BUON VIAGGIO, by Laura Oles

Mary Campisi leaned over the gas burner, inspecting a simmering pot partially filled with al pomodoro, or, as the rest of her family referred to it, spaghetti sauce.

“Just because you married an Italian doesn’t mean you have to completely drink the Kool-Aid,” Irene said. Mary’s mother had watched her daughter slowly shed the skin of her Irish heritage in favor of her husband’s Italian background since she had eloped with him in secret last year.

“You mean drink the Italian soda. Kool-Aid is so… inferior,” Kathleen said in a faux Italian accent. Her disdain for her baby sister’s whole-hearted embrace of all things Italian rolled smoothly off her tongue.

Mary shook her head, her eyes trained on the sauce as she stirred. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to learn to cook like Marco’s mother. Besides, who doesn’t love Italian food?”

“Your sister has a point,” Irene said. “Just don’t forget the importance of your own heritage. To listen to that husband of yours go on about how superior Italians are… Well, he makes the French sound humble.” Irene’s words hung in the air as she turned her attention toward the crisper drawer in the refrigerator. Leaning over the coldbox, she muttered, “Now where is that Romaine, anyway?”

Irene had pulled the lettuce from the drawer when the sound of the back door drew her attention. Marco, Mary’s new husband, emerged and walked through the back room to the connecting kitchen. He surveyed his in-laws with his signature indifference and simply said, “Ciao,” to no one in particular. He then made a beeline for the refrigerator, where Irene still stood holding her Romaine, and pulled a bottle of Merlot from the shelf. His face twisted in an animated display of disgust.

“Merlot non dovrebbe essere freddo,” he said to his wife.

“Sono d’accordo,” she replied to him, her eyes still focused on the sauce as if she preferred not to make eye contact with anyone in the room. “Merlot isn’t supposed to be cold, Mom.”

Irene shrugged. “Oh, I see. And Marco couldn’t tell me that in English? He seems to speak it just fine in public.” Her eyes locked on Marco but he kept his gaze elsewhere, as if unwilling to answer his mother-in-law’s challenge.

Marco left the bottle on the counter top untouched and, without his evening wine, retired to his regular seating place in the next room. Putting his feet up in a leather recliner, he stretched out like a satisfied cat, exhaling audibly while placing his hands behind his head.

Kathleen peered into the next room at her brother-in-law, her annoyance clear from her narrowed eyes and audible sighs. She knew he could hear every word from the next room but she raised her voice for his benefit anyway. “He loves that we don’t understand what he’s saying. That’s why he does it. And why is it that he knows exactly when to show up for dinner but doesn’t have the decency to sit in the same room?” She turned to her sister. “You let him walk all over you, you know. You might as well have ‘Welcome’ written on your chest.”

Mary shrugged. “He’s just different, you know? Different cultures, different expectations.”

Kathleen wasn’t buying it but she lowered her voice for only immediate family’s ears. “I thought Italians were talkative and friendly. He acts like Mom’s grumpy Uncle Walter. That man sucked the joy out of every room as soon as he walked in.”

“Don’t mess with an Irish mother,” Irene said with the hint of a grin. She looked at Mary and noticed the forced smile on her face. “Honey, I know you’re in a tough position when he acts like this but you really should say something to him. It’s causing a lot of friction in the family and now that he wants to be part of the family business….”

“Which isn’t happening.” Garrett Murphy, the only son and eldest child in the Murphy family, had arrived just in time to add his two cents to the weekly discussion regarding why Marco was such an ass and how Mary should fix it.

Garrett loosened the navy and silver striped tie around his neck by working it left and right with his forefinger hooked around the knot. He would have certainly been voted “Least Likely to Wear a Tie” if the category had existed in high school, but their mother’s desire to have him run the family business had been a strong motivation for him to dress like a respectable grownup.

Garrett glanced through the open cutout window that connected the living room and the kitchen. “His Italian Majesty has graced us with his presence, I see.” He dropped his tie on a nearby table and walked the few steps toward his mother, who had been nursing a hot toddy. “You can’t bring him into the business, Mom,” he said simply. He then looked to his baby sister, Mary. “No offense. I mean, the bar is one thing, but the other thing? That’s blood family only.”

Mary remained in her fixed stirring position over the pot, now tending to the boiling Fusilli noodles. She took the saltshaker and tipped it over the boiling water, the addition creating frothy foam in the bubbling water. “Give him a chance, Garrett.”

