Mobster's Girl

Chapter 1

Medigan (meh-di-ghan): a seriously non-Italian person.

Megan

Megan! I hear my mother call with her slight Irish lilt. My mother and father wanted to fit in when we came to New Jersey after Gram died, so they tried their hardest to lose their accents. Clearly, they didn’t try hard enough.

I’m not really sure why we had to move to America, but leaving my beautiful Irish cottage behind was hard. Erin was two and I was five when we moved here. Unlike our parents, Erin and I have authentic semi-Jersey accents. That would have helped us fit in to this all Italian neighborhood except for our flaming red hair and milk pale skin. We stick out like firecrackers exploding on a hot July night.

Megan! I’m not calling you again! my mother yells.

Coming!

I jump down the stairs two at a time and scamper past my sister, who sits on the couch watching TV in the living room.

Mom wants you, Erin tells me, never taking her eyes off the screen.

Yeah, thanks, I heard, I quip sarcastically. As I cross the room, I brush my hand across the strings of my harp that sits patiently waiting for me day after day. The only time I feel complete and content is when I’m seated securely behind it.

In the kitchen, my mother is standing by the sink peeling potatoes. It’s almost too cliché. I catch myself before I can let out a giggle.

I need you to go to the store for more potatoes and eggs. The O’Connells are coming for dinner tonight, and I don’t have enough for all of us.

Okay.

The O’Connells are another Irish family that we spend time with. My mother met Mrs. O’Connell at a church meeting. They don’t live in our neighborhood. They live a town over. They have two sons: Connor is Erin’s age, fourteen, and Troy is a year older than me, eighteen. He graduated last year. Me? One more year, thank God. Knowing school is almost over is enough to keep me going. Notre Dame, here I come. I received an early acceptance.

I grab Erin’s old red wagon that she used to cart dolls around in when she was younger. I always take it to the store when I go for my mom. I know it’s stupid to drag around a kid’s play cart, but I really don’t want to carry the groceries four blocks.

We only have one car—an ancient minivan—and it’s my dad’s. I’ve been trying to convince him to get a second car, but he keeps saying no. My mother doesn’t drive, and I’ll be headed to college soon. He says it’s not necessary.

I pull the old wagon out of the tiny garage and onto the city sidewalk. There’s no grassy buffer between our house and the cement walkway. It’s just our house, sidewalk, busy street. There’s no breathing room. Not like Ireland. When I was young, my mother and I used to walk half a mile just to reach a road. I remember being small and holding her hand as we strolled through lush green groves. Then we came here to cement, exhaust fumes, and a culture we’ll never fit into.

Block one down. I pass the pastry shops making tiramisu and cannolis. Then the bakeries making breads, pizza, and rolls. It’s a hot August day. All this stuff would smell great if it wasn’t for the smog and bus exhaust. The wheels of the wagon rumble along the lines of cracked cement.

The thumping of a heavy base line echoes thickly through the air as a shiny black Cadillac with darkly tinted windows bowls up the street. The car slows down and crawls along next to me. My heart races nervously, and I start walking faster.

A tinted window slides down to reveal a guy I recognize from school. He has a dark complexion like most people around here. He’s handsome, in a mischievous way. I can’t remember his name, though. Quedo, Zito, Lito….

Hey, Red… He grins, looking me up and down. I cringe inwardly. "Looking mighty fine pulling your little red wagon. How about I let you pull on something else? I got what you need right in this car."

There must be more people in the car because I can hear them snickering. I ignore him and keep walking.

What’s the matter, baby? he croons, his voice suggestive. "Come on, I’ll give you a ride." His words are laced with double meanings.

Leave her alone, Vito! a female voice calls from the backseat. "Andiamo!"

Vito laughs wickedly and hits the gas. They spin away, and I make it to block three. Sweat is gathering on my forehead from the August heat and the run-in with the senior hoodlums.

The grocery store is packed as usual. A lot of Italians in the neighborhood like to get their groceries fresh almost every day.

Concetta, the cashier, totals my food. That’ll be nine fifty, Megan. I hand her ten dollars. You getting ready for school to start? she asks, bagging my food. She always has a pleasant smile.

Yes, thanks. I hook my hands through the handles of the bags and head outside. Waiting patiently is the little red wagon. I’m always surprised that it’s still there when I come out of the store. I’m sure one of these days someone is going to pilfer the rusty thing or throw it in the Dumpster because they think it’s trash.

I sip on the ice cold cola I bought at the register. It feels good on my dry throat. I flip the handle of the wagon into my hand and start back up the street. Block four down.

Block three coming up. I always count down the blocks like this. It makes the uncomfortable, lonely walk tolerable. Bakeries at block two. They’re in my sight—just a few more buildings to go. Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice until I am steps from him. Oh no! I feel my chest tighten as I raise my head. No, no, no…shit, shit, shit. Antonio Delisi, Jr.

Shit!

