Vendetta (Blood for Blood #1)(41)

My eyes slid across to the Priestly table again. Dom and Gino were arguing with the bald, mustached man. Felice — yes, it was definitely him, I could see now — was sitting perfectly still, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He was quietly observing the bee that was now swirling perilously close to their table. As the others argued, their voices swelled and traveled through the restaurant.

“What is going on?” My mother swiveled around so she could catch a glimpse of the commotion, but it died down almost as quickly as it had begun and she lost interest.

“Mom?”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Is there something you’re not telling me about Dad and Uncle Jack? Or you and Uncle Jack? I get the feeling I’m missing something.”

She leaned onto her elbows and knitted her hands under her chin. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know what I mean. That’s why I asked …”

There was an almighty clap! We jumped in our seats.

“Calvino!” A scream so high it sounded like a woman’s. But it hadn’t come from a woman, it had come from Felice, who had sprung to his feet and was clasping his hands to his face. Now everyone in the restaurant was looking at them. The bald man — Calvino — sat back in the booth, casually lifting his palm from the table and wiping it with a napkin, his face placid. He had killed the bee.

Felice’s chest was heaving. He said something in amplified Italian, but Calvino didn’t bat an eyelid. He tried to wave Felice back into his seat. The calmer he acted, the more incensed Felice became. He began to spit vitriol as he gestured futilely at what I assumed was the squished bee carcass.

I gaped. I had never seen someone so calm flip out so quickly.

Felice reached into his suit jacket, prompting Gino and Dom to pull back in their seats. Calvino shot to his feet and held his hands up, like he was surrendering. He spoke quietly and quickly.

Felice pulled his hand from his pocket and clenched it into a fist by his side. He ran his other hand through his hair, stopping to squeeze the back of his neck, pinching at it.

Slowly, and without taking his eyes off Felice, Calvino sat down.

Felice remained on his feet. He raised his chin so that he appeared even taller than usual, and with one final curse word directed solely at Calvino — but heard by everyone within a one-mile radius — he stormed out of the restaurant like a graceful, seething skeleton.

“What a strange man,” my mother whispered, her hushed words mingling with everyone else’s.

“Strange family,” I muttered, watching Gino and Dom resettle themselves at their table, falling back into conversation. Maybe in this one case I was actually lucky to have been ostracized. The Priestlys obviously had a lot going on, and I had already reached my drama quota for one lifetime. It was probably for the best. Even if it didn’t feel like it.

I shifted back to my mother and found her chewing up her bottom lip. “Sophie, there’s a lot you don’t know about your father and Uncle Jack,” she said, returning to our conversation like the dramatic interlude hadn’t happened at all. “Sometimes I can’t help but think Jack deserves to be in jail more than your father does.”

This was the first time I had ever heard my mother play the blame game about that night — or speak about it willingly, for that matter. It was one of those unsaid, defining moments that was always bubbling beneath the dynamic of our relationship but rarely openly acknowledged by either of us.

“But Jack wasn’t even there.”

“I know that,” she conceded. “But your uncle has always made friends with the wrong people, the sort of people who care more about money than family, and who encourage his paranoid delusions. When your father came to Cedar Hill, it was to make a new life with you and me — a better life than the one he had growing up. He was respectable and successful, but then Jack started coming around. He didn’t have a family of his own and so he looked at us like we were his, too. It had always been just him and your father growing up, those two boys against the world, and I think your father felt like he owed him a piece of our lives, too, so he wouldn’t be out on his own.

“But then Jack started putting these thoughts in your father’s head. The same thoughts I can see him trying to put in yours — ones designed to make you afraid and anxious. It got to the point where Jack would question everything and everyone who came into the diner, and soon he was making your father paranoid, too. The more I think about it, I can’t help but feel that if Jack hadn’t been getting under your father’s skin, then he wouldn’t have been so quick to believe that man was a dangerous intruder that night at the diner.”

“And he wouldn’t have shot him,” I finished coldly. “I don’t know if you can blame that on Jack.”

“He gave your father the gun.”

“He wanted him to protect himself,” I countered. “They’ve always looked out for each other.”

She scooped a tomato wedge onto her fork. “You’re right,” she replied quickly, shaking her head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up on your birthday. This day should be about all the good things in your life.”

Suddenly the air between us was awkward and strained. I took a gulp of my Diet Coke and let my eyes wander back to the Priestlys, who had become uncharacteristically silent. Gino sat with his head in his hands, and Dom was leaning back, staring blankly at the ceiling. I knew how they felt.