The Spia Family Branches Out Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Warning

  ONE ~ Leaving On A Jet Plane

  TWO ~ A Bump In The Road

  THREE ~ All That Glitters Isn’t Gold

  FOUR ~ A Bullet, A Babe, And An Ex-Ray

  FIVE ~ What’s Love Got To Do With It?

  SIX ~ A Face In The Crowd

  Broccoli Pasta à la Zia Yolanda

  SEVEN ~ Here A Fiancé, There A Fiancée

  EIGHT ~ Ring-A-Ding-Bling

  Quote

  NINE ~ The Mobster Made Me Do It

  Orange Olive Oil Muffins

  TEN ~ It’s All About The Muffins

  ELEVEN ~ There’s Something Rotten In Winestock

  Quote

  TWELVE ~ Elementary, My Dear Mia

  THIRTEEN ~ The Trouble With Angelina

  FOURTEEN ~ When One Door Closes, A Window Opens

  FIFTEEN ~ A Tale Of Two Trees

  SIXTEEN ~ What’s Love Got To Do With It?

  SEVENTEEN ~ In Wine, There Is Truth . . .

  Insalata Caprese for Two

  Quote

  EIGHTEEN ~ Lover Come Back

  NINETEEN ~ The Trees Of Wrath

  TWENTY ~ The Oil Thickens

  Deviled Eggs, Italian Style

  TWENTY-ONE ~ The Long And Winding Road

  TWENTY-TWO ~ A Kiss Is Still A Kiss

  Lasagna

  TWENTY-THREE ~ 13 Ex-Mobsters And A Baby

  TWENTY-FOUR ~ A Wine By Any Other Name

  TWENTY-FIVE ~ Family Values

  TWENTY-SIX ~ La Familia Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry

  About the Author

  Books by Mary Leo

  THE SPIA FAMILY BRANCHES OUT

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Leo

  Published by Pryde Multimedia, LLC

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  WARNING: The author is not responsible for the amount of pasta consumed during the reading of this book. Although sympathetic, she bears no liability for any weight gain.

  ONE

  Leaving On A Jet Plane

  Kissing Leo Russo was like drinking a rich red wine . . . not that I drank wine anymore, but every time I kissed Leo those delicious memories enveloped me with a deep warmth.

  His warm luscious kiss also reminded me that I’d forgotten to take my tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil mixed with a tablespoon of lemon juice. This combination, first thing in the morning, not only kept my skin and hair radiant it also helped keep my arteries plaque-free.

  Precisely why I had to rip my lips from his, down my already poured oil mixture, grab the overstuffed carry-on and exit my studio apartment over my mom’s garage as quickly as my Betsey Johnson Ballet Flats would take me.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I told him, really meaning it this time. “They’re waiting for me and we still have to pick up Aunt Babe. We can’t miss our flight. Our tickets are non-refundable.”

  “I’ll pay for your ticket. Hell, I’ll pay for everyone’s ticket. Just come with me . . . to New York City. We’ll rent a fancy room, order in and spend our days in bed and our nights enjoying the city. You can go to Maui anytime. This is our chance . . .”

  I cut him off. “As incredibly tempting as that sounds, I have to pass. I’m sorry, but maybe when I get back, if the offer still holds, we can do it then.”

  I wanted nothing more than to fly away with Leo, but I’d already made other plans . . . important family plans that he simply wouldn’t understand. “I have to go.”

  “Sure,” he said, “I get it.”

  But I knew he didn’t.

  “Call me?” he shouted as I walked out my open doorway. He followed close behind, carrying one of my bags.

  “Every day,” I told him while locking my door behind us. “Thanks for offering to stop by and water my tree.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “That olive tree means as much to me as it does to you.”

  The tree we were referring to was the only living thing, besides myself, in my apartment I’d managed to keep alive. He and I put it in a pot together about four years ago when he’d found it growing among his grape vines. How it took root on his land we never knew, but we took it as a symbol that we were supposed to be together.

  A lot happened to tear us apart in the last four years, but that little tree still managed to thrive. I kept it out on my small deck most of the time, but I’d brought it inside for my trip. I didn’t trust that we wouldn’t get some bad weather, and I didn’t want it to drawn in too much water during a storm. Besides, it served to remind Leo that we were actually dating again.

  Leo thought it was a symbol of our relationship. I thought it was a symbol of my determination to remain sober. The first two years that I’d owned it, the poor thing almost died from lack of water several times. Plus, the pot I’d initially put it in had been too small. Then, on the day when I decided to stop drinking, the day after I nearly killed somebody else on the road home, I decided that little olive tree and my body had a lot in common. We were both being neglected by a truly waste of a human being.

  So, I went down to Berkshire Nursery . . . when I sobered up . . . and bought the most colorful imported Italian planter they had. Replanted my struggling olive tree, made the little guy a promise that from now on I would stay sober so I could remember to water it, and we’ve both been thriving ever since.