“The man doesn’t make any effort to be involved in this business and you want us to bring him into the most important aspect of our family just because he married you? By convincing you to elope so your family had no say? We should trust him now?”

Irene had given her three children what the kids called the “Marry Right” speech upon each child’s high school graduation and reminded her offspring that their choice of spouse would be the most important decision they would ever make. It would affect the entire family.

Irene’s parents fought throughout her childhood, the events often ending in drunken tirades and physical abuse. Irene’s own mother, Katy, finally left her husband under the cover of darkness with nothing more than her five children, a single suitcase, and the money she’d skimmed from her weekly grocery trips. Given her upbringing, Mama Irene had earned the right to counsel her kids on matters of the heart and she had made certain to choose an honorable man as her husband. Unfortunately, Mary had fallen for an unemployed Italian playboy who looked to his wife for financial support.

And the entire family was now paying the price.

Mary walked to the step that joined the kitchen and the living room and said to her husband. “La cena è pronta.” He rose as he did each night when she told him dinner was ready and walked to the kitchen. Mary prepared a plate for him, which he accepted with an expression that indicated he wasn’t impressed. He raised his eyebrows as if he was puzzled by what occupied his plate. Saying nothing, he carried the plate back to the living room to dine in the pleasure of his own company.

Kathleen muttered something about an ungrateful ass underneath her breath while the rest of the family busied themselves with retrieving plates and utensils. Irene helped herself to a generous helping of pasta and sauce. “It looks wonderful, Mary. Thank you for making dinner.”

“Yeah, thanks, sis,” Garrett said, his own plate waiting to be filled.

Mary smiled. Her shoulders relaxed and she nodded in response.

“Tagliatelle sono stracotte,” Marco called out.

The smile fell from her face. She asked her mother. “Are the noodles overcooked?”

Irene took a bite of pasta and shook her head. “Absolutely not. Perfect al dente.” She then reached for a squat bottle of Kilbeggan Irish whiskey and used a heavy hand to refresh her drink.

“Going to be one of those evenings, eh, Mom?” Kathleen quipped, signaling her to pass the bottle, which Irene obliged by sliding it across the granite center island. Garrett took a bar stool seat next to Kathleen. “Why don’t you pour me one of those?”

Kathleen stood and retrieved another glass from a nearby cabinet and held one up for Mary. “Want me to pour you one?”

Mary considered it for a moment. “I’ll just stick with wine, thanks.”

Kathleen shrugged, filled the two glasses with ice and placed them in front of her seat and Garrett’s next to her. “Nothing a little Kilbeggan can’t fix, just like Grandma used to say.” Kathleen, Irene and Garrett all raised glasses in the air.

“Slainte!” they proclaimed in unison.

The four family members ate at the bar, sharing small talk about the day’s events and exchanging the latest gossip. Irene mentioned how she’d heard that Mrs. Donovan was finally considering selling her building in downtown Austin.

“That would be the perfect place for us,” Garrett said. “We’ve talked about it before, but I never thought she’d sell. I thought she’d be buried in that building, the way she went on about it.”

Irene polished off her drink. “It seems that Gibby left a lot of debt after he died and this is the only way for her to pay it off. She looks like she’s aged ten years since he passed.”

The conversation stopped as Marco returned to the kitchen, his plate showing most of the pasta remaining on the plate. Mary glanced at the subtle rejection of her cooking, and kept her eyes on her own food as he placed the dish on the counter.

He held out his hand. “Dammi le chiavi.”

Mary reached into her pocket and handed him a small key ring containing a Porsche emblem. He then placed a second set of keys in front of her. She looked to her mom. “I had Danny take a look at Marco’s car to do a little tune up. It was making a funny noise.”

“Danny’s the best. Did he give you the family discount?”

“Of course. I don’t pay full price for anything.”

Mary returned to her meal while Marco said nothing. The kitchen remained silent as he walked toward the back door leading outside. He called over his shoulder, “Buonanotte!” and closed the door behind him.

The rest of the family returned to their dinner.

“Buonanotte, dickhead,” Garrett huffed as he crammed a large fork full of pasta in his mouth. He looked over at Mary.

“Something’s got to change, sis. He joins our family business over my dead body.”

* * * *

“Mary, why don’t you ever go out with him?” Irene asked, her hands now busy with the evening’s dinner dishes. She placed the pasta bowls inside the dishwasher and closed the door. Grabbing a nearby towel, she dried her hands. “Don’t you get tired of staying home alone?”

Mary shook her head but her expression was in clear conflict with her words. “Not really. He likes to spend time with his Sicilian friends and my Italian isn’t good enough to follow their conversation. I’d just sit there confused about what they’re talking about.”

