De Lucci’s Obsession

The first time I’d been at the mansion on Staten Island was when I was twelve. I was fourteen when Mom discovered Dad’s subterfuge. By then I’d become close with Paulie and continued to be a guest at their gatherings. The last time I entered the mansion through its grand entrance was the year I turned seventeen, the year Dad and Charles went to prison. Staying away from the De Luccis became a form of self-preservation, of coping with the heartbreak of losing two important men in my life, of lessening my guilt, and repairing my relationship with my mother who was convinced I would end up a gangster.

Over the years Paulie and I stayed in touch, met up for lunch or met up in a club. I attended his engagement party at his uncle’s house. But I was never a guest at the mansion again. It was by choice. Paulie invited me plenty of times. I refused. Deep down I felt it represented everything that tore my family apart. Interestingly enough, I’d changed my tune.

Maybe Mom was right. I couldn’t separate myself from the lure of dark and dangerous.

Every time I thought Cesar was a typical well-mannered rich dude, Silvio was a reminder of my man’s savagery underneath his civilized skin.

As the Maserati roared up the driveway, the garden lights of the estate’s manicured lawn illuminated the grandeur of the De Lucci residence. Once again, I was a guest.

Cesar skillfully maneuvered the powerful vehicle with one hand while his other one held mine, our entwined fingers resting on his lap. Meanwhile I was still getting used to dating a billionaire.

Buying a car seemed to be a spur of the moment thing like making a choice from a dinner menu. That morning, Eric dropped us off at a European car dealership in New Jersey. Cesar was known to the owner who personally attended to us. We test-drove a couple of cars including a Ferrari, but the Maserati was all Cesar. Classic. Rich. Understated power. The kind that wasn’t bragged about or loud but would strangle you in its grip when you least expected it.

We spent the remainder of the day in Manhattan. I was hyperventilating when Cesar dragged me into Tiffany. I only calmed down when it was evident we weren’t heading to the ring section. My calm didn’t last because Cesar wanted to buy me a complete set of jewelry and it took me almost thirty minutes to convince him not to drop two hundred grand on a ring, bracelet, and necklace.

Still, sixteen inches of blazing diamonds adorned my neck.

It was a compromise.

My head was still spinning from the extravagant purchase.

Cesar parked the Maserati beside a Porsche I recognized as Paulie’s.

“Who else is here?” I asked.

“A few relatives,” he responded.

Dubious of his statement, I jerked my head to the row of expensive sports cars lining the driveway.

He laughed, getting out of the car. “Some of those are Paulie’s. He didn’t want Carlotta to see. Coming around to get you.”

When he helped me out of the Maserati, I said, “Really? I can see that Porsche as his style, but not the others.”

“Okay, maybe we have a few more couples in the mix.”

It turned out to be three more couples, so he wasn’t exactly lying. They were cousins and their spouses—his Uncle Jackie’s children.

“Jackie’s running late,” Paulie told his brother. “He said we should start without him.”

“Trouble?”

“He didn’t say.” My friend’s eyes landed on me. “My brother treating you well?”

Cesar stiffened beside me.

I leaned against Cesar to give him reassurance. “Of course.”

Paulie grinned mischievously. “Because if he isn’t, you can be my goomar.”

“Fuck off,” Cesar muttered.

His brother burst out laughing. “You’re gone for her, aren’t you?” His face turned serious. “Pop wants a word in his office.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I reminded him that dinner is in fifteen minutes, but in case he forgets …” Paulie looked at me again. “Kindly remind him. Cook is a bit miffed because we’ve been ordering catered dinners, and he’s felt useless.”

“Cook is still here?” I asked. Giuseppe “Cook” Franchi had been their chef since I could remember. “I didn’t see him last Sunday.”

“He went on strike, but Pop had a chat with him the other day.” Paulie started walking away. “So, chop, chop. Let me check on Carlotta before she pisses him off.”

Cesar gripped my elbow and led me to the other side of the mansion. As many times as I’d visited this place, that part of the house had been off limits. I guessed that was where most of the family businesses were conducted until the mafiosi became wary of the wire taps. I wondered if they did regular sweeps.

He rapped on the door before opening it without waiting for an answer. A lean man stood by the window looking outside. He turned to us.

I didn’t get to see Riccardo De Lucci up close that Sunday, but as Cesar and I walked further into the room, he met us halfway. I was struck by how the passage of time had aged him. He was a far cry from the formidable and robust man I remembered from my teens.

My surprise must have shown on my face.

The older De Lucci came forward, reached out and encompassed both my hands in his. “Look at you. Cillian’s daughter. All grown up and so beautiful. I understand why my son is so bewitched.” His mouth quirked up in humor. “I, on the other hand, have grown older and frail.”

The past eight years had put deep grooves around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His hair, still thick, had more shocks of gray than black. His face was narrower, more gaunt, and the smile he greeted us with didn’t reach his eyes and seemed permanently etched with sadness.

“I hope you’ll feel better now that Cesar is home,” I blurted.

His hands tightened on mine before dropping away. “Make him stay.”

“Paulie’s kids keep him busy,” Cesar said. “Right, Pop?”

“Ah, yes.” He backed up and perched on his desk. “They are what you call lifelines.” He sighed. “But my heart is still broken.” His gaze went to me. “The De Lucci curse of loving only once skips some of us. It’s a curse because we obsess. I have it. Paulie and Lorenzo, bless his soul, seemed to have been spared because they routinely fall in and out of love. But Cesar here …”

“Pop,” the man beside me warned.

