After finishing the dishes, Charlie stepped outside onto the deck, ready to signal to Angel that they were prepared to listen. To her surprise, the Porn Star seemed to have vanished into thin air. Perplexed, she considered that he couldn't have reentered the cabin without being noticed. Just as she was about to head back inside, her gaze caught Angel seated downstairs at the fire circle.
Sporting a gray woven cardigan over the long sleaved pink shirt and black cargo pants he was wearing. He must have gone in to the cabin via lower deck to grab the knit jacket while the three girls were in conversation. He appeared at though he was in deep contemplation about something. The thought crossed the demonic princess's mind whether Cherri and Vaggie should be informed about Angel's odd behavior. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that Angel required something from her specifically.
With cautious steps, she descended the back stairs to the ground level, making her way toward the fire circle where Angel sat. His gaze seemed fixed introspectively on the lake. As she approached, she noticed Angel becoming aware of her presence. His demeanor mirrored the manner in which he had agreed to join the hotel – reminiscent of the moment he had exited the car, the firm handshake they had exchanged before parting ways.
There was an air of apprehension around him, as though he sensed impending changes but remained uncertain about their nature and consequences.
Rising from his seat, Angel stood up and began to walk in the direction of the lake. He paused briefly, glancing back at her, a subtle signal for Charlie to follow. The internal debate continued within Charlie on whether she should involve Vaggie and Cherri in her whereabouts. Nevertheless, her familiarity with this place and the presence of guard patrols quelled most of her worries. She chose to proceed, maintaining a reasonable level of caution as she trailed after him.
Upon reaching the edge of the lake, Charlie found Angel waiting for her, his attention riveted on the moon-like orb of Heaven. She recalled that this was precisely what he had been doing the first time she had laid eyes on him. Most demons scarcely paid any heed to the celestial realm unless it was the day of the cleanse, when they observed the ominous forms of the exterminators descending from it. However, Angel was a different case, his gaze frequently drawn to the white haloed world that hung in the red sky above.
Charlie approached the spot where Angel had halted, the words to notify Vaggie crossing her mind, but she opted instead to silence all text notifications temporarily. Uncertainty swirled around her as she pondered Angel's intentions. A silence lingered between the two demons for a brief moment before Angel finally broke it, his voice cutting through the quiet.
"What's the scoop from Cherri?" Angel inquired, breaking the silence.
"About you…" Charlie clarified, her voice soft yet steady. "Bits and pieces, really. She mentioned that you turned to drugs to cope with everything that was being done to you. She shared how she first encountered you, the memories of you calling out for someone named Molly, your experiences living on the streets and in different corners of the city, and even that Valentino would come to visit you at your old apartment." Angel remained silent, but his posture—arms crossed over his chest—hinted at his discomfort with the conversation's direction.
"If you're not ready," Charlie suggested with empathy, her voice gentle, "you don't need to feel obligated to say anything."
"Hey, you and Vaggie are gonna be headin' back to the Hotel in a couple of days," Angel pointed out, a tinge of resignation in his tone. "Whether I'm all set or not, it don't make much difference. It's either do this right now or it's a big fat zero."
"That's true," Charlie agreed, her voice warm and understanding. "But I want you to know that you don't have to feel pressured to share anything about your past. What truly matters is who you are now."
"Actually, the past does matter, ya know?" Angel responded, a hint of weight in his words. "If youse gonna try helpin' to straighten out them sinners, you gotta get a grip on what kinda folks they was and how they wound up in this mess. Even if it means listenin' to some real messed up shit, capisce?"
"I can…" Charlie asserted with conviction. "I can handle more than you might think. After all, Hell is populated by a mix of individuals, not all of whom are inherently evil. Many are just souls who made choices that led them down this path, like how you mentioned your involvement with the Mafia."
"Nah, sistah," Angel responded with an amused smirk, correcting Charlie's interpretation."I ain't never said I was in the Mafia, see? I just talked about bein' connected to an organized crime family, and that's the world I was raised in, ya dig?"
"But what about," Charlie began to point out, her voice considerate. "Don't you have some kind of oath or code where discussing your family is off-limits?"
"I do," Angel confirmed. "But ya figured out on your own that I'm a Made Guy, ain't nobody spilled the beans. Even if it's just a family tie and I knew about some shady stuff, I'd still be bound to keep my trap shut about what I knew, see?"
"What about during dinner?" Charlie asked, a hint of confusion in her tone. "You mentioned that 'people don't join the Mafia with the intention of being saints.'"
"And they don't," Angel affirmed. "Ya don't gotta be directly in 'The Life' to bump into Mobsters, ya know? These were folks I woulda bumped into and been around while I was comin' up in New York. There was a bunch of 'em who were actually stand-up folks. Lots of the guys I knew were just tryin' to make a buck in a world that already had 'em marked down as no-good."
"So you weren't in the Mafia?" Charlie inquired.
"Actually, I was," Angel replied. "Just like I said, Sweet Cheeks. You pieced that together all by yourself."
"I'm confused," Charlie uttered while settling onto a rock, attempting to piece together Angel's revelations. "Let me get this straight: you're claiming to have been brought up in a crime family, intimately connected to this very family. However, mere moments ago, you insisted you had no ties to it. And now, you're asserting that you were, in fact, involved all along."
"You brought up 'Omerta'," Angel added."Wouldn't it be enough to spill that I had a role in the family when I was kickin' it? Ain't that breakin' the oath I took?"
"I suppose you're right," Charlie nodded in contemplation.
