By Any Other Name (9 page)

"I'll be fine," she said, smiling as she reached over and wrapped herself around Matty's arm. "I have my handsome boy to keep me company tonight."

Roberto's eyes shifted from her to Matty, and he saw the hesitance in his father's expression. It wasn't exactly distrust, but it was some apprehension, as if he hadn't yet decided what to make of Matty's ongoing presence.

Enzo jumped up, stuffing the last bit of sandwich into his mouth, noisily chewing as he held his fist out. Matty bumped his to his brother's before he jogged away, following their father out of the room.

Saturday night. They would be gone until the wee hours of the morning, robbing people blind and drinking themselves into a stupor, gambling and smoking, chasing skirts and doing whatever the hell else they did out on the streets.

"So, what are you hungry for?" Matty asked once they were alone, turning to his mother as he stood up.

She smiled softly. "We can just have some sandwiches."

"Nonsense," he said. "Tell me what you want to eat."

She pondered that for a moment. "Surprise me."

Surprise me
. It would be no surprise. She knew exactly what he would make—it was the first thing she had ever taught him to cook, the one thing they always made together. It was her favorite meal: spaghetti with homemade meatballs.

Leaning down, he kissed her soft cheek before strolling to the kitchen. The staff had weekends off, so it was quiet and dark, the air chilly. Flicking on the light, he set to work right away, pulling out everything he needed for dinner. He tossed the meat in the microwave to defrost and pulled out pre-packaged pasta, knowing it broke every rule of an Italian kitchen, but he was in a bit of a time crunch. Besides, he knew she wouldn't complain…
much
.

He pulled out jars of her pre-made sauce and put it in a pot to simmer as he chopped up some onions and peppers, just enough for a little bit of a kick. He shoved up his sleeves and took off his watch before mixing together all the ingredients by hand, shaping the mixture into gooey round balls and slapping them on a baking sheet. He had just finished and was washing the gunk off his hands when he heard shuffling behind him.

"Need help?" his mother asked.

"No," he said. "I got it."

She ignored him, of course, and grabbed the pan of meatballs, placing it in the oven just as it preheated. She set the timer for twenty minutes before turning to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of red wine.

"Let me get that for you," he said quickly, reaching for the bottle, but she smacked his hand away and pushed past him, heading straight for the wine opener. Sighing, he leaned against the counter and put his watch back on, gazing at her as she struggled to uncork it. He kept his patience for as long as possible before sighing exasperatedly.
Stubborn woman
. "Give up yet?"

"Never."

He smiled at her determination. It took another few minutes, but she managed to finally pop the cork. She shot him a satisfied look as she grabbed a wine glass and poured a bit into it, taking a sip and closing her eyes, a look of sheer ecstasy crossing her weary face.

"Now that's good," she said, grabbing another glass and pouring a bit into it before holding it out to him. He took it and sipped, gagging at the bitter tang. She laughed. "Oh, quit whining and just drink it."

"I'm not whining," he said, taking another drink and grimacing. "Ugh, it's disgusting."

"
Now
you're whining," she pointed out as she motioned across the room toward the oven beside him. "And get your meatballs out before they're overdone."

He glanced at the stove just as the timer went off.
How the hell did she do that
? He pulled them out and plopped them in the sauce, letting them simmer while he boiled the pasta. Despite his protests, his mother insisted on setting the table for the two of them, dismissing his reservations with a sarcastic, "I'm not dead
yet
, you know."

He flinched at her words, trying to keep it from showing on his face, but she noticed, based on the apologetic look she cast him. Wordlessly, he dished them both out some food before joining her in the dining room and sitting down across from her. She immediately dove in, taking small savory bites as she hummed thoughtfully. "Pretty good."

"Thanks."

"You could've made your own pasta, though."

"I could've."

"And it could've been a bit spicier."

"It could've."

"But still… pretty good."

Like he said, she wouldn't complain 
much
.

He picked at his food, his stomach protesting every bite he forced down, as his mind wandered back to thoughts of Genna. He replayed their night together, still trying to make sense of everything. The girl had clawed her way under his skin. What the hell was he supposed to do about it?

His dilemma must have played out on his face because his mother eventually stopped eating and pointed at him with her fork. "Okay, buddy. Spill it.
Now
."

He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Don't
'what'
me, Matteo."
Ah, shit
. She used his real name. She meant business. "I can tell something's bothering you tonight, and I want to know what it is."

Sighing, he stared down at his plate, smashing a meatball with his fork. "You were right, I guess. There was a girl."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her tense—not what she had expected to hear from him. "A girl?"

"Yeah, but don't go getting worked up about it, Mom. I said there
was
a girl, not that there is one. It turned out she was everything I shouldn't want."

"But you still wanted her."

It was a statement, not a question, but he answered anyway.

"Yeah, I did." Man, he
really
fucking did. He hadn't wanted something—or someone—so much in his life.

"So what happened?"

"
We
happened."

