Chapter 20

Sunday shows up faster than a groom at a midnight wedding in the middle of a graveyard.

People don't really get married that way, do they? Come to think of it, that's probably how I'll get married someday—to a reanimated corpse, seeing that I'm about to crest thirty and never had a man shove a sparkling rock onto any of my fingers. My toes haven't done so well for themselves either.

And speaking of potential husbands, Cooper sent me a message saying he'd meet me at my mother's with the pooches in tow.

It's going to be a circus, all right. And I have Niki to thank for this.

Grimstone Heights is my next exit. It's the cozy little town I grew up in. If you can call a high crime rate, drug rate, and dropout rate cozy. It was always referred to as Little Leeds. Not a compliment then, and certainly not one now. Leeds is known as the armpit of Vermont for a good reason.

The houses in Grimstone Heights are decorated to the spooky hilt, with each front lawn looking more gruesome than the last.

Back in Honey Hollow, it's mostly fall leaves, pumpkins, and inflatable ghosts that rule the roost. But here in Grimstone, we're talking Grim Reaper with ten bloody corpses, an entire army of skeletons, and every other lawn has transformed into a cemetery.

It takes less than two minutes to glide into my parents' neighborhood, where each house is smushed next to the last and a row of apartment complexes that sprang up across the street in recent years have turned the parking situation into a bona fide nightmare. But luckily, my parents converted half their front lawn into an extension of the driveway a few years back.

My mother figured we'd never visit if we had to park six blocks away, and she was right. My brother, Nico, got mugged one night doing just that. And my sister, Serafina, once had all four of her tires slashed when she parked in the alley—another no-no in this neighborhood. If you think the sidewalks are mean, the alley is where they train felons for a stint in prison.

Just a few years back there was a shooting at the liquor store down the block between rival gangs that left six people wounded. I've often said that you need a Kevlar vest just walking from the car to the house.

Speaking of cars or trucks as it were, no sooner do I jump out of my car than I spot Cooper walking up the street with two cute furry faces that look more than happy to see me.

"Babies," I shout as I kneel down and they rush over licking my face silly. "Are you ready to see Grandma?"

I'll admit, my parents weren't so thrilled with the way I let Watson run wild around their place the first time we visited. They grew up with a yard dog, but I've got to give them credit, they seem to be warming up to the idea.

"As long as you don't break any of her Capodimonte, you might be invited back." I jump to my feet and shrug at Cooper. "My mother likes to collect pricey figurines."

He nods, looking handsome enough to set the entire town on fire. "Same with mine."

He scoops me close and lands a warm kiss on my lips.

"Careful," I say. "If my father is watching from the window, he might be moved to load his gun."

He sighs toward the house. "Don't worry, I came packing heat myself."

"You sure you want to do this? You're a Lazzari coming in hot into Canelli territory."

"I've never backed down from a challenge. I'm certainly not going to start now."

"You talk a big game, but let's take what happens inside minute by minute. I think we should have a code word for a quick escape. How about spaghetti?"

He frowns and looks that much more lethally handsome. It's so unfair that I have to share him with my family tonight.

"How about trick-or-treat?" he offers. "Odds are good she's serving spaghetti."

"It's like you know my mother."

"I don't. But I know mine and I have a feeling they're not all that different."

And judging by that wry smile on his face, it's not necessarily a good thing.

We head up the porch and I give a brisk knock before letting myself in, and the first thing that hits me is the scent of roasted garlic and my mother's slow-cooked gravy, aka marinara sauce.

The second thing that hits me is the fact the living room has the table in it with its extension protruding out of it—something only reserved for special guests on Christmas Eve and Easter. A white lace tablecloth is stretched to capacity, overlaid with a sheet of clear glossy vinyl to protect it from the fury to come once we start eating. And instead of my mother's grocery store dinnerware that she's collected over the years, it looks as if we'll be eating off the good china, and that alone makes me want to shout trick-or-treat.

"They're here," Niki belts out, and within seconds my father, mother, sisters, and brothers swiftly assemble with military precision, forming a united front against the perceived threat of a Lazzari in their presence. It looks more like an imminent clash is about to take place rather than a Sunday dinner.

I have a feeling the Canelli-Lazzari turf war just spilled out into my mother's living room.