"It's a whole different story if you connect the dots on your own," Angel said with a hint of playfulness."Like I said earlier, I never straight-up spilled the beans 'bout my mob ties; that was your own Sherlock act. But I'd recommend keepin' that on the down-low, 'cause it could still stir up some real trouble."
"Consider it our little secret," Charlie confirmed. "This information won't extend beyond here."
"I'm glad we straightened that out," Angel admitted. "Owning up to my role in 'the life' ain't exactly my cup of joe, but it was the path me and my fratello had to walk. If we had more room to breathe, maybe our situation woulda panned out different. And don't get it twisted, I ain't spillin' these beans to make it seem like I'm pullin' the sympathy card. I've pulled off my fair share of messed up stuff, ain't no halos in sight. Yeah, I'll admit, I'm accountable for a buncha things I'd rather not claim. But the way folks roll... the way the human world works. It's a whole lot messier than just black and white, see?"
"Meaning," Charlie asked?
"Here's the deal," Angel explained, crouching down to meet eye level. "See, the deal with sinners is, you can't just slap 'em with a 'this guy's an angel' or 'this guy's a demon' sticker. Good and bad, they're like shadows mixin' in the mist. What really counts is the whole picture—when and where they lived, how that molded 'em, and the forked paths they walked that landed 'em where they are. Lemme paint ya a picture: think of a dude who busts into a store, swipes some things. He gets nabbed, cuffed, and chucked in the slammer for his trouble. Now, would you say he's got it comin'?" Angel asked, laying it out with a storyteller's flair.
"I see your point," Charlie replied thoughtfully. "If this individual committed a wrongful act by trespassing into someone's business and taking away something essential for their livelihood, it's only fair that they experience consequences for what they've done."
Angel continued, "Now, mull it over this way. Deep down, this guy's got a heart of gold. He's caught in a jam that's tighter than a drum. He's got a missus and a brood of kids holed up in a ratty apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. His gig's paying peanuts, and they're scrimping on meals to make sure them young'uns get somethin' to chew on. Most of what he scrapes up goes to keep a roof over their heads, and there's barely a dime left 'til the next paycheck. Then, outta nowhere, he gets the boot from his job, canned without a blink. Now he knows, no work means no grub for his kids.
His wallet's got just enough green to cover rent for one more month, nothin' else. To make matters stickier than tar, his old lady's down with a bad case of sick, and he can't cough up enough scratch to see a doc. So, one day, strollin' past a bakery, he spots some loaves in the window. Driven to the wall, he scrounges up somethin' to bust the glass and nabs a couple loaves, maybe two or three, tops. It ain't like this would knock the bakery off its rocker; they'd just lose a bit of dough and a pane, stuff they'd bounce back from easy.
Next sunup, he's out hustlin' for another gig, when a pair of badges roll up and put the bracelets on him. They drop the dime that someone saw him smash the bakery window, and now he's gettin' a ticket to the clink 'cause of it. Now, puttin' all this on the scales, would you still say he's got a date with the slammer?" Angel's voice carried the weight of the tale, seasoned with empathy and the grit of a world that doesn't always play fair.
"Well," Charlie conveyed with a hint of news, "Could this individual perhaps elucidate the reasons behind their actions? Maybe the bakery owner could empathize, understanding that this person was simply trying to assist their family."
"True," Angel concurred. "The baker might catch a whiff of what's goin' on. He might have a family of his own and get the whole runaround of keepin' things squared away. But remember, he might not be wearin' the captain's hat to steer the ship of this fella's destiny," Angel added, a touch of pragmatism lacing his words.
"What about the police officers?" Charlie suggested. "They, may also have families. Perhaps they could consider…"
"Ain't worth a hill of beans what kinda moral ground them cops stand on in this here scenario. Even if they had a crystal ball showin' the whole shebang, they'd still slap the cuffs on and call it a crime. They'd jabber 'bout their sworn duty to haul this guy in. Cuttin' him loose could sour their rep and put a dent in their careers. And, let's be real, there might be some flat-out rotten apples among 'em, twistin' their badge into a whip to bully folks around, all masked up as protectin' the law," Angel spoke with a touch of cynicism, underlining the gritty realities of the situation.
"That doesn't sound fair," Charlie remarked with concern. "Punishing someone who's merely trying to provide for their family seems unjust. There must be someone who would recognize that."
"Sadly, not everyone's lookin' through that lens," Angel acknowledged, his tone tinged with a hint of resignation. "Sometimes, folks might set out with the best of intentions but take a dark road to reach their goal. The public might slap a shiny 'hero' label on 'em for their deeds. Meanwhile, another soul takin' a similar path could get smeared as a villain and hung out to dry," Angel explained, highlighting the fickleness of public perception.
"I think I understand your point," Charlie said, taking a moment to process Angel's perspective. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Cause I've seen shit like that go down in my time," Angel remarked, drawing from his own experiences. "My tale really kicks off long 'fore my folks even bumped into each other." In a swift motion, Angel rose to his feet and gestured toward a tree branch he leaned against. Delicate strands of white seemed to extend from his fingers, weaving into a rope that coiled around a sturdy stick. With a controlled force, the small branch snapped and descended. As effortlessly as a conductor catching a baton, the white-furred spider caught the stick in his hand.
"Hold on a moment," Charlie interjected. "I can summon Vaggie and Cherri... they should be here for this."
"I ain't lookin' to echo nothin'," Angel replied"Gotta lay it straight, I ain't spilled my history to nobody before. I'm already headin' back down memory lane just by thinkin' 'bout what I gotta spill."