“You mean, like the way we do when he comes over for dinner and refuses to speak English?” Garrett’s words carried more than a hint of sarcasm.

“All of this piling on isn’t helping Mary so let’s give it a rest,” Irene said. She tried to lighten the mood. “What’s the old saying? If you want praise, die. If you want blame, marry.”

Mary cracked a smile. She nodded. “Very, very true.”

Garrett remained unamused. “Maybe if she’d stand up to him a bit, he’d change his behavior. Why should we cater to his rudeness? He shows up just in time to eat our food, makes some comment that we can’t understand because he doesn’t have the balls to say it in English, and then leaves. It’s bullshit.”

The smile fell from Mary’s face and she continued to busy herself with wiping the counters. Irene shot a glare at her eldest child, who responded by shrugging. “What?” he mouthed to her. Kathleen kept her post at the dishwasher, appearing enthralled with making sure that each plate was perfectly lined up in the bottom rack. Garrett walked over to his sister and put his arm around her. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t treat you right and I hate having to stand here and watch it.”

Mary nodded, leaning into his hug but not returning it. She folded the dishtowel and left it on the counter. “I’m going to head home. Still have some chores to do before I go to bed.”

The back door creaked, announcing that someone else had arrived.

“I’m home! Someone get me a beer immediately.” Connor Murphy looked around at the somber family faces in the kitchen. “What did I just walk into?”

Irene smiled at her husband. “Marco. As usual.”

Connor grimaced but added nothing to the conversation. Kathleen retrieved a beer from inside door of the fridge and handed it to him. He checked the label before taking a sip. “Thank God we still have some Guinness in the house.” He reached inside his pocket and pulled a bottle opener from it. He had the top off in an instant and took a long draw from the beer bottle.

Kathleen chided her father. “You’ve got to quit bringing those openers home from the pub, Dad. We have about twenty of them in the kitchen drawer already. Keeping expenses down, remember?”

Connor held his beer up in response. “That’s my little penny pincher. Glad we’ve got you handling the books.” He looked at his youngest daughter. “You okay?”

Mary nodded. “Sure, Dad.” She hugged her mom who was still standing by her side. “I’m going to go. Marco should be home soon.”

Garrett muttered under his breath, “Yeah, right.”

Irene doled out another stern stare at her son. Kathleen waved goodnight to her sister and they all watched Mary disappear out the back door.

The four remaining family members gathered at the kitchen table. Irene chastised her son. “You aren’t helping things by giving Mary a hard time. She can’t control him. She’s not strong enough.”

Garrett disagreed. “She doesn’t like confrontation and he knows it. Don’t you hate the way he smirks at us and rubs our noses in it? He knows we’re going to keep the peace and he uses it against us.”

Kathleen tapped her fingers on the table. “This is why she’s not involved in the business. She doesn’t have the backbone. I wish she did, but she doesn’t.” Almost to herself she added, “I still don’t understand how she can have our genes and always cower from an argument.”

Irene rested her hand on her husband’s forearm. “Honey, I know you have this dream of all the kids being involved but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Mary’s choice in husbands has complicated things. Maybe our life isn’t for her. Our life isn’t for most people.”

Garrett leaned back in his chair. “Well, we’ve got another problem with Marco, aside from his attitude.”

Katherine threw her hands in the air. “Now what?”

“Marco said that he’d heard from a reliable source that Frankie Mann and his crew do a lot of business at Murphy’s. He said he’d hate for the cops to hear such things but that he’d keep quiet if he were brought into the business.”

Connor slammed his hand down on the table. “Does he have any idea who he’s dealing with?” He stood up from the table, walking to the kitchen counter. “I don’t want to talk about that leech right now. I’m starving. What’s left?”

“Spaghetti,” Katherine offered in a dry tone.

“I’m sick of Italian. Food, people, all of it.”

Irene worked to calm her husband. She followed him to the kitchen. “Let me make you a sandwich. It’s going to be fine. Marco doesn’t know anything more than rumors.”

Garrett rubbed his eyes. The day had worn long. “He said he had proof, but I don’t know how. He’s not involved at the pub for anything more than drinking away our profits.” He considered the possibility for a moment. “Unless he’s been snooping around our office without us knowing, but I don’t see how. Everyone knows the office is off limits to everyone but family.”

Katherine continued her finger tapping on the table. “Frankie Mann isn’t going to cross us. He needs us more than we need him.”

