All Roads Lead to Pasta - Chapters 1 & 2 -

Chapter One

Debra Jean Longobardi

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Chapter One

Chapter 1

The Ring

I glared at the black shadow of the revolver visible through my bedroom door. My father clutched the gun as he paced our long hallway.

Antonio’s words still echo in my soul: “Allegra,” he said, “you will never see your mother again!”

The phone screamed, startling me. It was the middle of the night.

Who could be calling so late? Was it my mother?

It was a bitterly cold New England winter night, and there was evil in the air—I could feel it. I pulled the covers over my head and clenched my fluffy camel teddy bear. A lump formed in the center of my throat as I attempted to hold back my tears, but they just kept streaming down my face onto my mint green pillowcase. I put both hands over my ears, attempting to block out my father’s venomous profanity laden threats.

“I am going to fucking kill you both!”

I jumped out of bed filled with nervous curiosity and stubbed my toe on the corner of my dresser. I quietly crawled across the hardwood floor nearing my bedroom door and peeked fearfully into a narrow streak of light that seemed blinding from my dark room. I stared in shock at my father standing in the kitchen and caught a glimpse of his blue-and-white polka-dotted polyester shirt. He was in a panic, with our pale yellow rotary phone cord coiled around his broad mid-frame. He held the receiver in his left hand with the gun pressed into the palm of his right hand.

I felt so helpless, and angry that I was alone. How could my siblings not be there? They were so lucky to be older and sleeping over at their friends’ houses. Would I ever see my mommy again? My daddy was always the one disappearing, not mommy. It was all so confusing for an eight-year-old— for anyone, really.

My heart began to sink. I’d known that this day would eventually come. Memories plagued me—flashbacks of my parents and their turbulent arguments over the years. I couldn’t block out the horrible images

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All Roads Lead To Pasta witnessed year after year. My most vivid memory was seeing a dining room chair flying across the room toward my mother. Then a kind of peace came over me as it dawned on me: My sad mommy had finally found the courage to escape. She’d managed to find a way out of her sickening life. She was Amelia, a sheltered girl from a small town in Connecticut, and she had to grow up quickly when she suddenly found herself romantically involved with an untouchable gangster hit man known as Bobby V.

I would later realize that the chair-throwing incident was the single defining moment that prevented me from ever being able to commit to one man.

Through all the ups and downs, my biggest childhood comfort was a big bowl of pasta. It helped me through the hard times and enabled me to appreciate the good times. Growing up, there was one absolute: pasta was always called macaroni. After I studied in Northern Italy, the word pasta took a beloved and permanent place in my vocabulary. Whether there were financial obstacles, death, or divorce to deal with, Sunday pasta was made without fail, like clockwork, and it always brought our family together.

My mother would start the sauce at around six in the morning and it would cook for hours. The aroma of fresh garlic sautéing in piping hot olive oil became my Sunday morning alarm clock. Next, the sausage was cooked until it was lightly browned. She would blend each jar of tomatoes herself—a carefully guarded secret to her famous sauce. My mother had cooking down to a science, and everything she made tasted like artistic heaven.

I would sneak into the kitchen and dip a slice of freshly baked Italian bread into the steaming pan of hot red meat sauce. It was consistently delicious.

The aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh basil filled our kitchen. She would fry the meatballs and slice her homemade breads, usually stuffed with spinach or broccoli. Then Amelia made braciola, rolling slender slices of beef around layers of fresh parsley, garlic, and black pepper. My favorite part of helping her was inserting the wooden toothpicks into the rolled meat.

Mom was not a fan of wrapping string around each piece; she was afraid someone would ingest the string. I would eat at least two bowls of pasta and up to four bowls, depending on how hungry I was. I loved adding tons of grated Parmesan cheese and black pepper. My mother’s pasta always brought me comfort and put a smile on my face.

My mother was ready to turn on the dishwasher that day when she heard loud coughing coming from the crib in my bedroom. She rushed to

Chapter One check on me, and found me in my crib turning blue. I went into shock that day, and stayed in a coma for forty-eight hours. I had Shirley Temple curls that straightened, I lost the enamel on my baby teeth, and I had to have silver caps put over my molars as a result.

It was the winter of 1976, and my three siblings and I all had the chicken pox. I caught the worse case of it. It happened because I’d chewed recycled bubble gum from my oldest brother, Francesco. My chicken pox became so severe that bumps appeared in my throat and on my neck. My mother tried everything to calm down the virus.

