Principessa of Chicago, page 7
And then I would make sure none of them touched my baby.
Chapter Seven
Dita opened the door before I knocked, her plump face flushed. “Miss Sophia!”
“Dita, how are you?”
“Good, good. It’s been so long since you’ve visited.” She opened the door wider, letting the cool air hit my face. The AC was always on blast as soon as it hit May.
I turned and waved at Elena and her aunt. We had taken Elena cake-tasting for her wedding, which had been a stressful event. Elena had made it her mission to be as sarcastic and rude as she possibly could, even if her aunt made it very clear that nothing Elena said or did would stop her from marrying the Falcone boss in November.
I had made them drop me off at my father’s place for the sole reason of getting the ladies off my back about not visiting. Hopefully they would then spread this gossip to their husbands and then to Don Piero. It would save me some jabs from the old man.
Papa wasn’t here at the moment. He was at his weekly luncheon with my uncle. I knew that–that’s why I had come at this time.
But it would be good to spend some time with Dita, I thought as I stepped into the cool foyer, and be fussed over a bit.
Dita didn’t wait a second. “Come and sit down, Miss Sophia. You are too pregnant to be standing–and in those heels! You were always so crazy about those nose-bleed heels! So dangerous.”
I did as I was told, following her into the kitchen and making myself at home at the bench. I had spent hours sitting here with Dita, watching her cook and absorbing all her funny stories and strange lessons. If I had to name one maternal presence in my life, Dita would fit the bill–even if she was being paid to be nice to me.
It was a little surreal being back in my childhood home after all this time. I kept glancing at the dining room and front garden, like I could see a younger Cat spying on the men in the family. In my imagination, she always looked a little like Nancy Drew.
“Something smells good,” I said.
Dita opened the lid of a pot, revealing boiling tomato sauce. “I am making some bolognese sauce. If you stay for dinner, you can have some, yes? You always loved your spaghetti. Or was it Cat who loved it? I forget now.”
I smiled. “Unfortunately, I have things to do. But I’ll take some in a doggy-bag?”
“Mm,” she hummed.
Dita served me a big glass of orange juice and a large slice of cake. “You are eating for two, now, Sophia. You have to eat more.”
“Happily.” As usual, Dita’s cake was disgusting but I smiled my way through it. She was an exceptional cook but could never wrap her head around baking. Cat and I spent years learning how to swallow dry cakes so as not to upset her.
Dita cooked in silence, waiting for me to talk. We could spend hours talking if no one stopped us but sometimes Dita waited until I started the conversation. I had no idea why. Cat used to say it’s because I was the lady of the house–but Cat always said stuff like that, her tone always mocking.
“How’s Papa?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I cared about the answer but…at the end of the day, he was my father. He had broken my heart and lied to me, but he was the only parent I had. Even if he had done a shocking job at raising Cat and me. “Is he doing well?”
“Your father is your father,” Dita said. She pulled out a cutting board and got to work on some celery sticks. I realized, with slight horror, that she meant to feed them to me. “He has a new woman. I forget her name, but something Italian.”
I didn’t say anything as she put the celery sticks on my plate, beside my dry cake. “Thank you,” I said. Then, “Papa is always dating someone new. It’s good for him to go out and socialize. Instead of being inside all the time.”
“I could say the same for you.”
“I socialize. All the time.” I felt slightly defensive. “You know I can never shut up.”
Dita clicked her tongue. “But you are all alone in that big house. I don’t like that–neither does your Papa. Who is there to protect you and keep you safe? It is not natural for a woman to be by herself.”
“I’m fine, Dita. More than fine. I have many great bodyguards and Polpetto–who is vicious.”
“Vicious dog,” Dita agreed. “But what about when the baby comes? You will be all alone.”
“You can come and visit whenever you like.”
She made a gruff noise. “You will not want me around when you have a newborn. You won’t want anybody around.”
“Nonsense. I’ll always want you around. Who will cut up my celery otherwise?”