"There's absolutely no pressure," Charlie assured. "Why don't I record what you share, and if you're comfortable with it, the others can listen to it." Angel remained silent. Seated on a nearby rock, he utilized the stick he had been holding to etch a rough, boot-shaped object in the dirt at their feet. About a foot away from that, he drew another object. Initially, Charlie wasn't entirely certain what these drawings were meant to represent. Angel was known for his crude and sexually suggestive humor, often aimed at teasing Vaggie. Both shapes did appear somewhat phallic, but she hesitated to jump to conclusions before Angel had a chance to explain.
"No pressure, huh?" Angel commented, pausing his drawing.
"I genuinely want to know and understand your experiences," Charlie affirmed earnestly. "I meant every word I said when we first met. There's more to you than even you might realize, and I want to offer my support. During the time you were at the clinic, I've been reflecting a lot since that night you asked me about my belief in demons' potential for redemption. My focus up until now has been on proving redemption is possible. But what I truly should invest my time and energy in is getting to know the individuals who come to the hotel. That way, I can better comprehend their backgrounds and find effective ways to connect with them."
"That's a solid place to kick things off," Angel acknowledged, offering an approving smile. "Although, you might wanna mull over bringin' in some counselors for that gig. You're a doll and all, but for your run-of-the-mill sinner... that could be a lot to handle. What might click better is havin' someone who's more on their wavelength. Sinners might find it smoother sailin' with someone they can really connect to." Charlie glanced at Angel, taken slightly aback by his perspective. She wasn't offended, but she hadn't realized that her approach might be too intense, or that her status as a member of Hell's royal family could be off-putting. It was a valuable insight she would have to keep in mind for the future.
"Tell me more about this," Charlie inquired, extending her hand towards the images that Angel had sketched in the dirt. "What's the significance behind these?" With a quick motion, Charlie activated an audio recording app, ensuring that Angel's narrative would be captured for Vaggie and Cherri to hear once they were back at the cabin.
"These here images stand for different countries," Angel explained, gesturing to the drawings etched in the dirt. "See this boot-shaped one? That's Italy, and the other one, well, that's the good ol' United States of America. After the fall of the Roman Empire, Italy got divided into North Italy and South Italy."Angel's stick carefully divided the image into two. "Ya know, my folks both came straight outta Southern Italy - Pops, he was a Neapolitan, and Mamma hailed from a little town called Calabria. Down in the southern parts of Italy, you got culture oozing out everywhere, but most folks are out in the countryside, and that meant everything they grew, raised, or caught had to be made to last. And let me tell ya, that's where organized crime first dug its claws in. Italy, as a whole, had its fair share of mafia outfits, but there were three big ones that ruled the roost." Angel proceeded to trace lines extending from three distinct points on the Italian drawing – one from where he had mentioned Naples, another from the toe of the boot-shaped region, and a third from a point located beneath the boot.
"The Camorra, that's the oldest of the bunch," Angel elaborated. "The NDrangheta, they were the riskiest bunch of the lot. And when it comes to the most famous one, well, that's the Cosa Nostra. See, Italy didn't really become one country till 1861, and that whole process of getting together stirred up quite the storm, politically and economically. Around the same time, over in the United States, they were wrestling with their own big mess, that Civil War everyone talks about. So, after all that commotion settled, America started saying, 'Hey, come on over, Italians, and help us build stuff.' Italians, they'd been trickling into the States alongside French folks even as far back as the 1700s.
Now, Smiles could probably dig even deeper into this, but the real wave of Italians started crashing on America's shores in the 1880s, mostly coming through places like New Orleans. A bunch of Southern Italians jumped at the chance for a fresh start in the Land of Opportunity. But you know what? Alongside these honest folks, the underworld started hitching a ride too. My own Ma was related to an NDrangheta crew they called the Croche family. Some of their top dogs sailed over to the States and set up shop in New York. After that, my grandpa on Ma's side kicked off an import business, Italian stuff and whatnot. Sure, it was a front, but behind the scenes, they were cooking up all sorts of schemes."
"But then there's Pops, a true Neapolitan, feelin' the vibes from the Camorra but keepin' his distance. He set out for the Big Apple right around when Ellis Island swung its gates open in '92. Now, Ellis Island might've been a bright light of hope and chances for folks coming from all corners of Europe, but it also earned itself a darker name: 'The Isle of Hope and Tears.' Soon as you got there, it was like a whole inspection and investigation bonanza. If you didn't tick all the boxes or they thought you weren't up to snuff, back you went to where you came from. Imagine families ripped apart, little kids left here on American turf while their folks were turned away, all tear-soaked and heartbroken."
"The flood of immigrants had its shadows too, 'cause a bunch of the fresh faces wound up getting taken for a ride. They'd end up slaving away in those factories and sweatshops, barely scraping by. Even the orphanages, places meant for taking care of kids, turned into hubs for cheap labor. Pops, he snagged a tiny apartment over in Hell's Kitchen, which, let me tell ya, ain't the friendliest-sounding neighborhood in New York City. It's got a rep for violence that's hard to shake. Pops got himself some work, nothing fancy, just loading and unloading stuff off ships that kept rolling into the harbor."
"After about half a year of grinding it out in the city that never sleeps, Pops started getting that eerie feeling that someone was keeping tabs on him."
"One fine day, while Pops was taking a breather with a smoke in hand, a fella he didn't know strolled up and started talking business. This stranger was offering some cash for Pops' help with a certain job. Now, Pops, he wasn't one to stick his nose where it don't belong, so he took the deal without too many questions. He did what he was supposed to, got his payment, and went right back to his regular grind like nothing out of the ordinary had gone down."
