A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

17. Nate

17

NATE

After three days of training with the Morellis in their murder basement, movement of any kind is a torture. I want to say that I can tell I’m already getting stronger, but I just feel like I’ve been through a few turns in a taffy stretcher.

I am ready to collapse into my bed after dinner, but Vanessa has other plans: a crash course on the Morelli Family. Artie and Angel are sent to what I refer to as the fancy living room (it has no television) with bowls of ice cream and their video games while the rest of the family spreads out in the comfortable living room (the one with a television).

Willa, previously only known to me as Mrs. Donovann-Morelli is here with her husband Sean who I’d never met formally. His hair is practically white it’s so blonde and he watches his wife like she’s the center of the universe. Seems nice.

Willa hooks up a laptop to the television for her presentation titled “Finding Mr. Morelli.”

“Let’s begin,” Willa says. She stands next to the television, a little remote in her hand like the one I use in class for my PowerPoints. “Nate, if you have questions, don’t hesitate.”

“Great,” I say and sit up a little taller. I am in the middle of the long sofa between Claire—the matriarch Morelli—and Leo, trying not to spill my coffee on either of them or the couch which must run for more than half of my salary. Sean leans back in the lounge to our left, Vanessa on the love seat to our right, and Mary on the ground in front of her. A real family movie night.

Willa moves to progress to the next slide but stops. “Where’s your notebook?”

I jolt and reach for the journal on the ground in front of me, spilling a bit of coffee on my leg in the process. I look for a table to rest the mug, but can’t quite reach it, and really everyone is staring at me now, so I offer the mug to Leo who grunts before taking it.

I open the notebook and click my pen. “Right. Ready.”

Willa clicks to the first slide, a family picture that I recognize as the one framed on Vanessa’s desk from Willa’s wedding.

“You’ve met all of us except for Dad,” everyone bows their head briefly in remembrance and it seems like the right thing for me to follow suit. Willa clicks the remote. “Here is a larger family tree.”

She clicks to the next slide which has a diagram detailing all extended family; uncles, cousins (an incredible number of cousins), and some grandparents.

“For obvious reasons, no one on this tree will be considered as potential marriage candidates for Ness. This said, many of these—” Willa’s remote doubles as a laser pointer, which she now uses to circle the further parts of the tree. “—people have cousins not related to us by blood that they will want to be considered.”

“Right,” I sit up straighter and lean forward. I’m not sure what to write in my notebook, so I just scrawl and underline ‘cousins’ and return my attention to the screen. Willa progresses to the next slide.

“Here is the preliminary list of men my mother has put together based on conversations with the other Ma’s.” The slide shows about fifteen photos of various Italian or Irish men and their names beneath. I count four named “Nicky”.

Mary stands and, from a black leather tote, pulls out a stack of manila envelopes much like the one Vanessa gave me and drops them on my lap.

“Review details about them before your interviews. It’s important that they believe you know exactly who they are.”

“What happens if they think I don’t?”

“You lose their respect,” Vanessa says from her seat. She’s staring at the screen with her lips curled in an approximation of disgust at the men listed.

“Sure, makes sense,” I mutter.

The next slide has no pictures, but at least 40 more names. I recognize some from the list Vanessa showed me earlier this week.

“Tier two, these are the men that are less appealing, but we still must consider as to not upset the family.”

“Dear God,” Vanessa rubs her temples. “Mom, you really want me to consider marrying Ricardo Guerra? Be serious.”

“His uncle is in charge of the shipyard, stupid, you’re going to consider him,” Mary says, and Vanessa sighs. I write that down in my journal.

“Go on,” Vanessa nods at Willa.

“There’s some shorthand you’re going to need to know,” Willa says. “But before I go on, we must be clear that this is all incredibly sensitive information and if you tell anyone outside of this room what you’ve learned, go to the police, or otherwise disseminate this information, we are not liable for what may or may not happen to you. Not to mention the NDA.”

I clear my throat, trying not to choke at this, and then nod. I signed the document before dinner after spending too many hours trying to parse through the legal jargon.

“Okay,” I say.

“I need confirmation, yes or no,” Willa says.

“Yes,” I say, “I mean—no, I won’t tell anyone. Yes, you can, uh, trust me.”

Willa and Vanessa share a look before Willa goes on.

On the screen now are several letter codes.

