**Flashback 1936**
Anthony adjusted the collar of his trench coat, preparing to step out for the evening. He had a rendezvous with Luca at Gatsby's, a popular joint in the local area. Approaching the entrance, he found himself humming the tunes of Louis Prima's latest swing sensation, "Sing, Sing, Sing."
"Sing, sing, sing, sing everybody start to sing,
Like dee dee dee, bah bah bah dah,
Now you're singin' with a swing."
Lost in the rhythm, he almost missed the sound of Molly's voice. Leaning against the door to the dining room, Anthony caught sight of Molly setting the table for herself and their father. He had told her that he would grab dinner during his outing. Enzo, his brother, should have been across the street in the brownstone with his wife Corrina or on his way to visit a respectable mistress. Anthony pressed himself against the wall to eavesdrop on their conversation.
"I got a hunch, Fratello," Molly said. "Anthony ain't spillin' the beans, whether it's 'cause he can't or he's just too darn proud. But mark my words, something fishy's goin' on."
"Everythin's copacetic, Molls," Enzo shrugged. "Ain't nothin' to sweat over."
"You may brush it off," Molly retorted, her voice edged with concern. "I get it... I know he's tough, but this unease won't leave me. I can read him, Fratello. I know when he's hurting or discontent. Lately, it's been more than just a passing cloud. Can't I have a heart-to-heart with Papa about it? I get we're in the family business, and it's shrouded in mystery for my own safety, but I sense trouble at that import shop. You can tail Papa if you want, but for Anthony... ain't there a way to cut him loose?"
"He's stickin' to the family, see?" Enzo stated. "That's all I can spill. Believe me, it's safer for him in these parts. If he scrams, other families might size him up for a target. The city's the best digs for him, capisce?"
"He didn't choose this path willingly," Molly persisted. "Papa's forever finding fault in him, and you, you never give him his due. It's a constant barrage of who he isn't or how he falls short of Papa's expectations. Since we were kids, you've viewed Anthony as nothing more than an impediment. Did it ever cross your mind that he just wanted you to see him as a friend?"
"I'll show some appreciation when he's earned his stripes," Enzo snapped, storming towards the door of the house. "He's my brother, but respect's gotta be sweated for."
"Keep in mind, Tony's your *sole* brother," Molly pointedly reminded. "I'm on the verge of tying the knot and heading off to the Hudson Valley. My days around here are numbered. While I'm eager for my new life, if something's amiss with Anthony, I won't find peace there."
"Tony's cool right here," Enzo dismissed. "He picked this life; he can't chicken out now. He won't do good if he's got a protective little sis sweatin' every detail. Concentrate on your new gig."
The stroll from the Ragno family's brownstone to Gatsby's was brief. Underneath Anthony's coat, he wore a pair of rayon trousers, a departure from the norm as contemporary fashion increasingly associated such attire with women. Men typically stuck to pants. His light blouse, inspired by prevailing trends in women's fashion, aimed to emulate the slender figures depicted in art deco images or embodied by film stars like Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow. Though appearing feminine on the twenty-two-year-old's androgynous frame, the cleverly designed blouse, with ruffle-like flounces on the front, concealed the absence of a bust, leading others to easily mistake him for a woman.
Approaching Gatsby's, Anthony made a brief detour into a local bar. In the single-occupancy toilet at the back, he donned a strawberry-blond wig stashed in an inner pocket and applied a subtle amount of rouge to enhance his feminine features. Pressing a hand against his throat, he practiced adjusting his vocal tone to match his appearance. While the crowded atmosphere of Gatsby's might allow him to blend in, he couldn't risk being recognized or, worse, mistaken for Molly. With the disguise in place, he folded the duster coat over one arm and left the bar without making eye contact or entertaining questions.
Luca was outside, finishing a cigarette by the restaurant entrance as Anthony approached. A small smirk played on Luca's face, noting the stares from men near the window and the admiration from some of the women. The reddish-blond-haired vision with golden bronze skin had captivated the onlookers.