"This little scene played out all over again a few weeks later, just like déjà vu. That same guy found Pops and dangled another task in front of him, along with some more money. And again, Pops figured it wasn't his place to dig too deep, so he did what he was told, no fuss."
After going through this routine for a good few months, the mystery man finally pulled back the curtain and spilled the beans about his ties to the Croche family. He straight-up told Pops that if he was interested, he could put in a good word for him, maybe even open the door for Pops to become a Made Guy in the family. But, if Pops wasn't feeling the whole "life" thing, their little rendezvous would come to an end right there. Pops, after some thinking, decided to take a shot and jumped on that offer, getting himself involved with the Croche crew. He showed he could handle the ins and outs of the Mob Life like a pro."
"And then comes this big moment: Pops gets to meet the head honcho, Don Croche himself. Right then and there, he bumps into Mamma for the very first time. So, after my older brother came into the picture, and a five years years later, yours truly was born, along came our sister Molly too, completing the gang."
"Is that why you often gaze towards the heavens?" Charlie inquired softly, her hand reaching out to towards the luminous orb that hung in the sky like a moon. "Because you believe she might be up there."
"If there's even a shot for any of us to make it to the pearly gates,"Angel responded, his tone contemplative, "it would be her. And you're spot on, I've been scouring Pentagram for any sign of her, and I've been in this place for over seventy years. Another person I reckon would be up in Heaven is my Mamma."
"Your mom," Charlie responded, recalling the moment he had entered during her call with her mother. She hadn't initially noticed, but when he mentioned the word 'Mamma,' there was more to his voice than just the Italian inflection. There was also a subtle undercurrent of sorrow.
"Yeah," Angel sighed, his voice heavy with memories. "I didn't get much time with Mamma; she left this world when I was just a little one. My earliest memories of her are all fuzzy, but I remember her as gentle, even though there was always a sense of unease when Pops was around. He wasn't exactly the warmest father figure. His absence was the norm because he was busy running that import business his father-in-law set up. It wasn't exactly a secret in our house that there was more to that import business than met the eye. Even when Mamma took me and Molls to the park, while Fratello was at school, I'd overhear people talking in hushed tones about my old man's shady dealings. When I finally got the nerve to ask Mamma about it, she'd get all uneasy and tell me it wasn't something we should talk about."
"Pops' homecomings were like walking on eggshells, 'cause they often came with a cloud of bad vibes. He'd get mad over the smallest stuff, his temper flaring up. Sometimes he'd vanish for nights in a row, and you'd think that'd be a break for us, but weirdly, it just made us more anxious. If he was gone for more than a night, Mamma would make a call to the folks next door, and her older sister, Sabina, would swoop in to take care of us. No explanations needed – Sabina just knew it was safer if we were away when Pops came back. His returns were never quiet affairs. Once we could finally go back home, you could smell the mix of his cheap cologne or perfume, along with the stink of his cigars hanging in the air. Mamma would have these bruises she wouldn't talk about, and even Nonna, my grandma, kept her lips sealed about whatever mess had gone down."
"Couldn't anyone intervene?" Charlie inquired gently. "Like your mother's father or someone else in the family?"
"It was a whole different time, you know?" Angel sighed. "Back in those days, wives were seen more like belongings than people. Nobody wanted to confront or tackle those problems, and dealing with issues inside the home wasn't really a thing. And at the worst, even if something was reported, the fallout was usually pretty mild. My Nonni, that's my mom's dad, he knew what was going down, but he couldn't just jump into his own daughter's marriage. He had sons too, who were worried about their sister, but they were hesitant to step in 'cause they knew it would likely just stir up more trouble. Especially since Pops had shown he'd stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Listen, in those mafia setups, even though family ties had a big say, it wasn't all that rare for family members to get the order to bump off their own dad, or for a brother to get marked for a hit. The real game in Mafia hierarchy is in the roles of the Don and the Underboss – those don't just pass down, they're handed out. Pops, he had this charm that could draw folks in, you know? He could make 'em like him. But that charm, it had another side – his brutal side, just as strong. That's why they called him 'The Wolf.' See, Pops started working his mojo on other Croche family members, whispering that his own father-in-law, Don Croche, wasn't fit to lead. And if anyone dared to disagree, Pops had his ways of making 'em see things his way. Slowly but surely, he engineered a takeover, pushing out his father-in-law and my mom's oldest brother. We'll never know for sure what really happened to them, but chances are they got permanently hushed. That's the thing about the Mob – they could vanish people without a trace. It's not just about throwing someone in the river with cement shoes. If they wanted someone gone and forgotten, they made sure there wasn't even a body left behind. After that power shift, Pops slid right into the big chair as the new Capofamiglia."
"So this is how the 'Rag-no' family came into existence?" Charlie questioned. Angel couldn't help but emit a faint chuckle at this.
"I figure you've only read the name," Angel shot back, a touch of humor in his voice. "The 'g' is like a ghost, so you say it like 'Ran-ieo'."
"I see," Charlie replied. "Thank you for the correction; I'll definitely remember that."