If you are going to avoid anyone in this town, avoid Antonio Delisi, Jr., the mob boss’s son. I’ve managed to basically stay clear of him and his friends over the many years we’ve lived here. These moments don’t happen often, but when they do, they’re frightening. My mom says he’s got the devil living in him. She may be right—seeing him right now, he looks nothing like an angel.

I’m just going to keep walking. Maybe he’ll ignore me. My hand tightens on the wagon handle, slipping with sweat. I drop my soda bottle to my side, my steps planted with determination.

Antonio confidently pushes off from the cherry red Camaro he’s leaning against and flicks the butt of the cigarette he was smoking into the street. He steps right in front of me, glaring down at me, blocking my path. Shit!

I look down to the ground, face heating. He makes my heart race. Despite his devilish nature, he’s the most beautiful devil I’ve ever seen. I try to step around him. He blocks me. I timidly glance up into his face. He stands a foot taller than me. Our eyes lock, and an unidentifiable emotion passes quickly across his face. His dark brown hair hangs slightly into his dark brown eyes. His mouth is sharply pulled into a half grin that reads either Don’t fuck with me or I’m hot and I know it. Goose bumps surface on my skin despite the scorching heat. His low-riding jeans and white sleeveless T-shirt hug his swarthy, muscled body.

He probably learned at the age of three how to kill someone with his pinky finger.

A couple weeks after we came to Jersey, my mom took me to the playground near the elementary school. She wanted me to play with the kids in the neighborhood. You know, get to know them.

I was in the sandbox letting the rough sand filter through my fingers. A little boy came over and sat next to me. It was Antonio. His skin was darkly tanned and smooth. Antonio made up a game in the sand called bakery. We made sand pies with buckets and pretended to make different kinds. Antonio was a cute kid. He even pretended like he was eating some of them. He kept saying, "Mangia, mangia." I remember laughing at the funny word.

My mom had Erin on her lap and was sitting on a bench talking to a pretty lady who had on lots of makeup. It was weird…one minute my mom was talking, the next she was at the sandbox grabbing my arm, trying to lift me out. I started crying that I didn’t want to leave. She dragged me down the street with Erin on her hip toward the house. I never even said good-bye to Antonio.

Five-year-old Antonio was cute; eighteen-year-old Antonio is chilling—beautifully scary, dazzlingly intimidating, heart-throbbingly gorgeous, and standing in my way.

A sharp voice pulls me from my trance and the vortex of Antonio’s striking eyes. Tonio! An old grandmotherly woman leans out the window of the house next to us. I’ve seen this woman before. We talk sometimes when she’s sitting alone on her steps. Now, she starts gesturing with her arms and yelling in a Sicilian accent. "Tonio! Leave ta medigan alone! Come, mangia!"

A wolfish grin crosses his face, and he turns and climbs the steps two at a time. He looks back at me before heading into the house. I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and quickly pull the red wagon home.

Chapter 2

Mangia (mahn-ja): to eat, and eat, and eat more (even if you’re not hungry)

Antonio

I walk into Nonna’s apartment still thinking about her—Megan. I’ll admit I saw her coming and dragged out my cigarette a little longer than necessary. How could I not see her coming with that head of shocking, beautiful red hair? Ever since her family moved in, I’ve been fascinated with her, always silently checking my surroundings for her at school, at the movies, even in the streets.

Meatballs, tomatoes, and basil mix into an aroma that wafts through from the kitchen. Even when Nonna isn’t cooking, you can still smell the ghost of Italian food in the air and on the plastic-covered furniture.

Tonio! she yells again. "You leave ta girl alone, capisce!" Nonna scolds with a ladle, waving it at my face.

What, Nonna? I wasn’t doing anything. Nonna’s orthopedic shoes shift on the linoleum floor.

She harrumphs. I knew boys like you. I was young too, ya know! I saw yous lookin’ at her like she was strawberry gelato! You’re your father’s son!

Nonna, please. I shake my head.

You gotta prove your worth! You could always count on one thing with Nonna—yelling. It’s how she talks. When she’s quiet, you’re in trouble. Now set the table!

Nonna loads me up with dishes of food to take home to my ma. I place them all on the floor of the backseat of my car for the two-mile drive home. I kiss her good-bye like the good grandson.

My phone beeps with a text message from Vito:

Vito : Where r u?

Tonio: Jus leavin’ Nonna’s

Vito: Meet me @ the dock

Tonio: Can’t. Gotta meet Pop

Vito: K

Mom’s Beemer is there when I get home. I carry the food into the house.

Ma! Nonna’s got food for you, I call out, heading over to the fridge to put the dishes in. While my head is still in the fridge, Mom comes around the corner.

Hey, sweetie. She leans in to kiss me.

Hi, Ma. I flip the door closed and pop a can of soda. Caramel-colored liquid sprays all over the front of my white shirt. "Ugh, fanabola!"

Hey! Don’t swear, my mom yells and clips me with her hand on the back of my head. Her slap echoes in my skull.

Sorry, I mumble as I strip my shirt off. I gotta change before I go see Dad.

I climb the stairs to my room. My room hasn’t changed much over the years. I’ve added some