"My, you look absolutely stunning." Luca commented, dropping the cigarette and crushing it underfoot.
"Ain't no kicks in me showin' up if I can't put on a real spectacle," Anthony replied casually, casting a slight glance toward the curious faces, relishing the possibility of being mistaken for a celebrity.
"Shall we step inside?" Luca asked, opening the door to Gatsby's, and the two entered.
The two gents, not quite soused but certainly a tad tipsy, stepped into Luca's apartment and closed the door behind them. Luca wasted no time; as soon as the door shut, he pulled Anthony into his arms, tilting the younger man's face upward and capturing his lips in a long and passionate kiss. With a swift motion, Luca removed the wig Anthony had been sporting that evening.
"There," Luca remarked, "I prefer you with a more natural look, wouldn't you agree?"
"Oh, you're breakin' my heart," Anthony teased, letting his voice go back to the usual pitch. "And here I went through the trouble of dolling up just for you." The tease turned into a smile. "Though that wig had my scalp scratchin' like nobody's business." Anthony scratched his forehead, showing some signs of skin irritation.
"Hey, what's that?" Luca asked, seizing Anthony's chin to inspect an unusual discoloration around his neck. Anthony froze in fear as Luca discerned that the marks were remnants of fading bruises.
"They're nothin'," Anthony insisted, pushing Luca away.
"That don't look like nothin'," Luca retorted gripping the younger man's arm. Despite Luca's touch not being overly forceful, Anthony gasped, wincing in pain. "Hold on a moment." Luca carefully took hold of one of Anthony's arms, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to expose more recent bruises on his usually olive-tanned skin.
"Ain't what it looks like," Anthony defensively declared.
"Are you suggesting you did this to yourself?" Luca asked.
"Nah," Anthony said. "I was screwin' up, so Pops was..."
"Don Ragno did this?!" Luca exclaimed, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. He wasn't entirely certain why he wasn't more surprised or disgusted.
"When he's had a few," Anthony excused. "He gets kinda emotional, and I'm the one he dumps his feelin's on." Luca stepped away, heading for the console table. He snagged a bottle of amaretto, poured a measure, and downed it in one go. Anthony took a step back, like he was about to bolt, a sight that pained Luca's heart. It meant that Anthony had seen his old man reaching for the booze before these heart-to-hearts.
"Tonight was a screw-up," Anthony said, making for the door. He grabbed the wig, probably planning to slap it on, so Herschel downstairs would figure Luca's company for the night was hittin' the road.
"Hold on," Luca said, putting the glass down on the console. The glass hit the wood harder than Luca had intended, and Anthony jumped in response. Eyes darting between Luca and the door, Anthony seemed on edge. In a fraction of a moment, Luca pulled Anthony into his arms, holding him close.
"No, no," Anthony said, fearfully squirming to break free from Luca's hold. "Not you... just cut me loose, let me scram..."
"Hush," Luca said, still holding Anthony close. "How can I follow a man who does things like this to his own son? Ti voglio bene, Anthony (I love you, Anthony). You should never have to endure pain and fear. You deserve so much better; you should be in a place where happiness, love, and acceptance surround you. I'll do everything in my power to support you and help you find that place."
"Don't," Anthony said, his tone firm. "Don't, Luca. You're peddlin' something that ain't real... not for me. I ain't worth the hassle it's gonna bring you."
"Does your brother or sister know about what your father is doing?" Luca asked with concern.
"Fratello... yeah, he's in the loop," Anthony admitted. "He acts like it ain't going down, mostly 'cause he knows Pops would turn on him too if he spills. So he acts like I deserve it or had it coming. With Sorella, she's in the dark... Pops makes sure he vents when she ain't around and warns me that if I spill to her, he can make sure she never lays eyes on me again. Says if he knew I'd turn out so worthless, he'd have..." Luca felt tears stream down his face at the sheer cruelty of those words.