That made her crack a thin smile. Getting Dita to smile had been a childhood challenge in the Padovino house. Even Papa and my stepmothers had joined in a few times, but none had succeeded. Until I had managed to make her smile and then the game had been mine. Cat hadn’t stopped bitching about it for years afterwards.
“You have your own housekeeper,” she muttered. “Lovely Teresa. Nice young girl. Not old, no.”
My first contact with manipulation had probably been with Dita. Knowingly or not, Dita had been instrumental in teaching me how to exploit those around me.
“Why are you in such a sad mood?” I asked. “I hate seeing you like this. Has somebody upset you? Shall I take care of them?”
Her eyes gleamed. “You have the soul of a Made Man.”
I paused. “I don’t think we should say stuff like that. We may get into trouble.”
Dita waved her hand. “Trouble? The only person who can punish you now is The Godless and I do not see him here. Do you?”
I shook my head, hiding my smile. My humour would only encourage her. “No, I do not. Does that mean we both can commit blasphemy without repercussions?” I couldn’t help the teasing edge to my tone.
“Of course. If someone tells me off, I will say the Donna let me say such things. Then they’ll back off.”
My spine straightened. Donna? “Dita, Don Piero is the Boss of the family and I am not his wife. I am no Donna.”
“Not yet,” she said matter-of-factly. “Oh, do you remember when you were young? You would prance around in a crown and call yourself queen of the castle?”
“All children play make-believe.”
“You have always been especially good at it.”
I paused biting down on a celery stick. “What do you mean by that?”
Dita turned off the stove and turned to me. She put a hand on her hip, like she was disappointed with me and about to give me a lecture. “What do I mean by that she asks? Bah! Ever since you were a baby, you’ve been good at pretending to be something else. I remember how much Master Cesare hated Mistress Antonia. I used to think you looking so much like your father was your way of surviving. Because if you had looked like Antonia…” She shuddered. “I cannot bare to think what he would’ve done to you.”
There was so much to absorb at once–including Dita’s lack of understanding regarding genetics. But the mention of my mother caught my attention. Antonia had never been someone I had really ever thought about. She had died when I was very young. I had a single picture of her, the mystery woman who gave me life.
It hit me that perhaps my child may regard me the same way. The stranger who birthed them but whom I didn’t know.
I swallowed. I didn’t want my child to think about me the same way I thought about Antonia. I loved them already so much, talked to them for hours. They wouldn’t remember that and there would be no way for them to ever know such a thing. Had my mother felt the same while she was pregnant?
Your child will know you, I told myself sternly. You’re not going to die, not like your mother. Not like the other Rocchetti women, either.
Dita wasn’t done yet. She looked a little lost in the past, eyes turned up to the ceiling and a nostalgic look on her face. “You were such a happy baby,” she went on. “Never cried or whined. I used to enjoy sitting with you at night, watching you sleep. Like a little angel. Catherine was always so loud, so wild…but you were always a bit smarter. More patient.”
“I was just a baby,” I said. “I didn’t have such cunning thoughts.”
“Oh, you did. It was a survival technique. Cesare loved Catherine’s mother–Mistress Rosa. And when she died, and he had to marry your mundane mother. I felt a little bit sorry for him. She wasn’t a very interesting woman, Antonia. At least, Rosa was interesting.”
“Dita, that’s a horrible thing to say about a dead woman.”
Again, the old housekeeper waved a dismissive hand, seeming to come out of her daze. “Bah! I am feeding the Donna of the Outfit. I say as I please, dead be damned.”
I bit down on some celery, the crunch echoing throughout the kitchen.
Dita waved a finger at me. “Don’t you lose that skill of yours. The one your Papa forced you to learn. It will treat you well with those Rocchettis and that bloody FBI.”
Neither of us bothered to identify the skill that Dita was referring too. We both knew what it was.
“Are you sad about Catherine?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Sometimes I think I’m the only person in the world that is.”