Without going too deep into the specifics of the business, Willa briefly explains each code: Rx is pharmaceuticals, which relies on SH (shipping and handling), transit, and distribution. Then there are codes for tech, construction, weapons, gambling, and explosives. I try to jot down the codes and their meanings, but there are so many, and they all seem to rely on at least three others.

Willa explains that everyone has a job, sometimes two, and they need to feel heard to keep doing those jobs. Quite a few men on the marriage list do not expressly have a job in one of these sectors but are the nephews of people who do. For instance, bottom of tier one is Romeo, whose father is a coroner— best in the city, only one they trust .

“Everyone is connected,” Willa says, “and each folder has a list of connections for you to familiarize yourself with. The tech guys are smarter than the shipping and handling guys and you’re going to need to tailor your questions accordingly.”

I have no idea how I will do that, but I nod and scribble a note of it.

“Everybody is important, and they need to feel valued. That’s how the ship moves, how people carry on. How we make money so they can make money to provide for their families.”

“Right, makes sense,” I say.

“Ultimately, we’re all family,” Vanessa says. “And family takes care of family.”

This is very Fast & Furious of her, but I don’t mention it.

“Next we need to talk about you,” Willa says, and the next slide has a photo of me on it. It’s from last year’s faculty and staff Christmas party, Jenna and me with matching hideous sweaters and margaritas. Did she pull this from my Facebook ?

I’m trying not to feel like my privacy has been violated, but when Leo and Mary both snicker it’s hard not to get defensive.

“As a teacher, you have an endearing style,” Willa explains. “You’re very easy to trust, like you’ve never been to a dry cleaner, and you’ve had the same loafers since college. Kids love that.”

She sounds so genuine, but I am pretty sure that cannot, in any world, be a real compliment.

“For these meetings, you’ll need to adopt a new look.” The next slide is a collage of men pulled from various fashion advertisements—a vision board for a classier, sleeker me.

Amidst the smoldering faces, I see shiny black shoes, black fitted suits, button ups showing far too much chest, veiny arms with thick watches, and intimidating hands with rings adorning more than one finger. Also, the hair is always sleek, kempt, gelled back, not a curl in sight.

I peer down at my own hands, wide palms and long slender fingers, which are kind of knobby at the knuckles, if I’m being honest. You put a big watch on me, and it will look absurd.

“First, your clothes.” Willa rifles in her big leather bag and pulls out a sheet of paper that she hands to me. This is not a digital family, apparently. “A list of all of the items you’ll need.”

Everything is categorized, three different pairs of shoes, button ups in three different colors (or non-colors: gray, white, black, two of each), pants, accessories, hair products?—

“I don’t know how to find all this stuff, and even if I did, I don’t think I could afford it,” I say. Even with the unhinged amount of money Vanessa is going to pay me, buying nice items in each category would quickly eat up two months’ pay.

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetie,” Claire pats my knee like my own mother would. “We have a shopper.”

A shopper. Of course. Reasonable.

“We’ll pay,” Vanessa says. “Consider it your uniform.”

“Great.” Because it’s a brilliant idea to take even more money from the mafia. “Anything else?”

“Your hair,” Willa says.

I thought the slide show was done, but no, the next slide has numbered photos of four different men with different, though similar, haircuts. All smooth, which my hair has never really been.

“You can choose between one of these hairstyles and our stylist will show you how to use the products.” Willa clicks off the TV and goes to sit on her husband’s lap, presentation concluded. “Any questions?”

“Who will I say I am, then? What credentials does a middle school teacher from Connecticut have to find Vanessa a husband?”

“Great fucking question,” Mary mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. Vanessa tugs one of Mary’s braids and Mary pastes on a saccharine smile. Looks unnatural.

“If they ask, we imply you’re a consigliere. Leo and Willa have already started the rumors,” Vanessa says. I don’t know what that word means or even how I will spell it to Google it later, but I think in Godfather terms, we’re pretending that I’m equivalent to Tom Hagen, which is hilarious. Math teachers are known to make rock-solid consultants. I can understand why Mary can’t keep from rolling her eyes every twenty seconds.

“It’s an honor,” Leo says with a heavy pat on my back. “Don’t fuck it up, brother.”

“Right.” I should have more questions, everyone is looking at me like they’re just waiting for me to ask something, but they’ve made themselves very clear: do my research, act the part, get new clothes, and fix my gross, stupid hair.

“I should be good.” I open one of the folders without really looking at the pages, and skim over my spare notes. “Yep. No questions.”

This was not the summer I intended, but at least I have something to do.