"You mean the world to me, dolce tesoro (sweet treasure). You are far from worthless, mio prezioso (my precious one). Anyone who dares to call you names or belittle you must be blind, for there is so much to love about you. Your smile is pure magic, and your laughter is like a symphony to my ears. It breaks my heart to see you in pain and know that you are hurt by that bitter old man."
"Luca," Anthony said. Tears had come to his eyes too, but he blinked them away.
"Stay here," Luca offered. "At least for tonight. There's got to be something we can do. I know when I was brought into the family, I gave an oath that I'd live by the gun and the knife and would likewise die by them. And I know you were given that same oath when you were brought in. But there has to be a way for the two of us to get out."
*End Flashback*
"After dat," Angel explained, "Luca dialed up a joint in the neighborhood. He got in touch wit' one of his buddies in the crew and told him to play it off as yours truly. He had to sling me a couple of stiff ones, not just to make it seem like I had a lousy hangover, but also to get me ready for the next move. Luca wanted to scope out how messed up things were. In them days, we didn't have them fancy phones wit' cameras, so he couldn't snap no pics. He had to get a feel for the whole shebang before figuring out what to do next."
"What happened?" Charlie asked.
"I hadta strip down so Luca can check out how bad the damage is," Angel remarked. "Thanks to the beatings I took, some injuries never healed right, and bruises just wouldn't go away. There were marks on my backside and legs, infected and oozing with white pus, only covered by a thin layer of healing skin. Luca thought I needed a couple of shots to brace myself 'cause he was gonna do some back-alley patching up. After getting me good and lit, he had me lay down on towels on the bed. Luca took out a pocket knife, made cuts in them infected wounds to let the gunk drain out, and then splashed 'em with alcohol. It stung like hell, but thank goodness I was already tanked. After wrapping up the wounds, he handed me some sleepin' pants, and we crashed for the night, holdin' tight to each other."
"That's horrible," Charlie said. "How can someone hurt another person like that?" Angel shrugged dismissively.
"Folks don't pick where they get born, and they sure as heck don't get a say in their families," Angel stated. "Sure, my pops was all screwed up, but there are folks out there who've had it even rougher."
"At least you had people who cared, like Molly," Charlie said. "What about Luca? You mentioned earlier that he was murdered."
"Yeah, but that didn't go down until more than a year later," Angel said. Both sets of arms hugged around himself, expressing vulnerability rather than warding off people. "On that night, the story I had to sell back home was that I got plastered and snagged a room to crash for the night. Luca and I had a plan cookin', but we had to play it close to the vest. Couldn't spill the beans to anyone, not even Molls or Fratello. The scheme was to hold off 'til the day Molly and Paulo tied the knot. Luca pitched his family's winery for their honeymoon spot. On Molly's City Hall wedding day, I was supposed to tote a bag with a few outfit changes, including one of Molly's dresses. Pops and Fratello weren't gonna be part of the wedding scene, and there wouldn't be an official ceremony 'cause Pops wasn't givin' his nod to the union. While Molly bid her farewells and kicked off her first nights as Mrs. Li Voti, I'd slip into the dress, and we'd be hittin' the road to British Columbia and beyond. Once we were set, we'd drop Molly a line. Until then, she'd be in the dark."
"Those plans didn't happen, did they?" Charlie asked.
"Yeah," Anthony spoke up. "I dunno why it went down, but I got snatched."
*Flashback 1936*
"Well, check you out," Anthony declared as he stepped into the bride's dressing room. He was decked out in a pair of finely tailored suit pants, a crisply pressed white top, and a snugly fitting black button-up vest from his favorite tailor. In his hands, he cradled a velvet-lined box.
"Anthony," Molly exclaimed joyfully, positioned before the mirror. Her long, golden-brown hair was neatly arranged in a bun, adorned with a Juliet cap veil. Her gown, a single ivory silhouette with lace tulle sleeves and overskirt, radiated elegance. Around her neck hung a string of pearls, casting a warm glow against her olive-toned skin. She glanced behind him, attempting to discern if anyone else accompanied him. "I gather Papa and Fratello didn't come."
