Page 20 of Ribbons and Roses
But where Ernest has largely moved on from that phase, it seems his son refuses to let it go. He refuses to turn over a new leaf and accept that me and Phi are bonded for life. We’ve not only started our own family, we’ve continued to grow it together.
We’re in three children deep, yet he’s still stuck on the fact that his sister’s married to a mobster.
“We’ll enjoy ourselves,” Ernest declares, the frosty air puffing out in front of him. “Nothing like a trip like this for men to bond.”
Marcel climbs onto the boat that’s swaying on the icy cold waters. “Bond? We’re here to fish, Dad. That’s all.”
“Ernest is right,” I say with a casual shrug, my hands stowed in my pockets. I stroll onto the boat with ease, side stepping over the edge, making it rock under the added weight. “I’m sure we’re all about to have a great morning, Marcel. Maybe Stitches and I can tell you all about how we toss heavy things in the water.”
The dig falls on deaf ears as far as Ernest is concerned. He’s checking on his fishing rod and then observing the grayish blue waters surrounding us. Stitches chokes back a laugh while Delphine’s brother clenches his jaw and glares at me.
Long ago I learned I love pissing people off.
It first started when I was a kid, pissing Lucius off any chance I got. Stefania was no different. Then I realized it applied to teachers and other authority figures.
As a capo coming up in the Mancino family, with a hostile District Attorney like Ernest Adams breathing down my neck, I was more than happy to make steam come out of his years.
Years and years later, as I’ve turned forty and assumed I’ve matured, I realize that’s not necessarily true. The petty urge to piss people off still lives inside me.
Marcel Adams happens to be the latest person capable of bringing it out of me.
Maybe today is going to be fun after all.
Our boat floats into motion, leaving the lakeshore and drifting across the murky cold water. Ernest launches into an explanation about technique when it comes to luring fish with bait and reeling them in.
Stitches is more attentive, while I’ve got my sights on Marcel. He’s barely listening to a word his father says, instead off in his own corner of the boat. His fishing rod rests against the inside of his thigh, the tension still pulsing off him in an invisible wave.
It really poses the question why he’s bothered coming on this family holiday trip at all. If being around mafia men like Stitches and I repulses him, if he truly hates my guts so much, what would motivate him to tag along on our family vacation?
I file that thought away for later, deciding to return to it once I have more time to think.
“Alright, this is a good location,” Ernest says. “Ready, gents? Let’s see who catches the most game.”
The four of us line our fishing poles with our bait and then try our hand at luring some fish. Stitches fights with his fishing rod, jerking at the handle to reel back his line.
“This thing is stuck!” he calls, gritting his teeth.
“Is it stuck, or is the angler using poor technique?” Ernest asks smartly. He sets down his rod to go over and help Stitches.
It’s something I never thought I’d see—my righthand man laughing it up with Delphine’s father. This entire trip is something I never thought I’d see.
Though it’s been years since my feud with Ernest has ended, it still lingers in the back of my head. Years of animosity doesn’t just evaporate into nothingness. It stays with you for a long time.
Delphine’s father lived because she loved him and I didn’t want to cause her any more pain if I could help it.
But the truth is, Ernest and I have stuck to our truce. We’ve even found common ground as father-in-law and son-in-law.
Is the same possible for Delphine’s brother? Marcel has largely been away from the family; he’s spent years living abroad, thousands of miles from what’s happened between the rest of us.
Something hard and forceful knocks into me from behind. It’s enough to make me stagger a step forward, almost near the edge of the boat.
“Didn’t see you there,” Marcel mumbles. He offers no other apology for bumping into me. He doesn’t even look me in the eye, peering into his tackle box to grab more worms for his bait.
I breathe through the instant surge of my temper. The obvious fact that he intentionally bumped into me and then barely offered any mention of his mistake. It’s not the fish in the lake he’s trying to bait.
It’s me. He wants an explosive reaction out of me.
He wants me to react like a hothead. Maybe even with violence.