During the Seventies, plenty of mothers smoked while pregnant and had no clue that aspirin could be toxic for babies. She gave me a little piece of aspirin, and I became one of the documented cases that warned parents against giving infants aspirin because it could trigger Reye’s syndrome, a deadly disease that basically attacks all body organs, especially the brain and liver. I was one of the “lucky ones,” and I eventually developed an innate confidence God had a profound purpose in mind to keep me around.

It is hard to imagine that merely turning on a dishwasher could control someone’s destiny—my destiny, that is—but the truth of the matter is that if that machinery had been turned on, my wails would have been drowned out and I would not be here sharing my story.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have always walked my path with big hopes and dreams. My Italian-American heritage is instantly revealed with one glance into my deep brown eyes, so dark that you can barely distinguish my pupils from the irises. Growing up, my stepfather, Bobby V., teased me by telling me that my eyes looked like two black olives.

You could always spot me in a crowded room by my distinct and pronounced smile. I actually wore braces twice just to have a perfect American smile. When I was in pageants, I would often win the “Miss Photogenic” title. I wanted to be a model even before I reached puberty. I won scholarships to model in New York. My mother always supported my vision and would take me on go-sees, toggling between dancing and modeling.

One summer I was very proud to get the lead in a magic show that was supposed to hit the television circuit. I dedicated an entire summer to filming, while ever-optimistic Amelia had to shuttle me two hours each way. The hope was that the show would put me on the map; the reality was

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All Roads Lead To Pasta that the producers ran out of money and went bust. The outcome was all that work, no fame, no gas money, and a complete waste of time. Sometimes we take chances and they pan out, but this time that was certainly not the case.

I would often enter contests and became a finalist, almost making it on the cover of top teen magazines. In high school I even won “Best Smile” in my yearbook. Over the years, my smile won over many hearts.

I was the baby of the family, left-handed, and by default the black sheep. I was born nine days late, and to complicate matters, I flipped in my mother’s stomach before she gave birth. To top it off, I was the result of an unplanned pregnancy.

I have an out-of-the-box concept in my approach to life. My vision was always different from the other kids, especially my siblings. I was always a vivid dreamer both in my sleeping and waking hours; my lucid and colorful dreams sometimes made it difficult to separate dreams from reality. I wasn’t much of a sleeper anyway—I was too busy chasing life. I would describe myself as a night owl at best, not a morning person at all.

My mother would politely describe me as “unique and one of a kind.” My close friends would often say, “There is only one Allegra in this world; you are special in a good way.”

I grew up in a small town in Praying Mantis, Connecticut, with a population just above 50,000. Praying Mantis is known for its mountain, known as Standing Giant. If you’re driving on the highway you can just make out the formation of a giant standing carved in the mountains. In autumn, trees burst with vivid colors of burnt orange, Macintosh red, and rust brown. New England country houses are often spread out on an acre of land surrounded by vast forests. When I was a kid I would spend hours outside collecting leaves and pine cones and just exploring nature. And just like in the storybooks, families of beautiful deer would dash by the green yards.. Praying Mantis is a small community, and everyone knows your story. Outsiders stand out.

I come from a large, traditional Italian family. We are the Toscana family and proud of it. My great grandmother, Isabella, had eighteen children. Isabella used to put her infants in pulled-out dresser drawers to sleep due to the lack of beds. Inspired by this whole Italian tradition, my mother had four children: two boys—Francesco and Valentino, and two girls— Alexis and me.

Chapter One

I was blessed to travel the world and live in some incredible places.

My life and my story have been molded by extraordinary characters with different personalities on a different planet: My Planet. These are not people with easy, uncomplicated karmas. They are old souls who have raised me and shaped my life, my morals, and my inner strength.

I am sharing my stories because I made it out. My life was no cakewalk. There were struggles everywhere, and I went against the odds and leapt over the hurdles each time. It’s not where you start; it’s where you end up, and how you handle life when it kicks you in the teeth. I was able to get up each time—and eat pasta! I learned not to take my karma personally or let it define me. I used my painful lessons and turned around as on a diving board in order to succeed. My road had a narrow curve in it, and I had to reinvent myself each time. I adapted the concept “Everything happens for a reason,” and I still believe that individuals and situations come into our path for a reason: to teach, not to make us regret our decisions or look back in time. My story is chock full of adventures, some of them amazing and some just off the wall. Life is unpredictable and can change for better or worse in one snap of your finger. Reaping the ultimate rewards is really about accepting changes and having the courage to fail.