"Eh," Angel responded with a nonchalant shrug. "The name's actually got a twist to it – it means 'Spider,' if you're wondering. Kind of fitting, given the whole web we got ourselves caught up in. Pops taking over wasn't all smooth sailing. Things were wild, like something out of a cowboy flick, all the way up to the 1930s. New York felt like a spaghetti western in a way. All these families were marking their turf, sizing up their space, and trying to make their names stick. We even had a way of talking about getting ready for a big gang showdown – we'd say we were 'Going to the mattresses.' I know it sounds odd, but when one of the families sensed a showdown with rival gangs was brewing, they'd snag empty apartments and toss some mattresses in. These spots became like hideouts for our folks, just temporary digs. Half a crew would catch some shut-eye on those mattresses, while the other half stood watch. After a week or so, they'd pull up stakes and move to another spot. This way, the other families couldn't pinpoint them to just one place."
"Strangely enough, figures like Pops didn't climb to power and respect by torching bridges left and right. Yeah, they had their rivalries and scraps, but they were also ready to sit down, talk, maybe strike a deal before going all-in on a shootout. Of course, there were hits ordered and they did go down, but that wasn't the first card to play. I mean, sure, you had those guys who'd pop a cap without batting an eye. In some corners of the city, that's just another Tuesday. But killing, it was bad for business, so if there was any other way, they'd explore it before even thinking about turning someone into a bullet-ridden pincushion. Pops, he was one of those bosses who ruled by fear, while respect and favor, they were things you had to earn, not just get handed to you on a silver platter. Sadly, that kind of thinking doesn't make a lot of friends, it just turns everyone against you in the end. But things really took a nosedive in 1919... 'cause that's when Mamma left us."
*Flashback March 1919*
It was a seemingly ordinary day in their kindergarten class, but Anthony couldn't shake off his unease. His mother had been feeling a bit under the weather that morning. So, her sister, Sabina Andreioli, had escorted the three of them to their catholic school in Brooklyn. Anthony found himself seated at a low table beside Molly, alongside a couple of his classmates. They were engrossed in a drawing project assigned by their teacher.
Every now and then, Anthony tugged uncomfortably at the gauze mask that had been given to him. This peculiar accessory puzzled him greatly. The adults had insisted it would keep him safe from the flu that had been spreading around. Nevertheless, the mask felt overwhelming to wear and caused his face to itch incessantly.
A knock echoed through the classroom's wooden door, preceding the entrance of Mrs. Schultz, the stern secretary from the front office. Mrs. Tavert, their teacher, hastened over to engage in hushed conversation with the newcomer. Their glances flitted over to Anthony and Molly, casting a shadow of concern.
"Anthony… Molly," Mrs. Tavert's voice broke the silence, beckoning the two youngsters. They exchanged uneasy glances before rising from their seats, yielding to the summons. Reluctantly, they approached the teacher by the door, their young minds racing with questions about the unfolding situation.
"Please accompany Mrs. Schultz to the office," Mrs. Tavert instructed gently. "Your aunt is here to collect you."
Mrs. Schultz interjected, "I'll need to retrieve their older brother from his Third-grade class." With a tone of authority, she turned to the children, issuing a concise command. "Retrieve your coats and belongings."
Without protest, Anthony and Molly complied, retrieving their jackets and bags hanging near the entryway. The spectacle drew curious gazes from their classmates, unused to such early departures.
As the pair of kindergartners were escorted down the corridors and up a flight of stairs to the higher-grade classrooms, Mrs. Tavert redirected the remaining students' focus to their assignments. The trio halted at a classroom door, where Mrs. Schultz guided them to wait momentarily. After a brief knock, she entered, emerging a few minutes later with Enzo in tow. He, too, collected his belongings upon her instruction.
"Follow me," Mrs. Schultz directed, leading them back along the hallway and down to a lower floor, a door there granting quicker access to the office area.
"What's goin' on?" Enzo hissed at his younger siblings, his brow furrowed. Although he didn't particularly mind leaving his own class, he hoped it wasn't due to their misbehavior.
"Nothin'," Molly responded, her innocence apparent in her voice. Enzo's skeptical snort indicated his disbelief.
"We were told Aunt Sabina's here," Anthony explained. Enzo regarded him for a moment, discerning the sincerity in his brother's words. Something significant was clearly afoot.
Upon their arrival at the school office, Sabina hurried toward them, enfolding the younger children in her arms, seeking solace not just for them, but for herself as well.
"What's happened?" Enzo inquired, his concern palpable. "Is it Pops?" Though their father's dealings were kept hushed, Enzo had overheard enough to understand their gravity—the conflicts, the rivalries, the preparations. Even at his tender age, he'd joined his father for firearm practice on weekends, his training a tacit acknowledgment of their world's dangers.
"It's your mother," Sabina's voice quivered as she fought back tears. Her eyes betrayed the weight of the situation. "She's taken ill. A doctor's with her now. Your father's been informed and is already at home. Umberto's waiting in the car outside."
"Alright," Enzo's resolve was unwavering. Turning to his younger siblings, he rallied them. "Tony, Molly, let's go." They followed him like a pair of chicks, Molly already teary-eyed. Anthony held her hand, a comforting presence amidst the uncertainty. Suppressing his own emotions, he mustered strength from within, reminding himself that he needed to be steadfast. The memory of his recent tears, spurred by Enzo's teasing, was still fresh—a reminder of the stern admonishment he'd received from his father afterward.
Their father's study was an enclave of prohibition within their home, off-limits to all, even Mamma and Nonna. Entry here signified one of two things: a private, hushed conversation initiated by Pops, often with Enzo, or a session of retribution for misdeeds. Depending on the intensity of his ire, Pops' response ranged from swift physical rebuke to a heavy belt strap for chastisement. At that point, Henrico had only struck his youngest son, delivering a forceful blow to his face. Yet, he had pledged that any future incidents of 'crying like a girl' would incur even graver consequences. Anthony harbored no doubt that amidst his father's many broken promises, this particular threat would remain sacrosanct.