"Yeah," Anthony responded with a touch of resigned disappointment. "Their loss, though. C'mon, when are they ever gonna catch a glimpse of you tying the knot again? They oughta be here for this, even if they ain't gung-ho about the lucky guy you've picked."
"Tony," Molly said. "If you don't want me to go through with this... say the word. Just let me know, and I'll cancel this wedding."
"Sorella," Anthony began.
"I mean it. I love Paulo," Molly insisted. "But you matter to me more than any man ever could. If you don't want me to go through with this, then let me know."
"You've made it this far," Anthony reassured her. "Plus, I went through the hassle of dressin' up like a waiter for your big day. You think I'm gonna skip out on givin' away my only sister to a man she wants? From what I've seen of Paulo, he's a stand-up guy, and he'll treat you right. But if he ain't... you better believe I'll make him wish he was in a coma."
"I'm still missing some things, though," Molly observed as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. "The dress is something new, and I'd like to hold onto it for when I have a daughter or a daughter-in-law at a marriageable age. The pearl necklace was given to me by Paulo's mother, so that's borrowed. That leaves only something old and something blue."
"I reckon I got somethin' that fits the bill," Anthony said as he cracked open the velvet-lined box, unveiling a delicate Italian silver circlet with a deep blue sapphire as the centerpiece.
"Is that?" Molly asked in astonishment.
"Yep," Anthony confirmed as he delicately set the metal band on his sister's forehead. "If she could be here right now, she'd be thrilled to see you sportin' it."
"But Papa threw all of her belongings away," Molly revealed. "He didn't want us to remember or think about her because we'd disturb her eternal rest."
"I dug it up in the attic," Anthony disclosed. "So either he forgot about it, or it was somethin' he couldn't part with. That checks off somethin' old and somethin' blue. But this is also somethin' you oughta have." From under the box, he pulled out an old, cracked leather book, instantly recognized by Molly.
"I was wondering what happened to this," Molly said as she took the old cookbook and held it close, tears welling up at the thought of the losses their family had endured. "After Zia Sabbina..."
"Hold on," Anthony said soothingly. "You don't wanna ruin an hour's worth of makeup by gettin' all emotional. Save those tears for after the 'I do's,' okay?"
"This would be helpful," Molly said. "I hope I can make ravioli the way she used to make it. I remember that was your favorite dish."
"It was only my favorite 'cause I used to help her make it," Anthony recalled. "But I'll hold you to that. Maybe one day I can treat you to some homemade manicotti."
"Grazie Fratello (Thank you, Brother)," Molly expressed with a pleased smile, though a tinge of sadness lingered.
"Non c'è di che, Sorella (You're welcome, Sister)," Anthony replied. "You finish gettin' ready. I'm gonna step out for a smoke and be back in a minute."
Lighting the tobacco stick, Anthony took a drag as he surveyed the familiar skyline of New York. This could be the last time in his life that he'd have the chance to see iconic sights like the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, and the Chrysler or Empire State Buildings. In just an hour, everything would change. By the time the rest of the family realized that Luca and Anthony were gone, they would be beyond reach. He took a moment to reflect on the city that had once been his home and the center of his entire life.
The plan Luca had set up involved attending Molly's wedding as a ruse. The night before, he had requested the use of one of his sister's dresses, providing only vague details. Luca had devised a way to escape the clutches of the family. He had placed a note in the old cookbook for Molly, explaining everything and instructing her to burn or destroy the note after reading it. It was a risky move, but Anthony sensed that Molly understood he wasn't content with being part of the family in this manner. If they could successfully escape, they planned to stay in Canada or wherever they chose until the heat died down. Once they were presumed dead by Pops, they could return and assist Molly with her family.