  “Not quite,” I told him, smiling. “But I’ll agree to anything as long as you remember to drop by to water it.”

  “You have my word,” he said looking all sweet and sexy. I wanted to kiss him again, but I knew if I did, I probably wouldn’t be going to Italy. Instead, I headed down the steps with Leo close behind me carrying my bags.

  “Oh, and there’s some leftover lemon pasta in the fridge. Please help yourself,” I told him.

  My lemon pasta, which was simply a combination of grated parmesan cheese, extra virgin olive oil, lemon juice and lemon zest poured over hot pasta was one of his favorite dishes. I’d made extra just for him.

  “You’re an angel,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “It’s just a little something to remember me by,” I told him as I scurried down the stairs.

  “Like I could ever forget you,” he said, following close behind.

  I could’ve given him a sarcastic response about how he’d had no problem forgetting about me in the past . . . what with all the cheating he’d done . . . but he was a different person now. At least he seemed to be, and for now, that was enough.

  When we arrived at the bottom of the staircase, I grabbed the bigger of my two bags and tried to stuff it into the open trunk of Lisa’s black BMW. There were already several other carry-on bags taking up all the trunk space
. Leo took charge, rearranged everything into a neat formation, which allowed my bag to slip right in.

  “Thanks,” I said, giving him one more hug . . . without a kiss.

  “There’s still time to change your mind,” he urged as he held me in his warm embrace.

  “I’d love to, but the girls are depending on me to show them around Maui.”

  “As I recall, the last time we were there, we never left our room,” he said, reminding me of our long weekend of pure lust. We’d gone right after we’d gotten back together after a long break up. My sobriety was relatively new and I’d used sex as a distraction for booze . . . and what a lovely distraction it was! “What can you possibly show them?”

  “Everything I missed seeing the first time. Now, I have to go,” I said and slid out of his arms.

  Thing was, we had no intention of flying off to Maui. Instead, my best friend Lisa Lin, a highly successful author, Jade Batista-Spia, my newly discovered younger half-sister, and I were on clandestine mission that would take us to Southern Italy. We were following Giuseppe Nardi, an active mobster whom I was certain resembled Adonis. He would be returning a prized pinky ring to Enzo Spia, father to both Jade and me, and head of one of the more notorious mob families in all of Italy. We intended to disrupt the pinky ring exchange by showing up on Enzo’s doorstep demanding an explanation for years of abandonment by our dear notorious papa. An honorable mission if there ever was one.

  We were all booked on the same six-o’clock international flight out of SFO.

  Due to my position as all around office gal for the family business, I’d made Giuseppe’s flight reservations. It was easy for me to simply book three more reservations on the same flight. Of course, Giuseppe flew First Class, while we flew in Economy Plus, but that was the burden Jade and I had to bear for not actually being part of the mob. Money wasn’t quite as available to us as it was to an active mobster.

  Lisa always flew First Class and had insisted that I accommodate her desire. After much discussion, I’d convinced her to fly Business because I didn’t want Giuseppe to spot her on the plane, a concession she was willing to make for me, her very best friend.

  Not that any of us had ever been active mobsters. That career path had thankfully eluded us. Still, being part of a recovering mob family, and Lisa being my best friend, we knew more about the underworld then we did about the normal world.

  I only hoped that Lisa had brushed up on her tracking skills because we were going to need them. As far as we knew, Giuseppe had no idea we were following him, and we hoped to keep it that way. If he knew we were tailing him, there was no telling what he might do.

  This whole operation had to be done in total secrecy. I hadn’t even told my mother. And Lisa most assuredly didn’t tell Nick Zeleski, the mysterious special agent who’d been in hot pursuit of my dad for the past however many months or years. Never mind that Lisa and Nick were dating. She still managed to keep our trip a secret.

  Lisa was her own kind of self-made woman, and had been ever since her teens when she figured out how to pick her first lock using the inner workings of a ballpoint pen. Now she wrote survival books: The Girly Girl’s Guide To . . .

  At twenty-nine, she was already a New York Times bestseller with over two million books sold. She wrote everything from how to survive the big city after growing up on a farm, to how to survive a fall into a Dumpster with your hands tied behind your back . . . which had recently saved my life.

  With this stealthy trip, we would be depending on her tracking skills to help us follow Giuseppe who would certainly lead us right to our target: Enzo Spia. A man who was as elusive as smoke . . . at least to the American branch of his family tree.

  “Let’s get this party started,” Jade said from the backseat once I slipped in and fastened my seatbelt.

  Lisa then hopped in behind the wheel after she’d secured the now organized trunk, and turned over the engine.

  “Onward!” Lisa said and we headed for Aunt Babe’s place just off the service road. Aunt Babe had offered to drive Lisa’s car back to the orchard. It was safer than to leave her new car parked in a crowded parking structure. Lisa hated door dings of any kind.