Like Molly, Anthony sensed the gravity of the situation. Sabina's presence at their school wasn't just about their ailing mother; it signified an opportunity for a final farewell. Umberto Andreioli sat behind the wheel of his sedan, awaiting their arrival. The three siblings shuffled into the backseat without exchanging a word. The journey home was a hushed affair, save for Molly's quiet sobs. Anthony drew his sister closer, offering what solace he could, his own tears trickling down his cheeks concealed by her shoulder. Enzo stared out the window, the facade of composure he projected not concealing the grief that emanated from him.
Time seemed to drag on during the car ride, yet as they pulled up to their brownstone, its arrival was bittersweet.
"Clean yourself up 'fore Pops lays eyes on ya," Enzo hissed in admonishment as they entered the house. Anthony didn't contest or query, his intent clear. Moreover, he wished to retrieve something before the opportunity vanished. Pleading his tardiness with the excuse of joining them soon, he discreetly entered the guest bathroom. Illuminating the room, he confronted his tear-streaked face. A moment's contemplation, the flush of the toilet, and the rush of water from the faucet followed—a choreographed facade. Dabbing his cheeks with a damp cloth, he aimed to eradicate all traces of his vulnerability. Assured of his presentability, he exited the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. Employing the stool he usually shared with his mother during culinary endeavors, he grasped a nondescript book—a journal that harbored the legacy of his mother, grandmother, and other Croche matriarchs. This repository of old-world recipes held a place of honor in their household. Stowing it within his school bag, he sensed the urgent summons from his father upstairs.
"ANTHONY," his father's voice bellowed, commanding his presence. "GET UP HERE 'FORE I FUCKIN' HAFTA DRAG YA!"
"On my way, Papa," Anthony replied, ascending the staircase. The climb was taxing, leaving him winded as he reached the second floor. Henrico Ragno's presence greeted him with a stinging slap across his cheek.
"Worthless brat," Don Ragno's words seethed. He seized Anthony's hair in a vice-like grip. "A real man appears as anticipated, no excuses."
"Sorry, Pops," Anthony uttered through gritted teeth. "I'll do better."
"Good," Henrico growled, relinquishing his hold. "Now, go to your room and stow your belongings." Anthony complied without protest, following his father's directive. He entered the room he shared with his sister, while Nonna Ragno clicked her tongue in disapproval.
"Maria ha viziato troppo quel ragazzo, (Maria's spoiled that boy too much,)" he overheard his grandmother's muttered Neapolitan dialect. "Grazie a Dio, Enzo è cresciuto come si deve. (Thank God, Enzo has grown up properly.)"
Anthony exchanged a knowing glance with his sister as he stepped into the room. Nonna Ragno had perpetually scorned his father's choice in a wife. Every action of his mother's had been met with derision. Maria's decision to set up a cot in the nursery to promptly tend to her infants so as not to disturb their father had incited Nonna Ragno's chastisement for being overly indulgent with them. When Sabina was entrusted with their care while Maria managed household chores, Nonna Ragno berated her daughter-in-law for allowing strangers to raise her grandchildren. Even when Anthony assisted his mother with meal preparation, Nonna Ragno criticized Maria, insisting Molly should be the one aiding, as a woman's place was within the household.
Enzo's upbringing was seen as "proper" largely due to Nonna Ragno's influence when Mamma couldn't take care of him. Their father also kept Enzo close whenever possible, under the pretense of training him to be a man. It was clear to the younger siblings that Enzo was being groomed to follow in their father's footsteps. This didn't shield him from their father's unpredictable mood swings, but it was easier for him to comply than to argue. Anthony removed his school bag and shoved it under the bed. He would decide later what to do with his mother's recipe journal, its handwritten Italian contents beyond his current reading abilities. He wished to hold onto it, but a feeling of foreboding told him that if Pops discovered it, he'd face punishment. Henrico Ragno always seemed to find fault in everything Anthony did. Enzo's accomplishments garnered praise with a proud "That's my boy," while Anthony's achievements were dismissed as inconsequential. Even on birthdays, Enzo and Molly received whatever they desired, while Anthony was often an afterthought.
Seated on the edge of his bed, Anthony surveyed his surroundings, as if trying to etch the room into memory. Everything would change after today, dictated by Pops. Just the day before, their father had informed Enzo that Anthony would be living with him for a while. Enzo had protested, expressing his reluctance at having share a room with a "five-year-old bedwetter" as he charmingly put it. Pops had reasoned that having Anthony and Molly share a room have off a a girl's influence that was affecting his second-born sons development. Placing Anthony with another boy would, in his father's view, steer him toward what was considered proper behavior. Molly empathetically joined her immediate older brother, resting her head on his shoulder. Her tears had dried, but his proximity brought her solace. "The doctor says it's time," Sabina declared when she arrived at the door. "Put on your masks and come with me." The two children donned their gauze masks, which they had removed upon arriving home. Enzo emerged from his room and followed his younger siblings to their parents' room. A stranger, presumably the doctor, stood over their mother as she lay in bed, her frail form and pallor stark indicators of her suffering. Her golden-brown hair fanned out on the pillows, and each labored breath sounded thick and congested, as if drowning in her own phlegm. She turned her head toward the door, mustering a weak smile at the sight of her children.