We grew up in a great neighborhood where everyone felt like family. Our horseshoe-shaped street was very safe. Playing “Kick the Can” was our favorite outdoor activity. There could be up to thirty of us kids playing at a time. We would take an old metal coffee can, kick it, and depending on where it landed, the nearest person was “it,” and a vigorous game of tag would begin. We were very active and always getting into trouble. We would pad our indoor staircase with sheets and fly down it on pillows like eagles over the ocean.

One day, Alexis was flying away on the stairs and down fell this black iron heavy metal birdcage hanging from the dark brown paneling.

Her big toe was severed, and blood gushed everywhere. The boys grabbed a tennis sock to try to conceal the situation, but I ran upstairs for help. My brothers pulled their usual routine and ran like a bat out of a butcher’s bag, fleeing from our hatch door downstairs, not wanting to deal with a leather belt punishment. Fortunately, her big toe was saved, but we had to invent a new game that was less risky. Francesco’s new game was a neighborhood berry fight. He convinced all the kids on our block to steal all the berries from the trees in each household and pile them into wooden buckets.

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All Roads Lead To Pasta Besides the messy clean up, my parents had to deal with livid neighbors because that spring none of their trees bloomed. That spring became known as the season of colorless trees.

That time, Francesco was not fortunate enough to escape a spanking. One would imagine that he learned his lesson by the sounds of his shouts. It took us hours of sweeping the streets and seeing the pavement covered completely in orange. It looked like Halloween. Francesco also had to go door-to-door apologizing for his misbehavior.

My mother was and still remains my hero and angel. Her beauty radiated inside and out, and practically every man and teenager in our small town had a crush on her. Amelia had been a model in her youth. Growing up, she was a perfect mom, cooking and cleaning and managing the restaurant passed down to her by her hard-working father. My mother would do anything for her children.

Yet my dad divorced her, split, and she was left alone. Along with leaving us behind, Antonio depleted our family’s hard-earned fortune.

Having no choice, she raised us four kids without a father in our household for some time. Amelia stayed strong and endured. She never took her situation personally.

My mom stood 5’9” with honey brown shoulder-length hair. Even now, her skin is like that of a porcelain doll barely showing any signs of aging, only a few gray hairs, and she’s 69. After all the years of adversity, age was never a factor. People actually think her grandchildren are her children because she looks so young. Her carefree personality brings happiness to everyone’s day. My mother is so kind that she would give a stranger her last dollar. She clipped inspiring articles for me each year and sent sentimental cards each holiday. She went so far as to read my horoscope to me each day.

She was and is the most loving person I know.

My mother also always kept me on track over the years. Often reminding me to have compassion and to be thankful for my blessings, she helped me handle the challenges that help to build character. Whenever I had a rough day, she pulled me out of my darkness every time in honor of Ally O., a girl from my hometown for whom my mother had an affinity. My mother opened her heart to others in such an extraordinary way, touching their lives. Amelia would quickly get past outward appearances. She would shed light on the suffering and always regarded life as a glass half-full.

Ally O. woke up one morning and found herself battling for her life. She

Chapter One had developed a flesh-eating disease that was literally eating away at her skin. Ally O. never quit, nor did she let her rare disease affect her desire to live. Her faith was so strong that she fought to add an extra decade to her life expectancy. She cherished life, even though her skin was disappearing along with her hair, and even though all her loved ones had become alienated from her, including her own mother, because they could not handle the course of her debilitating illness. Amelia saw her inner beauty and treated her like a human being, a person. Knowing someone cared gave Ally her hope and the will to live. Ally would have done anything to be well, but evidently God had a different plan for her.

Amelia was my teacher in life. She had an angelic quality about her. She prepared me for her death practically as soon as I came out of diapers, because when her own mom passed it was an extremely difficult transition. “Allegra,” she would tell me, “you must accept life and death and keep living when it is time; understand that it is meant to be. When I leave this universe I want you to promise me you will not mourn my loss, but rejoice in my life and keep living. The worst injustice in life you can commit is to stop living when life takes its natural course.” To this day, these words still make my stomach turn, but I know it is Amelia’s wish. We decided as mother and daughter we would come up with a sign to symbolize she is with me. We decided butterflies would be our symbol to know that we were in each other’s presence.