“Your Papa is sad. He does not show it. Too stubborn. But he misses her. The same way he misses his Rosa, no?”
I took a sip of my orange juice. It washed away the gross taste of the cake and vegetables. I wanted to argue that Papa didn’t care, if he had then why had he kept her death a secret, but the words failed me. So, I asked, “But what about you?”
Dita looked like she was considering her answer. “I miss having you girls around. Hearing you around the house. It’s quiet now. So very quiet.” She looked out the kitchen doorway, like she could see us returning from school and demanding food. “But am I sad about Catherine? I think…Catherine was sad here. Very sad angry girl. This life was not for her, not like it is for you.”
I nodded. Dita hadn’t really given me a solid answer. “You’re not angry then? That she left?”
“Angry? No. I am sad for you, for your Papa. I am angry about the lie. It would’ve been easier just to say she left, no? Instead of this car crash.” Dita shrugged. “But what do I know. There is more going on than we see, isn’t there? This is the Outfit, is it not?”
“So many questions and so little answers,” I told her. “They lied about her death to lure the FBI in. They thought she would come back for me.”
“She would’ve.” She said. “You two were always so close. It is very sad for me not to see my two golden girls anymore. I miss your little whisperings, like you two knew all the secrets to the universe and weren’t willing to share.”
“Don’t feel left out.” I said. “Catherine didn’t share a lot with me, either, it turns out. College, FBI…”
“Too late now to worry about.” Dita dumped a plate of spaghetti in front of me, dripping with tomato sauce and with a pretty dump of basil on the top. “Eat up, Miss Sophia.”
I did as I was told, listening to Dita talk about her family and their issues. Her brother had recently taken a mistress but apparently didn’t bother to hide it from his wife, so there had been a huge scene at Dita’s father’s birthday lunch. Very funny, she assured me, but too rude for you.
After a while, I asked, “Do you remember Danta?”
Dita looked up at me in surprise from the sink. I had offered to help her clean the dishes, but she had been personally offended. Pregnant woman should do nothing! She had told me and shoved me back into my seat.
“Danta?” She repeated. “Danta Rocchetti? Toto’s wife?”
“Yeah…My mother-in-law.”
Dita shrugged, frowning slightly. “Danta…Danta. She was here a few times, with the other ladies. Not a very memorable woman–but she was a good friend of Mistress Nina’s. Not Mistress Antonia’s. No one wanted to hang out with Antonia–she was so boring.”
“Dita,” I said, trying to keep her on track.
“Yes, yes, Danta Rocchetti.” She shrugged. “She was nothing to gush over, not much of a beauty. Not like you, Miss Sophia.” I feigned a blush. “I just remember how angry her brother was when she was married to Toto the Terrible. Not that I can blame him. Must’ve been terrible to lose your sister to such a man.”
“Her brother?” I ran my mind over my many uncles and cousins but couldn’t manage to summon up the image of Danta Rocchetti’s brother.
“Gabriel D’Angelo’s father. Something D’Angelo. He’s dead now so it doesn’t matter what his name is.” Dita drained the sink and slipped off her gloves, wiping the bubbles off them. Her washed-out blue eyes roamed over me, assessing. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I’m the only woman in the Rocchetti family. I wanted to know what happened to the others.”
Dita set her jaw, not looking pleased. “You’d be smart to keep to yourself, Sophia. There is no need for you to die over Danta Rocchetti. She wouldn’t have cared. Nasty selfish woman. Mistress Rosa use to say the same.”
“How was she a nasty selfish woman?”
“Well,” Dita looked cheeky, “I heard from the maid in Toto the Terrible’s house that she was involved with a French man! When the Outfit was at war with the Corsican Union.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval, though I could tell the piece of gossip delighted her.
I thought about Alessandro and Salvatore Junior, the children this nasty selfish woman and bloody whore had left behind. Alessandro had never once mentioned his mother, the only proof she had ever existed was that photo of her in his study. No one else dared mention her.
