Turf War

Eleni

I scoot out of the way of Mr. and Mrs. Behrakis as they leave after their usual Wednesday lunch. Both members of the elderly couple smile at me, and I head for their table to pick up their usual generous tip. I haven’t told Mama or Baba about the virginity auction. I know they’d stop me, but I want to contribute to this family too.

The bell over the door tinkles, and I turn. My breath catches. The man stepping inside looks like something out of a movie. His warm, tanned skin stretches taut over sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. His black suit is crisp and perfectly tailored over an equally black shirt and tie. The only element of him that doesn’t seem like it was mathematically designed for perfection is his curly hair, which tumbles just a little bit into his night-dark eyes. He looks around as if trying to find something, and his gaze lands on me. His smile is soft and a little cocky, exposing perfect white teeth. Without a word, he sits at the counter attached to the front window. 

Mama appears out of nowhere and grabs my arm. “I have something I have to show you in the kitchen.”

“But we have a custom—” I squeak as Mama drags me away.

As soon as the door swings shut between us and the main restaurant, she releases me. “Do you know who that is?”

I shake my head. 

“That’s Dante Cattaneo, the boss of the Staten Island Saints.” She pushes strands of graying hair out of her eyes and meets my gaze. “And he is not supposed to be here.”

“Why not?” I peer through the tiny window in the swing door at the beautiful man, Dante. He’s looking around again.

Baba steps away from the grill. “Because the Lombardis and the Staten Island Saints have been at war for years. Both of you, upstairs, now.”

Mama takes my hand and starts to lead me away, but I pull out of her grasp. Dante doesn’t look anything like Frank and the brutes he brings in. I trust my parents in everything, but I think they might be overreacting.

“Please, zouzouni.” Mama looks at me with blue eyes so much like my own starting to fill with tears.

“If he’s trying to cause trouble, won’t it be less trouble if I just serve him?” I ask.

Baba frowns. Mama wrings her hands. Without an answer, I pull my order pad out of the pocket of my apron and march out to meet this Dante.

“Hi and welcome to The Greek Corner,” I say. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ve heard this place is famous for its gyros. Would you recommend them?” He smiles up at me, and my heart skips a beat.

“Um.” My face heats. I’ve never spoken to a man this handsome. “I don’t think I’m a fair person to ask.”

He twists to look at me. “Why’s that?”

Stupid, stupid Eleni. “I’m the owner’s daughter. That makes me a little biased.”

“Ah.” He nods. “See, I think that makes you the perfect person to ask. I’d recommend my nona’s lasagna over any other in the world, but that’s because it always tastes like Sunday afternoons in her kitchen. She’d be bent over the marinara pot, stirring to the rhythm of the records she brought from the Old Country.” He leans against the counter, and I can almost see the scene he’s describing in the pitch black of his eyes. “If I asked anyone else, I bet they’ll tell me it’s a damn good gyro, but what does it taste like to you?” 

“Late nights after we close the shop,” I say before I can overthink. “But when I was younger, staying up until closing was a special treat. Mama would scrape together enough fixings for everyone to have one last gyro, and Baba would tell the story of how they almost missed their boat to America because Mama insisted on one last gyro, and Christos would bring down this boardgame he found at a flea market with half the pieces missing and make up new rules every time.”

“And what would you do?” Dante’s voice is dark and silky like expensive chocolate in commercials.

“I would laugh,” I say quietly. There hasn’t been much laughter around here since Christos disappeared.

“That settles it.” He leans back, shattering the bubble of memory around us. “I’ll have a gyro. And a black coffee.”

I stumble back a step and write down his order. When I return to the kitchen, Mama and Baba are both standing at the door, clearly listening.

“What?” I say as I walk in. 

“Well?” Mama demands. “What did he say? Was he angry?”

“He was…” Nothing like a boss. He’s too young, maybe just over thirty, and far too smooth. He can’t possibly be in the same line of work as Frank Lombardi. “Nice. And he wants a gyro.”

Baba steps over to the grill. “Nice doesn’t mean anything, chryso mou. I’ve heard things about Dante.”

I lean against the counter behind him. “What kind of things?”

He shakes his head. “I hear them from Lombardi’s men, so I don’t know if you can trust them.”

“Baba,” I groan. “You can’t announce that you’ve heard mysterious things and then clam up!”

Mama offers me a small smile. “She’s right, Gregorio. You’re being a little mean.”

“I’m being responsible. Someone in this family has to be.” He shakes his head and seasons the lamb sizzling on the grill in front of him. “I’ve heard there is a turf war brewing between him and Lombardi. I didn’t want to say anything because, if it’s true, I want both of you to go home to Parikia.”

My stomach flips. “Parikia? Back to Greece?”

Mama’s smile disappears. “Is it really that serious?”

Baba adds onions and tomatoes to the sizzling meat and stirs. “It might be, Maria. And I’m not willing to take that chance.”

His unspoken “again” hangs in the air between us. Two years ago, my older brother Christos disappeared. We haven’t heard from him since, and no one has found his body. After six months of waiting, we buried an empty casket. Baba wants to send me to Parikia, a seaside town I know only through stories, because he’s afraid the same thing will happen to me. 

Mama nods, and I look out the little window at Dante. A man like him wouldn’t start a turf war dangerous enough to displace my family and destroy the dreams my parents had when they came to this country. It must be Lombardi’s fault. And if it’s Lombardi’s fault, maybe the money I’ll get from the virginity auction will distract him. Mama and Baba may be willing to give up on America for my safety, but I’m not ready to stop fighting yet.