My darling mother taught me the true meaning of love, strength, dedication, and family, and she taught me not to take the lessons on our path personally.

Antonio, my biological father, had such a handsome face. He would light up any room like a Christmas tree. Very Italian looking, he had a medium build, olive skin, and an infectious swagger. Antonio dressed in suits with touches of gold on his cuffs and a gold Rolex watch. Women could not resist his sex appeal. His wavy thick hair had turned glistening silver gray in his early thirties. He had natural sophistication and confidence that could glide him into any social circle.

My dad was a famous saxophone player. He attended Juilliard School of Music and played with all of the most famous bands in the Seventies, from Duke Ellington to the Supremes. Music came naturally to

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him. I remember our shopping sprees at Bloomingdale’s when I would sit for hours listening to him play the piano. He could play anything I asked for just by ear. Growing up, I was daddy’s little girl, so of course in the early Eighties; the divorce was very hard on me.

Actually, divorce in an Italian family was uncommon and quite the taboo back then. I often found going to school uncomfortable because I knew our family was considered different—sometimes even defective— because of the divorce. I had to walk around knowing my daddy was no longer with us.

When it happened, I was so little that I was upset about it for many years. I couldn’t understand my father’s infidelity or his fights with my mother. He created an absence in my life. It hurt my heart to watch them separate, and it left me with a paralyzing fear of marriage. I spent many nights crying myself to sleep. I turned to prayer and often said the rosary, hoping that some miracle would save their marriage and restore their love.

I was frustrated, but I gained some comfort by creating an organized environment. I would hang out with my dog Olive, write songs, and tap dance to ease my pain.

It wasn’t until my father’s life was on the line that I gained a full appreciation for the man responsible for my existence. My mobile phone rang at ten o’clock one evening. It was my stepmother informing me that my dad’s internal organs were shutting down. To this day, I always have my mobile phone on me in ring mode.

What if today were to be my dad’s last day? What would my last words to him be?

One never thinks of such morbid situations until you find yourself driving like a Formula One racer down I-95 with your siblings driving toward the same destination at the same speed from opposite directions. We arrived at the hospital, and it was wonderful to see all the members of my family pulling together for the same cause. Mind you, on the bottom floor of the same hospital my stepfather was undergoing brain surgery.

At that point, my family obviously had our share of tension. The medical situations faced by my father and stepfather were parallel and equally severe. The doctors thought my stepfather was likely to enter a vegetative state like my grandmother. They warned my mother, “Your husband will not be able to walk or talk, and possibly not even eat.” But both my fathers made it out of danger with a free get-out-of-jail card. It was truly

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miraculous. These moments are precious because they help us understand how grateful we should be for what we have, shedding light on the lessons and progress people endure to determine their overall purpose.

My father was a master at fraudulent check writing, known as “The Legend.” A guy by the name of Lucky taught him all the tricks of the trade.

Antonio caught on so well he outsmarted his own teacher. He strolled from bank to bank dressed in his tailor- made Italian suits. The fresh scent of his Aqua di Parma cologne hypnotized the female tellers. Antonio always carried a designer leather briefcase. The other, more profound side of his personality showed that he had a big heart; that was how he managed to get away with so much. The bank tellers would lose their jobs. He would scam thousands of dollars out of them. The irony was that these women were apparently so smitten by him that there were never any consequences for his actions.

He managed to scam around $60,000 from every bank he targeted. The police were onto him, but he fled the banks so quickly that they couldn’t catch him. It was difficult to imagine getting away with such behavior in the Eighties, but it happened. Antonio was such a degenerate gambler he would do anything to play: exploit women, run card games out of the house, and take money from various bookies.

These bookies were usually attached to the mafia, and contracts were put on his head until the debt was paid. By some miracle he even managed to weasel his way out of getting knocked off. Antonio often danced with fire. He had luck on his side, to say the least. Time after time he would escape from each twisted predicament. He was a master manipulator, and getting the high of gambling was like heroin in his veins. In the end, it was not about the money; winning was his obsession. He liked the fast life more than he liked playing the homemaker, and so he chose women and gambling over staying home. In spite of all this, he always made it clear that he loved me unconditionally, and he was there for me all through the years, which is what mattered most to me.