His dad chuckled. “Anyway, how is Cillian? I didn’t want to put you on the spot at dinner.”

“You don’t know?” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

He gave a long sigh. “You have the right to be mad at me.”

“Initially. Maybe,” I replied. “But my father and brother made their choices. Now, unless you held a gun to their heads and forced them to be your associates, this mess is on them too,” I huffed. “But in response to your question, I haven’t seen Dad in over a year. He’s in the Illinois penitentiary. I do talk to him sometimes on the phone, but it’s been months. If you’re worried he’s going to talk—”

“Cillian and Charles are loyal,” Riccardo cut in. “I’m not worried about them. I know you absolve me—”

“It’s not a matter of absolving.” My conversation with Cesar this morning came back to me. “It’s a matter of what I am willing to accept. Cesar and I laid our cards on the table. He said there was more he had to tell me, but he wasn’t ready.”

“Don’t fuck this up like I did, son,” Riccardo told Cesar.

“Not a fucking chance,” he replied fiercely.

His father regarded me carefully. “De Lucci and McGrath—we have a lawlessness in us that needs to be fed, but the people in our life tempers us. That’s what Teresa did for me. I failed with Lorenzo. Cesar, thank God, is stronger than any of us and is willing to do whatever is right to protect the family.”

Cesar took a step toward his father and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, no more self-recriminations, remember? It’s bad for your heart.”

His dad muttered, “My heart is permanently broken. It’s hopeless.”

“How about this?” I said. “How about we join the others for dinner before we break Cook’s heart?”

Panic stole the melancholy expression from Riccardo’s face so fast, I almost burst out laughing.

“Merda,” Riccardo exclaimed. “You’re right. I can’t afford to piss him off.”

A few minutes later, the three of us entered the grand dining room. The table could seat a dozen couples. Housekeeping staff in uniforms buzzed around the seated guests and refilled their water glasses or brought them their drinks.

One of the couples stood, their faces brightening when they saw Cesar and me.

“Cuz,” one of them exclaimed. “I’m Michael,” he told me. “Jackie’s son. This is Rowena, my wife.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I heard you caused trouble for the Rossis.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cesar growled.

Michael put up his hands. “Nothing. Just something my dad was grumbling about, but he was amused.”

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” Rowena exclaimed. “Tiffany?”

I almost forgot about the pavé diamonds on my neck. I was staring at Rowena’s complete set of earrings, necklace, bangles, and rings. “Yes.” I smiled demurely. Demure wasn’t really a good look on me, but I promised myself I would be on my best behavior.

“Take your seats,” Cook ordered, brusquely cutting by us, followed by a server carrying a silver platter of cold cuts, cheese, and olives. “The soup will be served shortly.”

Riccardo took his place at the head of the table, while Cesar and Paulie were seated facing each other. I was facing Carlotta.

She nodded to me coolly. At least she didn’t ignore me.

Her face lit up when she turned her attention to the appetizer. “I love Cook’s antipasti platter.”

“Oh boy,” Rowena was sitting next to me and mumbled, “The food at the Irish dinner was spectacular.”

“Don’t tell Cook,” I laughed.

As Cook lowered platter after platter of his creations, I had to agree with Carlotta that it was really good.

After finishing the escarole and meatball soup, I told Paulie, “I can’t believe you had to cater out the Italian dinner. No wonder Cook is pissed.”

“What I told him.” His wife rolled her eyes. “You should wait until you taste the Lobster Fra Diavolo.”

One thing I knew about the mafiosi, this pricey crustacean always featured on the menu. It might be a status symbol, but I was sure either they got them for free or at a good price because they controlled the Fulton Fish Market.

“It was for fifty people,” Paulie defended. “I didn’t want him overwhelmed.”

“He can handle it,” Carlotta said. “He handled our engagement party all right.”

Was that why Paulie’s wife was mad at me? Because of Cook? Maybe she wasn’t the Wicked Witch of the West after all.

One dish followed the other.

Arugula Parmesan Salad.

Veal Piccata.

Lobster Fra Diavolo.

I was so engrossed in sampling the food, I didn’t mind that Paulie, Cesar, and his dad were discussing business. “Maybe Tommy and Cook could collaborate on a dinner?” I suggested.

“Maybe your engagement party?” Riccardo said.

A piece of lobster lodged in my throat. I started coughing, wracked with panic that I was about to die by lobster in the middle of dinner with Cesar’s family.

Cesar pounded my back. “I should’ve gotten you a ring from Tiffany instead.”

Swiping the glass of wine in front of me, I downed its contents before casting him a glare. “Not helping.”

“You okay?” he asked, using his finger to catch the wayward tear rolling down my cheek.

“Fine.”

He sighed. “We need to give you that lesson on how not to gulp wine.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

“Mea Culpa, dear.” Riccardo grinned.

Cook stepped into the dining room. “The filet mignon—”

A disheveled Jackie barreled into the room. “Evening,” he muttered and then whispered in Riccardo’s ear whose eyes slowly widened and then narrowed.

“Just now?” Cesar’s father looked at his brother.

“Yes.”

“Sunroom,” Riccardo ordered, looking at Cesar. “You too.”

“Pop,” Paulie said. “Everything all right?”

Jackie looked at Michael. “You too, son.”

“Cook,” Riccardo said. “Serve them the steak. Don’t wait for us for dessert either.”

“Yes, boss.”