The Mafia King My Sister Threw Away novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Cake Knife
Carla finds her husband with her sister at the sister's birthday party, says it in front of thirty people, and walks out; the mafia boss the sister just dumped offers her a job.
My sister's birthday cake was a three-tier lemon with her name in gold sugar, and I was the one holding the knife.
Thirty people stood in my living room in Cranston, singing to Paola.
She had picked the party, the cake and the guest list, and I had paid for all of it.
"Where is she?" someone said when the song ended.
Paola had gone upstairs ten minutes ago to fix her lipstick.
My husband Craig had gone up after her to find the good candles.
I smiled and said I would get them both.
The stairs in our house creak on the fourth step and the ninth.
I had been meaning to fix them for two years.
I stepped over both.
I do not know why.
Our bedroom door was open a hand's width.
I heard my sister laugh.
Then I heard Craig say, "Five more minutes, then we go down."
I pushed the door open with the back of the knife handle.
My husband was on our bed with his quarter-zip on the floor.
My sister was on top of him in her tight white birthday dress, with her platinum hair in his fist.
The sheets were the gray ones I had ironed that morning.
Paola wore my mother's gold bracelet, the one I had never lent her.
Neither of them heard me.
I stood there long enough to count the buttons on his shirt that were still done up.
There were none.
"Craig," I said.
He went white from the neck up.
Paola turned her head, looked at me over her shoulder, and did not even get off him.
"Carla," she said. "Oh, come on. Not today."
I did not scream.
I want that on the record, because I have thought about it since.
I said, "Get up and walk downstairs, both of you."
"Carla, it's not what it looks like," Craig said, and reached for his pants.
"Downstairs," I said. "Now. Or I carry the cake up here."
They came down.
Paola did not hurry.
She fixed her dress on the landing, fixed her lipstick, and came down the rest of the stairs.
Thirty faces turned.
Craig's boss from the bank was there with his wife.
My aunt was there with her rosary in her purse.
"I'll make this short," I said.
My voice shook once and then it didn't.
"I found my husband upstairs in my bed with my sister."
Nobody breathed.
"Five years of marriage," I said. "A house I paid the mortgage on. And he picked my sister."
Craig said my name and I held up the knife.
"No. You don't get to talk."
I turned to Paola.
"Whose idea was the cake?"
She laughed.
It was a small bright laugh, with her chin tipped up, and my stomach turned over.
"Mine," she said. "I wanted to see your face."
A woman by the window put her hand to her mouth.
I pulled my wedding ring off, set it in the middle of the lemon frosting, and pushed it down until the gold disappeared.
"Happy birthday," I said.
Then I put the knife on the table, because I did not trust myself with it.
Paola looked around the room at the guests, and her face changed.
She had seen something she could use.
"Since we're all saying things," she said, and raised her voice, "I should say mine."
She turned to the front door.
"I'm done with Raf. I told him tonight and I'm telling everybody. I chose Craig."
I followed her eyes.
A tall man stood in the open doorway with a flat white gift box in his hand.
He wore a camel coat and no tie, and his black hair was pushed back off a hard, quiet face.
The room went so still I heard the refrigerator hum.
Everyone in Rhode Island knew that face, even if they pretended not to.
Raf Colucci, who owned half of Atwells Avenue and who most people crossed the street for.
He looked at Paola, then at the cake, and then, for a long moment, at me.
He did not look angry.
He looked like a man doing arithmetic.
"Happy birthday, Paola," he said, and set the box on the entry table like it weighed nothing.
Then he stepped aside, and the room let me through.
I walked out with my mother's recipe box, my purse and my car keys.
I was shaking so hard I dropped the keys twice on the driveway.
The second time, a hand with a shiny scar across the back of it picked them up.
"Miss Benedetti," Raf Colucci said. "Your sister threw me away in front of thirty people."
"I'm sorry," I said, because I was raised to say it.
"Don't be. I hear you're an accountant."
I stared at him.
"I need one," he said. "Atwells Avenue, nine tomorrow morning. I'll pay you triple what you make."
"Why would I work for you?"
His light brown eyes went past me to the lit window, where my sister stood laughing at something Craig had said.
"For the same reason I'm asking," he said. "Come and spite her."
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