We grew up comfortably: Cadillacs, great clothes, and a nice home in suburbs. And each child even had an individual Christmas tree. When the divorce hit, which, in retrospect, was inevitable, our money and lifestyle changed drastically. Everything was gone, even my dad’s favorite yellow Cadillac. To this day, I remember him running down the dark street with his pants down, chasing the tow truck that was hauling it away, only

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to fall on his face with all the neighbors rushing from their dinner tables to stare at him.

My dad’s lover Cindy was over the edge, calling our home and harassing my gentle, usually carefree mother. It’s difficult to imagine that Cindy was deeply upset because she was not invited to my first Holy Communion, but she had the audacity to complain to my mom.

My mother also had to watch her father’s fortune and family business slip away to the casino. My dad was into craps. He was a master at the tables for many years. I always knew when he won because he came home bearing gifts. As a kid, I always imagined the casino like Disney World for adults, full of happiness. My daddy came prancing in with collectible stuffed animals each time. One even resembled my German Shepherd Olive. Gipper, my stuffed monkey, was especially attached to me. If I could have showered with him, I would have. Gipper soon became so raggedy that my siblings wanted to throw him out, but there was no way I was going to let that happen. I protected my toys like they were gems; they meant the world to me because they were always there for me.

My dad could not wait to share the news with our family. There he sat in our swanky Seventies-style living room. I remember the clicks as he opened up a stylish leather suitcase. Once open, I could smell the green fresh bills from across the room. He piled the bills, thousands of them, into Francesco and Valentino’s hands. The boys made the money into footballs and started playing catch with it all in our vast back yard. It was a kind of foreshadowing of their fates even before they were grown. I sadly watched my mother as she look down in disappointment. She discreetly pulled my father into our marble foyer. I peeked around the corner eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I do not want this blood money in the house. It’s tainted and dirty.”

My dad’s face fell into an expression that looked like he’d lost his puppy.

Clearly this was not the reaction he had expected from my mother.

Of course, every Sunday meant football, and Antonio somehow always managed to be home in front of the television with his heaping dish of macaroni and freshly fried meatballs in his lap. There was always a crunchy loaf of Italian bread on hand; our family favorite was chicola bread fresh from the local bakery.

Antonio would have his three sea-foam-green rotary-dialed phones lined up in front of him with his note pad of bets, just like grandpa, who

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passed on his legacy. You didn’t dare to use the phone that day. God forbid if your unlucky friend called. You held your breath, cringing at the idea, praying it was one of my sibling’s friends. If you needed to call your friend on any Sunday, you were shit out of luck. If you were courageous enough to sidle into the room, you were lucky, but you were still asking for it. God forbid if you walked into the room and the other team scored. You would be a jinx for the day. But it was a risk you sometimes had to take.

Alexis had just enough guts to set foot into the den. She was obsessed with playing Atari there on a small television in the corner of the room. She would get away playing Space Invaders and Asteroids, and she was so competitive that she would flip the game. If she attempted Frogger or PacMan, it was guaranteed that she would get kicked out. Alexis was pretty tough, so even then she tried to stay and take heat.

Sunday football telecasts actually felt very comparable to being in church. Be respectful, don’t speak—just listen and pray to your lucky stars that that day Dad was winning. If Antonio was fortunate enough to win, the entire neighborhood was going to celebrate with mini cannoli and cups of espresso with shots of Sambuca, lemon rind on the side. If Dad lost, you didn’t even dare ring the doorbell or speak about the loss.

Antonio’s biggest downfall was in fact his big score in 1981, because he could never repeat it in the years that followed. His substantial win in the millions would haunt him for life. He admitted becoming so greedy that the mob offered to triple his winnings, but instead he gave the majority of his winnings straight back to the casino, and lost it in no time.

As a consequence of all this, my siblings and I have had a weird relationship with money, equating money and love until this very day. We always attempt to get back what we lost. My mother, in turn, always detested money and strongly felt it was the root of all evil.

In time, Amelia was left to handle some serious setbacks. She lost her mother, father, and favorite aunt all within that same year. My grandmother spent years in a vegetative state hooked up to machines and respirators. My mother would often ponder what seemed to be her challenging karma; she wondered if her destiny would have been different if my grandmother – her mother – had not had an abortion.