Tossing the cigarette butt to the ground after finishing it, Anthony scanned the portico of the old government building. Nothing around him seemed threatening, but an uneasy feeling of being watched lingered. Moving into the vast entry hall, he made his way toward the stairs leading to the second floor, casually glancing at his watch to hide his edginess. As he reached the second floor, he headed towards the room where Molly and her husband would exchange vows. Suddenly, footsteps emerged from the room he had just passed, and strong arms enveloped him from behind. One arm kept his own arms pinned to his sides while a rag with a sweet but heady scent was pressed against his nose and mouth. He struggled to break free from his attacker before his mind fogged over, and everything turned black. The last thought that filled his mind as he lost consciousness was that he would never witness Molly getting married on her own wedding day.
Consciousness slowly returned to him. The initial sensation was pain, his arms hanging above his head, the metal bands cutting into his wrists. The next was a chilling awareness, his clothes stripped away, leaving him in just his under shorts. It seemed like a deliberate act of humiliation, but the perpetrator eluded him. He had been cautious about revealing his sexuality, limiting knowledge of it to very few beyond Pops or Fratello. It couldn't be them; Fratello disapproved of his brother's orientation, but even he wouldn't stoop to such levels. Perhaps it was the people his brother associated with, tied to Murder Inc. Maybe a job had been assigned to them, but it didn't align with their usual swift and efficient methods. Murder Inc, was known for their swift brutality. They wouldn't resort to this type of humiliation. Andreoli, while stern, wasn't sadistic, and as the consigliere, he didn't partake in jobs. Luca, the planner of their escape, wouldn't jeopardize it for something like this. Unless someone had discovered their activities. Where was Luca? Was he captured, tortured, or worse? Anthony forced his anxious thoughts aside, focusing on appearing unconscious, attempting to assess his surroundings and identify his captors.
A cloth covered his eyes, rendering him blindfolded. Despite the fabric obstructing his vision, a bright light further hindered his perception. The floor beneath him was concrete, and a medley of odors – exhaust fumes, fish, rusting iron, sewage – enveloped him. The distant cries of seagulls indicated he was near a harbor, likely in a factory or warehouse. Footsteps suggested he wasn't alone. Feigning unconsciousness, Anthony strained to listen to their speech, hoping to discern their identities. They spoke English, New Yorkers, with a Bronx accent. Some traces of Italian accents hinted at a connection to the Campania region, different from his father's Naploli dialect, the closest regional areas he could figure were Amalfi or Sorrento. Near the back, a female voice murmured, though her words were indistinct amidst the surrounding conversations.
"He's comin' to, pals." one of his abductors announced.
"Whaddya want?"Anthony retorted, attempting to mask his uncertainty with defiance.
"Ease up, see?," one thug replied, his tone seemingly friendly but laced with condescension. "We just wanna chat. Ain't lookin' for trouble. And, uh, let's be real, you ain't exactly ready for a scuffle. We're lookin' for some details. You're Henrico Ragno's second kid, ain't ya?"
"Pops ain't got nothin' to do with any business from you Bronx screwballs," Anthony growled.
"Well, well," the mysterious voice chuckled. "Do you kiss your own mother with that mouth, or do you still suck on her tits? "Whispers are floatin' 'round about Don Ragno schemin' some moves. The heat between you Spiders and the Marchetti clan is hitting the boiling point. We're itchin' to find out what your pops has in mind to settle this feud."
"I reckon you're Marchetti," Anthony shot back, keeping up his bravado.
"Oh, nothin' of the sort," the mysterious voice countered. "But we sure got a keen eye on any tussle brewin' between your kin and the Marchetti crew."
"You got the wrong guy," Anthony asserted. "Pops don't spill his plans to me, and I ain't high up enough to know the boss's moves."
"You're a fixer, huh?" the mysterious speaker said, oozing confidence. "Cirillo Ragno is your Caporagime, his crew goes in and sorts out problems. You must've tangled with Marchetti-related troubles, huh?"
