Son of the Mob Read Free Page A

college.
    My mother can serve a sit-down dinner for fifteen guys at four in the morning with ten minutes advance notice. Our basement is full of freezers packed with food just in case the Mormon Tabernacle Choir drops by in the state she prefers all her guests to be in—ravenous. And her cooking is great, if a little heavy. Not just in your stomach. Try carrying it. A Tupperware container of Mom’s lasagna weighs twice as much as anybody else’s.
    That’s not to say that Mom and her meatballs are all meat and no balls. I remember once there was this guy, Angelo, a real young Turk in Uncle Shank’s crew, who had some kind of beef with Tommy. This is right after Tommy quit school to join the business, so he was about my age now, and nowhere near as tough as his current, put-Jimmy-Rat-in-the-trunk self.
    Dad absolutely refuses to intervene on his son’s behalf. “If I mix in, you’ll never command any respect on your own,” he says. But Tommy keeps getting pushed around. A few weeks later, Uncle Shank and his guys are over at the house, and Mom asks Angelo to “help her” in the kitchen. They’re alone in there together, and suddenly there’s the most God-awful scream coming from Angelo. He leaves in a hurry, and we order Chinese food that night—an event so rare that it should come with skywriting and fireworks.
    â€œI thought we were having chicken potpie,” I say.
    â€œThe potpie,” she tells me, “is totally out of commission.”
    I don’t push it. Totally out of commission is a phrase Mom uses to describe things that are gone, finished, and never to be seen again on this earth. Although, in this case, I do see the potpie again. There it is, in the garbage, dish and all. The crust is broken in a perfect handprint. Coincidentally, Angelo walks around with a bandaged hand for six weeks. First-degree burns.
    The incident is never mentioned at our house, but from that day on I realize that Mom has a titanium backbone to go with her heart of gold. And if food is her medium, it can also be her message. Where family is concerned, nobody messes with Mom, not even her powerful husband.
    Angelo never bugged Tommy again. A few months later, he stopped hanging around Uncle Shank and his crew. They say he moved out west.
    Alex, who is turned to stone in the presence of Dad, Tommy, or any of the uncles, always has plenty to say when we’re alone. “Don’t you ever watch Mafia movies? Do you have any idea the kind of chicks these guys get? I defy you to show me one gangster with an ugly girlfriend.”
    To say Alex has a one-track mind is an insult to one-track minds.
    â€œYou’re practically a Mob prince,” he presses on. “There must be some way to use that to rustle us up a couple of dates!”
    â€œThat is never going to be a part of my life!” I vow. “I’ve had it out with my dad, and he knows exactly how I feel.”
    He looks at me in awe. “Really? What did he say?”
    It was less than a year ago. Dad doesn’t say anything at first, and it isn’t just because of our latest FBI eavesdropper, Agent Bite-Me. We’re in my father’s basement workshop, the one room in our house that’s guaranteed safe. With unfinished concrete walls and floor, there’s virtually nowhere to hide a listening device. It’s Tommy’s job as Dad’s apprentice to sweep the tools and equipment for bugs twice a day. That includes the Universal gym, and the woodworking area. A lot of conferences take place there, and a lot of uncles make their way down the basement stairs.
    He sits me in a rickety, lopsided wooden chair that rocks precariously on the concrete floor. Why do the well-to-do Lucas have such a piece of junk in their upscale home? Because it’s an Anthony Luca handmade special. For years, Dad has been talking about not working so hard, scaling back his day-to-day involvement in the