Irene put the finishing touches of mustard on a salami hoagie for her husband and handed it to him on a glass plate. “Eat this and calm down. We’ll handle it.”

“Damn straight.” Garrett’s mounting frustration encompassed him like a hive of angry bees. The Murphy men were known to be quick to anger and long to forgive, holding a grudge closer than even a dear friend.

Irene returned to the family table and sat next to her son. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. It clouds your judgment. And besides, this family has seen far worse than the likes of Marco.” She glanced at her husband. “I have a feeling that this situation will work itself out soon enough. Isn’t that right, Connor?”

Connor nodded. “Yes, I have a feeling it will.”

* * * *

Murphy’s happy hour was happy indeed. The main bar, which had been brought over from Ireland from a pub with a hundred year history, was the focal point of the establishment. Rarely was more than a stool or two open at any given time. The stools were coveted perches with the best views of the big-screen TVs, not to mention the waitresses.

At this moment, Connor Murphy was in full entertaining mode. He was a gifted storyteller, entertaining his patrons with tales of growing up in Ireland with his boisterous family. Murphy had even regaled his guests with stories of brawls and bribes that took place in Flannery’s Pub, the place from which the Murphy’s carved wood bar had originated. It came with two attachable wait wells, countless Celtic carvings on its surface and enough stories to keep Connor’s lips moving—and customers drinking—well into the evening.

At this particular moment, Connor was behind the bar serving drinks to a group of three businessmen wearing button-down shirts and khaki pants, their union resembling a meeting of Red Lobster wait staff. The clock celebrated happy hour with a loud bong announcing it was now 5:00 p.m., and the doors hosted a steady stream of work-weary stiffs looking to take a load off.

Garrett emerged from the office, which was tucked away in the back of the building, close to the bathrooms and the storage closet. He closed the door behind him, checking the knob to ensure the door had locked. He made a beeline for the bar where his father continued to share scotch and stories.

“Looks like you’re keeping busy, Dad,” Garrett said as he slipped behind the bar to join his father.

“If you’re going to take up space back here, you’d better be working.”

Garrett’s hands had already traveled to the shot glasses before his father had finished his sentence. He knew the drill. He began serving drinks on his eighteenth birthday and knew at that moment that he would one day take over the management of Murphy’s Pub.

Garrett then glanced over and noticed something unappealing in the doorway.

Marco.

He strode casually to the bar and nodded at Garrett and Connor, taking a seat at an open stool between a corporate suit and a UPS delivery driver. His polished clothing, expensive watch and perfectly managed mane were a stark contrast to the men flanking him on each side of the bar. A Baptist minister would have blended in better.

Connor and Garrett busied themselves until they caught up with customer drink requests. Marco waved his hand in the air, a twenty-dollar bill folded lengthwise between his fingers. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot, not from the fridge,” he said, dropping the money on the bar.

Garrett took the twenty off the bar and turned his back to Marco. He retrieved a bottle of Merlot from a small wine shelf. He filled the glass exactly half-full and placed it in front of Marco, not making eye contact.

Marco studied the wine. “Glassware looks a little dirty,” Marco said, his voice evenly laced with a hint of condescension.

Garrett held up the glass to his own inspection. “It’s perfect, as always. Your criticism doesn’t have any power over me like it does over Mary, so feel free to shut the hell up.”

Connor was serving draft beers to three nearby patrons but his smile revealed he had heard the exchange between his son and son-in-law.

Marco appeared nonplussed. “My opinion should matter. I believe, as a member of the business, I could be quite valuable.”

Garrett laughed at the comment. Taking note of the patrons nearby, he leaned in, closing the space between he and Marco. He whispered, “Valuable doing what? You’ve shown you excel at mooching off my family and getting my sister to believe your shit doesn’t stink, and I don’t see how either of those skills would benefit anyone here.”

Marco stood up from the bar stool. His wine glass remained untouched, a signal that the Murphy offering was beneath him. As always.

“I have a feeling you’ll change your mind soon,” Marco said as he straightened his neatly pressed white shirt into his equally neatly pressed dress slacks.

Garrett noticed one thing was missing. “No wedding ring, eh? I guess you just forgot to put it on.”

Marco said nothing, and instead, continued walking toward the door.

“Nice to see you again, Marco.” A pretty waitress sporting a ponytail and a Murphy’s T-shirt and jeans nodded to him as he walked out the front door.

Connor signaled her over. “Jen, what do you mean, again? When was Marco here?”