  Most of my recovering mobster family lived on the olive orchard where we not only had a booming olive oil business, Spia’s Olive Press, but we also ran several associated businesses in our small Main Street town.

  “Like, I’m so excited, ya know?” Jade said, and I could hear the delight in her voice. “I’ve never been out of the country before. This is going to be so much fun! All those great shops . . . I love to shop. It’s, like, one of my favorite things to do.”

  Apparently, my sister didn’t quite appreciate the nature of our trip, but then Jade was new to the family business. Although, from our last encounter with a truly bad seed in our otherwise completely legit family, Jade had proven how well she fit in by demonstrating her stellar marksmanship abilities.

  “Believe me, if this goes the way I hope, shopping will be the least of our activities,” I told her. “It might get dangerous.”

  “Isn’t that why Lisa’s part of this? To keep us safe?”

  “I can only do so much to protect you guys,” Lisa cautioned. “You’ll have to listen to me when and if we ever get into a precarious situation.”

  “I’ve already read up to book four in your series,” Jade told her, a patronizing lightness to her voice. “And I’ve been practicing some of your techniques to overtake a potential attacker. Even though I can’t bring my firearm to Italy, I think I’m now more physically and mentally prepared from reading your books. I took lots of notes, and I intend to go over them on the plane.”

  “That’s great. That right there lifts some of the responsibility off my shoulders,” Lisa said, never taking her eyes off the service road that bordered our shops. “That’s more than some people who claim they’re my best friend have done.”

  She threw me a disparaging glance knowing perfectly well I had yet to get through an entire Girly Girl’s guide. “I read your books. How else do you think I survived a night in that Dumpster in San Francisco?”

  “Dumb luck?” Lisa teased as she focused on the paved road ahead of her.

  “No. I knew what to do because I had read about Dumpster survival.”

  Which was one hundred percent true, and fortuitous. Although I never completed the book, at least I retained the important parts.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You doubt your best friend?” I hated that I didn’t make the time to read her books, but then I didn’t read anything. I had stopped sometime after college, after I was forced to read War And Peace for a literature class. Once I slogged through that, I was done. Not that the book as a whole didn’t fascinate me. I just wished Tolstoy had cut it down by about five-hundred-thousand words.

  “It’s precisely because I’m your best friend that I know you barely ever read, so I’m not offended. You don’t even like to read a recipe if it has more than a few lines of directions.”

  “That’s not true. I write down all my recipes in great detail. I’m even thinking of putting a cookbook together.”

  “Now that would be amazing. I’d buy it in a heartbeat, and not just because I’m your best friend, but because you’re an amazing cook! Do you have a title?”

  Suddenly the one thing that I had kept a secret was now out in the open all because I didn’t want to admit that I’d never read one of Lisa’s books in it’s entirety.

  “Kind of. At least a working title.”

  I actually did have a title, but all of this was simply a diversion. White lies only made things worse. You would think I would know that by now.

  “One Olive At A Time: A Cook’s Guide To Addiction Recovery,” I said, feeling totally ridiculous. Like I could ever write a real cookbook. I turned away from Lisa for a moment and stared out my side window.

  “I love it,” Jade blurted in my ear. “You’ll make a fortune.”

  “Me too!” L
isa said, “And I can run it by my publisher if you want me to.”

  I didn’t know how to deal with all this excitement over a project I had only recently dreamed up so I kept gazing out my side window. A diverse group of folks strolled around our shops on the main street that wound through a series of lovely olive trees and planters filled with multicolored flowers that lead to our main tasting room at the end of the long block. Back when my mom first took over the orchard, she’d hired a construction crew to build a one-street mini town filled with attached two-story brick buildings. Storefronts were located on the first floor, and mostly one-bedroom apartments on the second. She thought these storefronts would attract more tourists . . . which they did . . . but the apartments attracted an assortment of relatives, honorary relatives, divorced distant relatives, adopted cousins, extremely distant cousins and a mixture of close and tangential friends. All of which had at one time in their lives been either directly connected to or been touched by the Cosa Nostra.

  All of the shops had an Italian motif, and were run by these various relatives and friends. Mom collected the rent while I went over the books once a month to make sure they weren’t cooked. I even had a master key to all the shops for any emergencies that might arise. Keeping this family on the straight and narrow was a full-time job.

  While I mused over ex-mobsters, cooked books and Main Street, I couldn’t help notice

  an older, rather large man with thick white hair, trendy dark shades, and perfectly tailored black clothes. I admired his confident swagger, his seemingly happy disposition as he carefully passed people on the sidewalk, and his handsome, if not somewhat familiar face. Then, when he absentmindedly scratched his head with his pinky, I noticed the thick gold band sparkling on said pinky finger and nearly broke through my window as Lisa drove past my viewpoint.

  “What? No. Stop!” I said as Lisa screeched to a stop, but we had already started to turn the corner and I could no longer see our Main Street. “Back up. Back up!”

  Lisa shoved the gear into reverse and turned around to better see where she was headed.