.
"Actually," I spoke up, a grin forming on my face. "Michael is going to play on Wednesday and Friday nights. And occasionally we're going to have different musicians come in—we'll have themed nights with special dishes, and only a limited amount of tables." I threw a smile Frankie's way, knowing he'd be happy to hear Michael was performing.
"That's more like it. You two finish up, I gotta get back to Elena." He finished the drink and got up, heading out the door without another word.
"God, he's the worst of all of them, you know that?" Michael sighed and turned to me, sliding his arms around my waist. I rolled my eyes and pressed up against his chest, raising my hand to push the few locks of hair that fell in his eyes.
"Stop it. You know they just want to you to be successful. Your parents would be so proud of you Michael." I smiled solemnly, hoping he knew just how true that was. Over the past few weeks I had learned a lot about his parents. Every time we had to take on a new issue with the restaurant, Michael would recall how his father would handle it. Often when Frankie or Elena stopped by they would talk fondly of being in the old restaurant; and shortly after the family stories would begin. I could see Michael's eyes soften, his expression unclear as he considered his words.
"I wish you could have met them," he said after a few moments, his fingers trailing up and down my arms. "They would've loved you like their own." He leaned over and pressed a slow kiss to my forehead, his warm breathe tickling my skin.
Once we cleaned everything up we locked up and headed to the front door, Michael's fingers tangled with mine.
"You bitch."
The words hit us the second we were outside. I turned to find Mrs. Genovese standing in front of us. She looked tired, dirty, and angry. Her beautiful pearls, perfect hair, and expensive clothes had been replaced with a loose ponytail and a pair of gray sweatpants that looked too big for her. A plain white shirt clung to her upper body, and her feet were donning a cheap pair of sneakers.
"I have you to thank, right?! Pissy cause you lost your job so you had to get back at me? We were fuckin’ even, you whore. Who do you think you are, you little cunt! I was ARRESTED. Most of the estate was cleaned out as "illegally earned funds". Every dollar we had left I had to use for my bail. I spent two weeks in a cell, you insolent little bitch. All so that you could be my husband's slut?" Her voice had become higher and higher, the rage hitting me in waves.
"I never slept with him. Not once. And the only person at fault for this is you," I spit out, gripping Michael's hand tightly.
"You stupid little girl, you can't treat me like some common moron!" she yelled before pulling a gun from the back of her sweat pants. Her body was trembling; her fingers gripped the black metal tightly, as though the gun was what tethered her to reality. My eyes frantically moved from her face to the gun, panic seeping into my veins. The
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