Jen slipped her order pad in the waitress apron fastened around her waist. “He was here earlier today. He went into the office to get something he needed. Is that okay? I thought it was okay for him to be in there.”

Connor’s expression hardened. “Uh, it’s fine, Jen. Thanks. Go ahead and get that back table. Don’t want them to wait too long.”

Jen nodded and left to take care of the group. Connor called his son over and whispered in his ear.

“We might have a problem. Marco was in our office.”

Garrett moved swiftly from the bar toward the office. He unlocked the office door and then closed it behind him. He returned two minutes later, his expression stern. He leaned to whisper into his father’s ear. “Last month’s log book is missing.”

* * * *

It was Thursday night and Mary retreated to her weekly routine of trying to busy herself in her living room cleaning out desk drawers and organizing receipts while waiting for Marco to appear from the bedroom. After an hour of male primping, Marco emerged.

Her husband loved to make an entrance. His cologne reached her before he did, and he flashed a smile that was almost as bold as the cobalt blue shirt he had paired with jeans so tight they flirted with the imagination.

“You look like you’re ready to take on the town,” Mary said, accepting Marco’s embrace with little enthusiasm. She buried her face in his neck.

He kissed her forehead. “Just the usual friends, my love. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Maybe I should go with you,” Mary offered. She brushed her hair from her face, the loose strands escaping from a messy ponytail. “It wouldn’t take but a minute for me to get ready.”

Marco’s eyes met hers and he kissed her again. “You never like to go, you know that. Your Italian needs to be better. Then you’ll have fun.” He gave her a pat that felt more like pity than passion. “I know how you like to stay in with your tea and your books. You relax here and I’ll be home later.” He released her and walked toward the desk. “Where are my keys? I know I left them here.”

Mary reached into her sweater pocket and held them up. “Here they are.”

He grinned at her. “Trying to keep me home, eh?” He held his hand out to receive them. Mary held them for another moment before dropping them into his care.

“I know I could never do that. No, I left my sunglasses in your car and I needed them back. I have to be on the road early tomorrow to finish Mr. Bean’s inventory audit and you know how bad the sun is on my drive into town. Almost blinding some mornings.”

Marco nodded as she spoke but Mary could see his attention had already left in anticipation of spending an evening out. He adjusted his shirt and his sleeves and stole a glance at himself in a nearby mirror hanging on the wall. Mary retreated to the living room couch and picked up a book from the coffee table. She had already prepared the table with a bottle of Merlot and her favorite wine glass. She began pouring her consolation prize as Marco made his way out for the evening.

“Avere un bon tempo,” she called out to him as he walked toward the front door. He looked over his shoulder and rewarded her with one of the smiles that had once convinced her to ignore those nagging doubts about where he spent his evenings.

“Have a good time,” she said again, picking up her glass and holding it in the air in toast. Marco closed the door behind him, leaving his wife to enjoy her own company for yet another night.

Mary told herself she’d wait at least an hour before she picked up the phone. At the forty-five minute mark, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, me. How are you doing?”

“Sitting on the couch alone again.” Mary sighed. “You want to give me the big sister lecture about being a doormat?”

Kathleen laughed. “I was going to say something about seeing ‘Welcome’ written on your chest, but I know you’ve heard that one before.”

Mary finished the wine in her glass and quickly poured herself another. She wondered how many glasses Marco had finished by now and if he was pouring drinks for anyone… else.

“Why am I not enough?” Mary asked, her voice picking up just the hint of a whine at the end. “He never wants me to go out with him and his friends. My Italian is getting better but he still says no. He acts like he’s doing me a favor but I know he doesn’t want me there.”

Kathleen remained quiet on the other end of the line. Finally, Mary broke the silence. “Do you think there’s someone else?”

Her question was met with a minute of silence. “Mary? Are you alright?”

She sniffed away the tears she’d been talking herself out of since her husband had chosen his friends over her. Again. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but… you know what I mean.”

More of what Mary had been holding in began spilling out. “It’s all the cliché stuff of perfume and makeup on his shirt, but he says it’s just from hugging his friends at the club. Nothing to worry about, he tells me.”

“And do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe. I know you think he’s a rat, so you don’t have to pretend.”

Kathleen let a small laugh slip. “You never did listen to me anyway.”

“I know I have a problem, but I have to fix it myself.”

“You know we can help you… with things.”

Mary sighed into the phone. “I know, but Dad can be a bit heavy-handed sometimes.”

“You mean that thing at the place last year?”

“His calling card can be easy to spot if you know what to look for. I need to talk to him about that. It’s going to get him into trouble one of these days.”