"Oh." She was quiet for a moment as she started eating again. "So I'm guessing this girl figured out you're one of the notorious Barsanti boys?"

"You could say that."

"And that bothers her?"

"It should," he muttered. "If she's smart, and I think she is…"
Smarter than I might've given her credit for
. "…she'll never even look at me again."

"But you still want her."

Another statement. She knew him well.

"Yeah, I do," he muttered. "I shouldn't, but I do."

"I raised you to be independent, Matty. I know your father has expectations, things he wants you to do with your life, but I've always been proud of the fact that you made your own path. You've been that way for as long as I can remember. I'll never forget all those years ago, my strong-willed eight-year-old son, putting his foot down and standing up to his father for the first time. Do you remember that? That day?"

Matty sat quietly for a moment, surprised where the topic was diverting. "Of course I do. He wouldn't budge, though. I told him I hated him for it, hated him for making me stay away, and it didn't faze him a bit."

She laughed dryly. "You and I remember it a bit differently. It certainly bothered him."

"He locked me in my room," he said. "When he finally let me out, he sent me and Enzo to live with Aunt Lena and Uncle Johnny. And when he came back for me—when I
thought
he came back for me—it was just to ship me off to boarding school."

"True," she said quietly. She couldn't deny those facts. "But you don't know how torn up he was about it. He asked me so many times, 'do you think he really hates me?' I always said no, hoping I wasn't lying to him, hoping you understood why he did what he did."

"I get he wanted to keep us safe…"

"But? I know there's a but."

"But he brought Enzo home. It was safe enough for Enzo to come back years ago, but not me. He's
never
welcomed me back."

"Now you're being ridiculous."

"Am I, Mom?" he asked, glancing across the table at her. "You know what the first thing he said to me when I came back to New York was? The first thing out of his mouth when he saw my face?"

"What?"

"Why are you here?"

"He just worries," she said. "He was concerned about why you came. He thought something was wrong."

"There
is
something wrong."

Her expression softened as she gazed at him. "Look, Matty, my point is you were such a little man back then, and you've grown into even more of a man now. It doesn't matter what people tell you... you do what you want. You always have. That's
why
he locked you in your room. If he hadn't, you would've defied him and gone anyway, despite the fact that he said you couldn't."

"What does that have to do with this?"

"Well, I don't expect any less from you now," she replied. "Life's short. Too short. Trust me. You'll
never
have enough time. So it doesn't matter if you think this girl might be all wrong for you. You want her? Then go for her."

"It's not that easy."

"Yes, it is. If she doesn't want you anymore? Her loss. Otherwise, there's no reason not to pursue what you want."

Matteo Barsanti.

Genna scarcely remembered there even
being
a Matteo Barsanti. He had become more of a phantom than a person, a ghost story, whisperings of a vague memory of the oldest Barsanti kid that nobody could quite recall in detail. His existence was sort of an urban legend, the Mafia Boss's son who seemed to vanish from society. Everybody had questions, but nobody ever dared ask for any answers.

Genna had been fifteen the first time she recalled hearing of him... her fifteenth birthday. Against her father's wishes, she'd stowed away into the attic of their house and rummaged through her mother's packed-up belongings, digging through all of her fancy clothes, admiring her jewelry, trying on her wedding dress. The things had been up there for less than a year then but a layer of dust already coated everything, like a lifetime had passed since she had been around to use any of it.

In one of the boxes, in a small wooden chest with a rusty metal clasp, Genna found a thick stack of photographs. She had sat right there in the middle of the dim attic, wearing her mother's pearls and one of her favorite sundresses, and sorted through the faded pictures. She had never seen any of them before, most of her brothers and her. On the bottom of the stack, the last few photos were of Joey and another little boy.

Flipping one over, Genna glanced at the back, seeing her mother's elegant cursive.

Joseph Galante & Matteo Barsanti

Seven years old

She stared at it, surprised. She knew the Barsanti family by that point, had their names and faces memorized as her father routinely quizzed Dante and her, ensuring they could recognize them out on the street. But never, in all of it, had anyone mentioned a Matteo to her.

After cleaning up the attic, she went downstairs, clutching one of the pictures. Her father sat in his office with the door wide-open. Curious, Genna paused in the doorway. "Dad, who's Matteo Barsanti?"

Her father's eyes darted to her. "What did you say?"

Stepping into the room, she held up the picture. "I found this, and on the back it says—"

"I know what it says." Her father was on his feet, tearing the photo out of her hands before she had even realized he moved. "Go to your room."

She gaped at him. "But—"

"Don't argue, Genevieve," he yelled, angrier than she had ever seen him before, his eyes glowing with rage, his hand shaking as he fisted the photograph. "And stay out of the goddamn attic. I'm not going to tell you again!"

She had later asked Dante, who brushed off her question with a half-assed answer. "He's not around anymore."

That was it. No explanation.

A year later, during one of her reckless rebellion moments, Genna was scrounging through her father's bedroom and found that photo in the drawer in his nightstand... half of it, anyway.