"Maybe," Anthony gave a feral smirk. "But today, I was just a regular Joe, considering I was at the wedding of the Don's daughter. If I was making moves for the family, you might've had a reason to tangle with me. But I wasn't on family business, which means you're no better than a common d-list street thug. To think you had the nerve to snatch someone at City Hall."
"Ah, yeah," the unfamiliar voice chuckled. "We had ourselves a little secret entrance, greased a few palms. Cooked up some diversions to clear the path. Too bad you missed out on your sister's shindig; reckon you had your heart set on it. Tough luck, but that's how the dice roll. Spill the beans on what we're after, and maybe you can whip up some alibis for skippin' out on the big day."
"Shut it," Anthony snarled back. "If you know I'm kin to Don Henrico, then you also know about my older brother. He's the one you should be talking to."
"Yeah, 'bout that," the mysterious speaker said. "We're wise to the crowd he's rollin' with, and it ain't the Ragno crew. He's just a hound for the syndicate, one of their attack dogs. No chance your Pops is loopin' him in on anything about the Marchetti vendetta. Unless your old man's lookin' to make a case for some real executions. C'mon, 'Lord High Executioner' Anastasia might be nutty, but even he ain't wild enough to square off with the Marchetti."
"You're the one claimin' Pops has a vendetta against the Marchetti," Anthony responded. "Looks to me like he's already made up his mind; now he's gotta use a mix of ambush and pursuit tactics. He ain't a patient guy, but he'll make sure his prey gets within striking distance, and then chase it down if needed. But, you don't need me to tell you that; it's what Pops is known for."
"Looks like we gotta work on persuadin' you to spill a bit more insight,"the unknown speaker said as he snapped his fingers. Before Anthony could react, he was completely doused with icy cold water. The factory was already chilly in his undressed state; the water only made things monstrously cold. He could feel his skin tighten, and he could hardly speak because his teeth were chattering while he violently shivered. There was a metallic rattle before something sharply cracked against his exposed flesh. Another strike came from another side. Over and over, the strikes rained down. Soon, he wasn't feeling the blows anymore because all he could feel was pain. His unknown captor finally called the assault to cease. Managing to angle one eye so it was able to see what little he could glimpse under the blindfold, he saw a length of metal that looked like it could be a bicycle chain. He could barely register that the metal was splattered with his blood before his mind blacked out.
When he regained consciousness, he was once again pressed for the information his captors sought. Truthfully, Angel had no clear idea of what they wanted from him. He had dealt with the Marchetti family in the past, mainly through negotiations and occasional bribery to settle issues caused by Pops. If there were plans for a conflict, he was not privy to them. Only Luca might have known, but even he would understand the disastrous consequences of starting a war with a family like the Marchetti, unless they had an ally. The captors implied an interest in the conflict, leaving Angel pondering who they were and what they aimed to achieve.
Each session brought escalating pain; his injuries received no chance to heal. He could feel the sticky warmth of blood trickling down his wrists from the metal shackles cutting into his flesh. Likely, he had a few fractured bones, perhaps a broken rib, given the difficulty in breathing. Malnourished and thirsty, his body weakened further. Amidst the sharp tang of urine and other unpleasant odors, it became evident this went beyond torture and humiliation. Where was the honor in this? How long had it been going on? A full day, at least?
As the torture persisted, the agony became increasingly unbearable. His body weakened, and the prospect of survival dimmed. Barely conscious, he overheard his captors conversing with a woman. Though she spoke in Italian with a Sicilian accent, the haze of pain prevented him from understanding their words. Despite the fog in his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity with the woman's voice, unable to place where he had heard it before. Succumbing to the oblivion of unconsciousness, Angel felt his grasp on reality slipping away.
All his mind knew was pain as consciousness returned, but he also registered that something had changed. He was warm, metal cuffs weren't cutting into his wrists anymore, and he smelled clean, as though he had recently bathed. He felt like he was propped in a lounging position against something soft, like pillows or cushions.
"Oh, you're up," a voice said close by. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying in a bedroom. This wasn't his own room or Luca's apartment or the farmhouse, but there was something familiar about it. Seated in a chair beside him was Umberto Andreioli.