“Well, I can come over if you need me to.”

Mary reached for her wine glass but decided against opening another bottle. Getting drunk wouldn’t cure her loneliness.

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’d rather be alone. I’m getting used to it.”

On second thought, maybe she’d open another bottle after all.

* * * *

The ringing phone jarred Mary off the couch from a deep sleep. She looked around the room, disoriented at first, trying to remember where she’d put the cordless phone. She glanced at the clock hanging over the bookshelf. It was now after two in the morning. She didn’t have an answering machine, so the trill of the phone continued. She felt around the couch cushions, now crumpled from her restless wine-induced nap. After more fumbling, she located the receiver wedged between two pillows.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Officer Clark with the Austin Police Department. Who am I speaking to?”

Mary rubbed her head, still a bit flushed from waking up so abruptly. “This is Mary Campisi. Uh, is everything okay?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but there’s been a car accident involving a Marco Campisi. Is that your….”

“Husband,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“We have a car on the way to your home, ma’am. An officer will be there very soon.”

Mary said nothing further and hung up the phone, dropping the handset on the floor as she curled up into the couch in the fetal position and waited for the doorbell to ring.

* * * *

Mary sat on a bar stool nursing a glass of whiskey. Murphy’s had been officially closed for hours but, when it came to family emergencies, it remained the first place the clan gathered in a crisis.

Kathleen slid onto the barstool next to her younger sister. The wood creaked as she shifted her weight and scooted the stool closer. “I’m so sorry about what happened,” she said, putting her arm around her grieving sibling. Mary said nothing, simply hanging her head while stifling back an occasional sob. She hadn’t cried much in the car since the officer had left her home. It didn’t seem real just yet, that he was gone.

Garrett stood behind the bar in the corner, his arms crossed and at a loss for words. “I can’t remember the last time this family was so quiet,” Garrett joked. He often used humor to lighten tense situations but this time his efforts fell flat.

Kathleen gave her sister’s hand a squeeze. “You know we’re here for you, don’t you? You know how we felt about him, but we really just wanted you to be happy.”

Mary rubbed her eyes and released her sister’s hand in favor of finishing her whiskey. It was gone in one quick throwback. She set the glass down gently and signaled to her mom for another one.

“You sure, sweetie? You’re usually a two wine-glass kind of girl.”

“Well, it’s not every day you become a widow, right?”

Irene reached over the bar and stroked Mary’s hair. “I’m so sorry, honey.” Never one to linger too long with somberness, Irene turned her attention to pouring her daughter another whiskey. It was the family crutch for troubles and heartbreaks, and while it didn’t cure anything, it kept them at a distance.

Garrett finally moved from the back corner of the bar, walking through the wait well’s opening so he could be next to his sister. “You know I didn’t like Marco, and I certainly didn’t like how he tried to blackmail us with his threats, but I am sorry that you’re going through this.” He held Mary close. She slumped into the safety that was her brother’s embrace.

Kathleen added, “I know Marco liked to drive fast on Ranch Road 2222, but that’s tough to drive sober, let alone…”

Mary finished her sister’s sentence, “…if you’re drunk.” She downed her second shot. “He played fast and loose… with a lot of things, I know that. It just took me awhile to get brave enough to do something about it.”

Connor and Irene locked eyes.

Mary signaled to her mom for another shot.

Kathleen asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Mary remained still, cradling her head in her hands. “I mean, even I can be pushed too far.”

She reached down on the ground for her handbag, pulling it up by the shoulder straps. Cradling it in her lap, she fished around inside and pulled out a small brown journal decorated with a gold-embossed M in the bottom right-hand corner.

Irene recognized it immediately.

“How on Earth did you get that?”

“I heard him on the phone talking about our… business. In Italian. My comprehension is much better than I let on.” She touched the journal. “I took it out of his car yesterday before he left for the club.”

Garrett exchanged glances with his father.

Mary slid the book across the bar to her mother’s hand. “You can put this back in the office where it belongs. He never should have taken it, shouldn’t have stolen my keys to the office. He never should have thought he could blackmail my family that way. My weakness made him think those things were all his right.”

Mary’s face now showed shades of hardness, like a child who realized there really were monsters in the world far more dangerous than in any storybook.

She downed her third whiskey and placed the glass on the bar with force. “He depended on me to take care of everything for him, even his precious sports car. I guess I needed to take care of myself this time.”

Garrett remained silent.

Irene looked to her daughter.

“Maybe Mary is ready for the family business after all.”