"Mamma," Molly mumbled, her words muffled by the mask. "I…I love…you…all," their dying mother rasped, each word an arduous effort. She turned her head away, coughing wetly, her lungs sounding as if they might burst. Anthony's childish instinct urged him to rush to her, believing that if he embraced her, the specter of death might reconsider. He might have, if not for Enzo holding him back.
"That's enough," the doctor asserted with finality. "Let's not further distress this woman." Sabina led the children out of their parents' room and back to their own. Enzo was instructed to work on the assignments his teacher had given him for the next few days to stay on top of his coursework. Anthony and Molly were told to take a nap and then pack some clothes for the next few days. Sabina had arranged for them to stay at her house while their father attended to some business.
Once their bedroom door was closed, Anthony retrieved his school bag from under the bed and took out the recipe journal, leafing through its pages. He couldn't understand the words, but he fancied he could feel the loving touch of his mother's hand on the onion-skin textured pages. Each page bore words inscribed by the hands of women who had owned it before. Molly settled beside him, also examining their mother's treasured journal.
"Here," Molly suggested. "I know where we can hide it." Taking the journal, she slipped it between the mattresses of her own bed. Anthony offered a small smile of gratitude to his younger sister as she rejoined him. As they drifted into a quiet slumber, they clung to each other, resisting the impending changes that would fracture their family to its core.
*end flashback*
"To extend some sympathy to Pops,"Angel said, concluding his recount of this pivotal moment in his life. "As a widower, he faced the daunting task of single-handedly raising three children, unsure of where to start."
"Nevertheless," Charlie remarked, "Losing a parent at such a young age..."
"It occurred with unsettling frequency."Angel continued."The flu pandemic sweeping through was utterly devastating. There was no clear strategy to combat it. People fell ill and succumbed to the illness. Some fortunate individuals passed away within hours, while others, less fortunate, endured days of suffering. Hospitals were overwhelmed and unable to accommodate all the infected. We weren't by Mamma's side when she passed away; Sabina had the three of us at her house next door."
"Her husband, Umberto Andreioli, served as the family Consigliere and needed to be with Pops to handle arrangements and business matters. Having three children underfoot would have been more than Pops could bear at that time. So, Sabina set up a couple of mattresses in the living room for us to sleep on, where she believed we could be warm and comfortable."
"It was during the night, when she assumed we were asleep, that Umberto returned home. They spoke in hushed tones, but I knew the three of us were quietly listening to their conversation. Molly was inconsolable upon learning that our mother was gone. Fratello... he simply grew more silent. He had always been reserved, rarely speaking unless directly addressed, but after Mom's death, he became even more withdrawn, immersing himself in fulfilling Pops' expectations rather than connecting with others."
"Our family mourned for about two weeks until, two days after the funeral, Pops declared the mourning period over and insisted there was no point in discussing the deceased any further. Our mother was gone, she wouldn't return, and he didn't want us to mention her again."
Charlie commented, "That sounds incredibly harsh. I always believed that we should remember and honor the departed."
"It's grounded in a cultural superstition."Angel clarified."In Italian culture, there is a belief that talking about the departed can keep their spirits lingering in the realm of the living, upsetting the natural cycle of life and death. Hence, once the mourning period ends, people typically refrain from mentioning the deceased. Of course, now that I find myself among the departed, all of it seems rather futile in hindsight."
Charlie's eyes filled with sorrow as she absorbed Angel's words. She chose not to emphasize the obvious, recognizing the bitterness in his tone. When Angel had passed away, there was a strong possibility that his father and older brother were more than willing to erase his memory from their conversations. Though the superstition provided a convenient excuse, it didn't make it any less cruel and heartless.
""In them next couple o' years, we all faced some real tough times, ya know?"Angel continued."They stuck me in the same room as Fratello, a setup neither of us was thrilled about. My spot was cramped in one corner, and Pops even hung up a makeshift curtain to carve out my own space. Molls and I were used to bunking together, and she'd sneak in now and then. But if Fratello caught a whiff of her presence, he'd give her the boot and lock the door to keep her out. During those early run-ins, she'd tap on the door, practically begging Fratello to let her back in. Pops or Nonna would have to step in, telling her to cool it and hit the hay. If Nonna spotted her with us, she'd hustle Molls out of the room, all the while laying down the law about what might happen if she acted up. If Pops caught us together, he'd chew her out and march her back to her own quarters. Then he'd yank me out of my bed and give me what-for for what he thought was me egging her on."
"Well, I can understand why some might see it differently," Charlie began, trying to acknowledge the reasoning behind the actions. Although she knew that the actual intention was innocent, she recognized that from an outsider's perspective, it might appear questionable.
"I reckon I can see how it might seem like that." Angel responded. "Believe me, there was nothing even remotely close to anything incestuous going on. It wasn't just that Molly and I were tight; for us, it felt like we were each other's lifeline. Growing up with a father like Pops, who was nothing short of a tyrant, didn't exactly make us the popular kids in the neighborhood. On the upside, folks knew better than to mess with us, but on the downside, they kept their distance. Even the teachers dreaded the days when Pops had to show up for those parent-teacher meetings. When it came to school, that's when Pops took a keen interest."
"Whenever Fratello pulled in a good grade, Pops would strut around, boasting about how he'd chosen the right son to be his favorite. For grades that landed in the middle, like C's, he'd just shrug it off and say not everyone was cut out for every subject. But when it came to me, if I managed to snag an A, Pops would offer some vague approval. For B's, he'd gripe about how my older brother had aced that subject at my age, so why was I settling for less? If I ever got a C in anything, Pops would scoff and declare that was just a polite way of saying 'barely passing' and that he expected better. As for Molly, he didn't really have any grand expectations for her. As long as she could read and write properly, that was all he figured she needed to know. In our family, it was the men who were supposed to shine in all the tough subjects."