"Zio Umberto," Anthony croaked. His voice sounded ragged due to lack of use, but also raw from the screams of pain.
"That's right," Andreioli responded. "Do you know how long you've been gone?"
"I'm not," Anthony started to say.
"You was missin' for six days," Andreioli mumbled. His tone wasn't accusing or givin' a dressing-down; it was more like stating the facts. "One of the family Caporagime heard a body got dumped at the Brooklyn Docks. Figurin' you were missin', he went to scope it out. He did cop to the damage bein' so bad he couldn't be dead sure it was you. Still, there was enough of a look-alike for him to snatch ya in his car and hit up Vincent."
Vincent Taranto was a doctor who had a small clinic in town. While he did have training as a doctor, he had lost his license due to questionable practices. Don Ragno kept him on retainer as a Mob Doctor because he knew the man would keep quiet about any organized crime-related activity. He had a wife and daughter who also helped with the practice, though they had to keep quiet about the fact their father was illegally tending to patients and the nature of the sort of people who sought Vincent's medical services.
"After we stashed ya at Vincent's Clinic," Andreioli kept goin'. "I got the call to make sure it was really you. Vincent checked ya over – said you were freezin' your tail off and took a beatin' with bicycle chains. No broken bones, but you had these tiny cracks in some ribs, left arm, both legs, plus muscle cuts all over."
"Is that the whole story?" Anthony griped, irritated. "I suppose they ain't swingin' hard enough then."
"Oh yeah," Andreioli replied, a hint of disgust in his voice. "Vincent pumped some Cocaine hydrochloride into ya while you were out cold. He figured it'd take the edge off the hurt. Looks like that last hit is wearin' thin now."
"How many hits do I gotta take?" Anthony inquired.
"Vincent was kinda fuzzy on dat," Andreioli muttered. "And dat's what rubs me the wrong way. Cocaine, even for medical reasons, is said to be habit-forming and should be kept an eye on by a licensed pro. Your old man is lettin' it slide 'cause he thinks it'll help ya bounce back pronto, as he put it."
"Figures," Anthony said in irritation.
"I stumbled upon the letter ya left for Molly," Andreioli remarked. "I get it, ya and Luca were tryin' to make a break from the family, huh?"
"I, uh..." Anthony flushed in embarrassment. No one was supposed to see that letter except for Molly, even then she was supposed to be away from the city the moment she read it.
"Molly got all antsy when ya went AWOL," Andreioli replied. "She was ready to scrap the whole wedding thing until ya turned up, even if it meant her and Paulo calling it quits. I knew ya wouldn't have wanted to miss your sister's big day, and nothin', not even your Pops' anger, would've held ya back. That letter ya handed her spelled out ya planned to cut ties with the fam after the wedding, and she was s'posed to ditch it after readin'. I didn't spill the beans to your old man about your escape plan; I was actually gonna give ya credit for takin' a bold move with Luca. You're Aunt Sabina, when she was kickin', couldn't have kids, and it got to her, makin' her feel like a failure as a wife. But she loved you and Molly like her own. She had an eye on your brother, but she saw which way he was leanin'. So, she left the door open for him, but she focused on you and Molly. I can see how the family biz is wearin' on ya, and I ain't blind to the Don's moves. If your ma or Sabina were around, they'd be horrified by how ya get treated. They'd want ya outta there the first chance ya got."
"I never got why Pops never gave a damn about me," Anthony said, his voice still scratchy and raw, but he needed answers. "I can't recall a day when he didn't loathe me or treat me like I caused every damn problem. Is it just 'cause I'm queer, or 'cause I ain't nothin' like Enzo?"