In time Nonna grew so ill with Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s that she couldn’t even recognize her own daughter. We watched helplessly as she

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suffered for years. Back in the Eighties, a “living will” or euthanasia were not possibilities.

Not a day passed that my mother did not visit the nursing home.

I tagged along with my mom because I knew these visits caused her great torment. The smell of urine and the succession of disappointed faces made saddened me even as a young kid. My great aunt Bella was on the same floor as Nonna. I fondly remember spending hours with Bella, twirling around singing and playing Ring Around the Rosie. I can still hear my grandmother’s moans as her body withered away. Withstanding this, I promised myself that I would never become that way or let anyone I loved suffer so terribly. My Nonna and her sister died one week apart, and we found out about Nonna in the most hurtful way: When we made our daily visit, we simply found an empty bed.

My grandfather Don died of a broken heart and too much indulgence soon after these losses. His high blood pressure and cholesterol were off the charts from all the rich Italian food with which he sought comfort.

He got my mother to smuggle sandwiches into his hospital room, and he hid them under his pillow. My grandpa’s famous quote was, “I lived my entire life eating salt and I will die eating salt. No one is going to take that away from me!” He was practical and he kept his life simple; especially in cooking, less was more. My grandparents were outstanding cooks and they dedicated their entire lives to the art. Nonna was a master at making pasta.

Everyone admired her fluffy and light hand-rolled gnocchi. She would cover dishes of pasta with her homemade sauce and freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

After Amelia’s loved ones passed, her own health weakened. She no longer had her emotional foundation, and her finances were nonexistent.

My mom was forced to have an emergency hysterectomy, and adding to this, she developed pneumonia. Her body was clearly run down, and she cried herself to sleep each night. Amelia wiped her tears and made many sacrifices to manage the household. She had to give up both her livelihood and lifestyle. Those years were extremely trying for her and for our family.

It was simply shattering to watch my mother lose everything. We soon had to live on welfare.

My siblings came up with a plan. They all worked at our hometown supermarket, and they would steal steaks and all kinds of food simply by not scanning it through the register. It was like Christmas the moment they

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entered the door. Alexis and Valentino felt proud to help out. It was thrilling to rummage through the bags of pasta, luscious meats, and cheeses.

That year, my parents’ separation made attending elementary school almost unbearable. It was particularly embarrassing not to be like the other kids. I ate hot lunch at school because of our lack of money. I had to use food stamps, which were a bright blue ticket that pretty much indicated, “You are poor” in bold black letters. I would lie and pretended to eat each day just so that I wouldn’t have to reveal that noticeable piece of cardboard or have to explain to my classmates what it was, or why I did not have money for lunch. It was difficult to go from having a lot of money to having none; it felt like punishment. The irony was that my peers thought it was something special – gosh, if they ever knew the truth! Luckily, that year my secret was never exposed. My mother was in a horrible predicament and was forced to survive. Therefore, marriage was her only answer.

Bobby V. would always go to my parents’ restaurant; that’s how he began flirting with my mom. My dad knew Bobby V.’s background, and he knew he was one person you did not want to cross.

My dad had to move on. Her name was Nelly, and she changed his life. She was twenty years younger, Italian-American, and a waitress at my parents’ restaurant. Nelly would actually babysit Alexis and me and take us on a glorious day. She was a good friend of our family, including my mother. Nelly and my dad wedded soon after the divorce and after my mom settled in with Bobby V. I can always see in my dad’s eyes that he regretted the loss of their love and his mistakes with women, but his pride would never allow him to admit it.

Nelly fit into our family perfectly; she cooked, cleaned, and straightened out my unruly father. I had to see it to believe it. She positively changed his entire personality. Nelly was voluptuous and loved to dress up.

My mother was a more natural beauty. My dad went from a gambling Casanova musician to a faithful loving husband, and yes, he became a father for the fifth time. My mother, who had a sixth sense, often predicted that he would have one more child—with a new mate. It was eerie that Amelia was always right. Antonio, Jr., was born with olive skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. My dad made up for all the years he was absent from us by raising Antonio, Jr., attached to his hip.