Hell, even Nicoletta was more likely to be spoken about–and Nicoletta was never spoken about.
I traced the marble countertop, following the grey veins of the stone with my nail. “What about Nicoletta? What was she like?”
“She died before I was hired.” Dita said. “How old do you think I am?”
I hid my smile. “Apologies, I was just curious.”
“Yes, well, curiosity gets women into trouble. Especially when those women are poking their fingers into Outfit business.”
“You said I am the Donna. It’s my business, too.”
Dita huffed. She packed up some leftover spaghetti in a container and scrawled my name on the lid. Like she was worried someone else might try and eat it. “Worry about your baby, Sophia. Do not give these men another thought. Just behave, like you have always done so.”
“You sound like Papa.”
That made her harrumph. “Out of my kitchen! Speaking like that!”
I laughed and jumped off the stool, taking my leftovers with me. “Thank you for keeping me company. I’ll visit more often. I promise.”
Dita pretended not to look pleased. “I will bring over some food for you. You don’t look fat enough to have a baby.”
“I’m only twenty-one weeks.”
“When I was twenty-one weeks pregnant with my son, I could stop a bus I was so big.”
I laughed once more, unable to help the lightness I felt around Dita. She had always been so good at comforting me, making me happy. Even if our relationship was centred around her being paid by my father. But Dita was probably the one person who didn’t have an agenda when she spoke to me, wasn’t trying to use me.
“Before you go, Miss Sophia, I have to ask you something.” Dita said as I made my way to the front door. “I cannot find the blue dish–the good dish. The one your Nonna gave one of your stepmothers.”
“You’ve gone all this time without knowing where the blue dish is?” I located it immediately in the kitchen. It was in the pantry, on the fifth level, beneath other dishes and pans. “It’s right here. I didn’t tell you?”
Dita kissed and hugged me in thanks. “I miss having you around, running this house. Your father and I can never find anything. Poor man lost his keys yesterday and we had to look for five hours!”
I only smiled in response.
The phone began ringing, cutting through the silence, and I answered it before Dita could. She huffed, hovering beside me.
“Padovino residence. Sophia speaking.”
“Sophia? Ah, I’m glad I caught.” Came the old voice of Don Piero.
I had a sudden flash of déjà vu. The first time Don Piero had invited me to his house had been when I was visiting my father. It felt like a lifetime ago, not just a few months.
“Sir,” I breathed. “What can I do for you?”
“I rang your house, but you weren’t there.” He said instead. “I am surprised you are at your father’s.”
“I just popped over for a visit.”
Don Piero made a humming noise on the other side of the line. “Yes, well, I need you to plan a dinner.”
“Plan a dinner, sir?”
“Yes, yes. The Outfit have been invited to join in peace talks with the McDermott mob. They want to apologise for all the troubles the Gallagher’s caused us and discuss the future.” Don Piero gave a hearty laugh. “Be smart about the planning, my dear. We wouldn’t want another massacre.”
I swallowed audibly. “Of course, sir. Consider it done.”
Chapter Eight
I really needed a drink.
I considered having a glass of wine but then decided against it. It would help my nerves, but I was pregnant, and it wasn’t recommended by your doctor. So, I ran myself a warm bath and dozed amongst the bubbles, yet still my adrenaline was high.
I ended up putting Polpetto on the lead and going for a walk around the neighbourhood.
Perhaps walks used to be a source of comfort, but now as I walked the footpaths, I could see bodyguards and soldati and family members peeking through their windows. I felt constantly watched, which did nothing to set my anxieties at ease. In the city, there had been a sense of privacy, even if I had been surrounded by people.
Polpetto pranced ahead of me, his little tail wagging. He smelt every pole and attempted to piss on every piece of lawn he saw.
My thoughts kept narrowing down on the order from Don Piero. I had to plan a dinner, an event, in which both the Outfit and Irish Mob would discuss peace and the Gallagher’s. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