Charlie responded sympathetically, "It does sound unfair. Everyone should have the opportunity to pursue their interests and excel in their own way, regardless of their gender. It must have been tough for you and Molly to navigate those expectations."
Angel nodded, "That's exactly how we were raised. My old man, he had that classic worldview from back in the day, where men were supposed to be the providers, and women were mostly expected to handle child-rearing, household chores, and cooking. When it came to women working, he'd scoff, saying even a chimp could be taught to use a typewriter. So, just 'cause they stuck a pretty face behind a desk, didn't mean they were tackling anything all that intricate. Even after women were allowed to vote in 1920, Pops would go on and on about how women had no business getting mixed up in politics."
Charlie replied with empathy, "But still, it doesn't make it right."
"Between the two of us, Fratello was the only one who had graduated from high school." Angel remarked. "If it weren't for family responsibilities holding him back, he could have probably pursued a career in law, banking, or something that matched his business-oriented mindset. As for myself, I'm not entirely certain where life might have taken me if I had completed my education. To clarify, I wasn't a straight-A student, but I did make it through the 9th grade or most of it actually. The story behind why I left school early is a tale for another occasion, one that we haven't reached just yet."
"Okay," Charlie said, her voice filled with anticipation, eager for Angel to continue the story. She understood that it was ultimately his decision whether to reveal all of this to her, and if he chose to call for a break or the opportunity to revisit the story later, that too would be his choice. "So, after your mother passed away... what happened?"
"I began to delve into the family's trade." Angel explained. "I was about seven years old when I started down this path. Alongside my fratello, I received firearm training on weekends. While with the family, I wasn't directly involved in the more serious operations just yet. My initial tasks revolved around simpler jobs like being a note runner and delivering messages to my uncles and their crews. Fratello acted as a lookout, keeping watch for any police presence during certain business dealings. The only actual operations I witnessed were when I accompanied one of my uncles to collect protection money from various stores. This way, other patrons wouldn't suspect anything unusual when a man came in to buy treats like amaretto cookies or cannoli for his nephews. The clerk would cooperate, but as soon as everyone else left, the real business began. If the clerk claimed he didn't have the money, Fratello and I received a signal to start causing trouble at the store. Initially, it was minor damage, inconveniences rather than significant losses. The level of destruction escalated if the person being extorted continued to resist. Eventually, they'd cough up the money, or if they genuinely had nothing, they'd be issued a warning that if they didn't produce the money within a week, they'd regret crossing our family."
"That does sound excessive," Charlie commented, his voice filled with concern. "Destroying someone's business like that, even if they did owe money to your family, wouldn't damaging their products be counterproductive in the long run?"
"It was," Angel agreed with a nod."But it's a part of life, Charlie. The Mafia often lent a helping hand to their local communities, but that aid always came with a price. Have you ever had a chance to peruse a book called 'The Prince' by Niccolò Machiavelli? In the Mob's world, that book's like their Holy Grail. It's essentially a guide on political leadership, but it follows a 16th-century mindset that made sense back then. Those Machiavellian ideas still hold sway in more modern times, though I reckon they might not exactly line up with your values. For instance, one of the sayings my old man always lived by is 'It's better to be feared than loved, if you can't be both.'"
"You're absolutely right," Charlie said firmly. "I can't see the point in leading if the people who follow you only do so out of fear."
"To be honest, that way of thinking never quite sat right with me either,"Angel remarked. "If you're just a constant tough guy, sooner or later, someone's gonna show up and knock yah down, and nobody's gonna give any fucks 'bout what happens to yah. But, you see, that thought I'm talking about is just a piece of a bigger picture. What 'The Prince' was getting at is that yah can't lead effectively by pure force or pure kindness. Being overly nice might make people like yah, but it can also be your downfall because if you're too accommodating, folks will take advantage. On the other hand, ruling with fear might seem secure, but people will eventually rebel against oppressors. To earn respect and followers, you gotta lead with kindness, but you also gotta be willing to get tough when the situation calls for it. It's all about having the smarts to know when to stand your ground."
"In the world of the Mafia in those days, we took care of our communities as best we could, looked after local businesses, and lent a helping hand where it was needed. But when the Mob did you a favor, they made it crystal clear that they expected something in return, no ifs, ands, or buts. If you couldn't come through on their request or if you crossed them, well, let's just say you'd be in for a world of trouble.
"Take Fratello, for instance. He was brought into the fold when he was just about thirteen years old. This was the time he had to prove his loyalty to the family, but I don't have all the nitty-gritty details because I wasn't there. The story goes that Pops had struck a deal with a woman who ran a speakeasy back in the 1920s when selling alcohol was illegal. The Mafia was gaining power during those Prohibition years by supplying bootlegged booze. So, Fratello's crew went to collect payment for a shipment of hooch. The speakeasy owner had given them a heads-up that the cops were sniffing around, so she had switched to serving imitation drinks to avoid suspicion. Unfortunately, that decision ended up costing her customers, and she wanted to halt the supply temporarily to use up the real alcohol she had left."
"Well, somethin' went down, and in the heat of the moment, someone pulled the trigger. Now, I can't say for sure why he did it, but the buzz around the family was that Fratello was the one holding the smoking gun when it happened."