"That's a tough nut to crack, I'm afraid," Andreioli replied. "Your Papa, he's a real puzzle. With your sister, he claimed she had to be shipped off 'cause she'd be turnin' into a woman soon enough. That bit's true; he also thought she was becoming a female presence that messed with your head. But the real deal was, as she grew, he started seein' more of his late wife in her, and it spooked him, made him downright mad. So, for him, the easiest fix was to send her packin'. Even when she tied the knot recently, he wasn't thrilled with her choice of hubby. But he did puff up a bit, proud that she opted to ditch this family, so he wouldn't have to face how much she reminded him of your ma."
"But... Pops was so tough on Mamma," Anthony remarked.
"Yup, he was," Andreioli nodded seriously. "He'd do her wrong when he was tanked, give her a whack when he was all worked up, and fool around with other dames. Despite all the rough stuff, she hung in there for the sake of her little nippers. There were moments when she was worried about your well-being, as well as Enzo and Molly's. There was this one time she wanted to scram, kinda like what you and Luca were cooking up. She packed a grip with some threads for her and youse guys, stashed it in the nursery for a quick getaway. On the night that was set for her to vamoose, she had to make sure Enzo was with Sabina and me, using the excuse that she wanted him to have a night without his younger sibs giving him the business. Once she knew your nonna was tied up with opera tunes on her phonograph, she was gonna slip out and head to one of her brother's joints. His missus would've taken you three in for a few nights, and then oneo her pals would've met her, taking her to some charity joint that led to a religious pad for temporary shelter and help. It was risky stuff, 'cause it'd be tough for her to hold a gig while looking after you two solo. And whatever work she could find would only pay chump change. After mulling it over, she put you and your sibs first. Couldn't ditch one kid to save the others, and the whole thing would've been too much for you two to handle. Stressful to the point neither of youse would've made it. Shipping one or both to an orphanage was outta the question. She couldn't split you two up, and even if she handed you both over to save herself, she couldn't guarantee you wouldn't get separated. So she reluctantly stuck around; when you were a bit older, she'd think about making a break. By then, Enzo could be trusted with the plan."
"Regrettably, she kicked the bucket before that could go down," Anthony sighed.
"Yep," Andreioli sighed. "Regarding your old man not being fond of you, I recall one time overhearing him pulling your older brother aside. What etched in my noggin was Henrico saying that, at that point, Enzo was his top son because he was older. However, he cautioned Enzo that you would grow up and become a contender for your father's favoritism. So, Enzo had to view you as a threat to what he had."
"So..." Anthony mused, sizing up the revelation. "It was all about stirring up a rivalry. Pops didn't want me and Fratello to share any sibling bond because he saw that as a threat."
"Exactly," Andreioli agreed. "It also meant he had one son who followed his ideals and one who was supposed to be a follower. However, you turned out differently than expected. You can be fierce in situations, including battles. Yet, you're also soft-hearted... you avoid conflict when it's unnecessary. The times you resort to violence the most are when you're protecting those who matter to you. Even during those extortion gigs with Enzo, when you could, you'd hand over any saved money to the shop clerk as an apology for your part in the job. Going against the social norm is often frowned upon, and your father uses that as an excuse for his feelings against you. But what really gets under his skin is that you remind him of your Nonni, Antonio Croche."
"Nonni," Anthony asked. He had heard very little about maternal grandfather aside from his father calling the older man a weak-minded fool.
"Ya got a lotta the same vibes as Don Antonio," Andreioli shot back. "Ya grandpop hailed from Calabria, part of an Ndrangheta crew. His mob was gettin' too big, so they picked him to head to the States with his missus, kids, and some chosen kin. My folks and I made the cut. The old man, he was a mob boss with principles. Had this charm that pulled respect and loyal followers. But he also knew when to flex muscle. Yeah, he dipped into some shady moves now and then, but it was for the family rep in this town. Mostly, he cared 'bout the community. Didn't rule by fear, but he'd use it when necessary. Passed those values down, including to yer old man. But yer pops, not blood, so he became one of our muscle. Don Henrico, though, he's all about power and wealth—no honor, goodwill, or talkin' it out. In his book, that's weakness, and that's what irks him most 'bout ya."