In his new marriage, Antonio was under a microscope, something

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my mother did not have the energy, desire, or force to generate during their marriage. Antonio checked in with Nelly hourly and drove Antonio Jr. everywhere. Bobby V. also was friendly with my stepmother from the restaurant. Bobby V. put it simply: Antonio had no choice but to be faithful. “Nelly,” he said, “would kill him if he cheated.” Nelly had dedicated her life to my dad with unconditional love. My mother, though sickened by Antonio, was in love with her children, and my dad deeply resented this love. In actuality, Nelly suited his personality more closely and she gave him the emotional attention he needed.

Antonio, Jr., was an enigma in our family soft-spoken, quiet, and extremely academic. Ironically, Antonio and AJ were so close that they defined each other’s worlds. Antonio had finally found a purpose that distracted him from his dice, and he did everything with AJ. My little brother was a wonderful kid—the polar opposite of us. My dad tried introducing him into the party scene, but my little brother had no interest. His focus was truly inspiring.

Antonio loved being there for his new family. In a weird way, it gave him purpose, and he was content with his situation. Now retired, he still sneaks to the tables during the day. It’s actually rather comical. Every so often when I check in with him, I hear the comforting noise of slot machines in the background as he quickly signs off: “Love you, baby, will call you back later.”

Some things never change, and it still baffles my father that he cannot get his luck back after all these years. To his defense, he is a very strategic player. I have studied him over the years. However, luck comes and goes in waves, and he has yet to capture it the way he had it before. For Antonio, the casino makes him feel young and alive in his retirement phases, and the infinite love that Nelly and AJ extend to him gives him the balance he needs to become a wonderful father the fifth time around.

My father taught me the gift of unconditional love and forgiveness.

He made me realize the gift of a parent’s love is essential in life, regardless of the past.

Bobby V. was quite a looker in his day. In high school, he was the best looking guy in his class, captain of the hockey team, and voted most likely to succeed. And even in later life, Bobby V. had the looks of a movie star. His hair was a thick golden brown that shimmered in the light. He had the broadest shoulders I have ever seen. His attire was always meticulously

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perfect; he usually wore a sports jacket, with his Italian-made button-down shirt neatly tucked into his tailored trousers. He polished his shiny shoes himself each day. Bobby V. was obsessive about his looks and cleanliness.

He would wear cologne to bed and he often kidded around with me about it, saying “Allegra, you never know whom you will meet in your dreams.”

Bobby V. sported his gangster oversized sunglasses. He really had the badboy look and the personality to match it. He was just shy of six feet tall and solid as a rock. He had a tattoo of a sword going through a bleeding heart, and it was a most revealing depiction of his outlook on life. Bobby V. was all about ironing and dry cleaning—a quality most unexpected. Bobby V. came into Amelia’s life as a hero and whisked away from all her problems seducing her in a ten- year whirlwind romance. Through the years, they actually built an unconditional love together. Amelia’s heart was so pure it was bound to happen. Until his years of partying and living on the edge caught up with him.

My mother and I had just gone to the movies and seen a romantic comedy. After the movie, we indulged in a nice Italian dinner and had some great laughs. When we entered the house. It was dark, and there was an uncomfortable silence in the air. Where is Bobby V? we wondered. My mom and I split up. I decided to take the first floor. She took the downstairs floor. I screamed for my mom, “Help! He’s in a puddle of blood and is white as a sheet!”

They say cats have nine lives; I am starting to get the impression Bobby V. has ninety. He has had several triple bypasses, brain surgery, respiratory issues and strokes. Each time he came out of it like a bull. The doctors truly believed he was a medical miracle. My great aunt Trieste would often kid around, “What did you do to God to make him so angry?”

Bobby V. lay helpless in his hospital bed. He was in really bad shape, and a kind priest came by to bless him. Bobby V. said, “Get the hell out of here!

The last time I saw a priest I was going to confirmation classes just before I was locked up for ten years. Don’t do me any favors.”

Marrying an Irishman with power and looks was mother’s only way out. Marriage with him was literally till death did you part. The mafia had contracts on all of Amelia’s children, which in fact includes me--that is, if she ever left him. It’s been twenty-five years, and she is still cooking and cleaning for him. She is Bobby V’s around-the-clock nurse. Her dream was to become a nurse, and ironically she had become one in a roundabout

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way. It is often said that in life you must be careful what you wish for. Amelia considered leaving him, but knowing that her most prized possessions in the world, her children, could be killed was enough to keep her in an awkward existence.

Bobby V. popped pain pills as if they were candy, rotating between Oxycontin and Percocet. His pain went deep into his soul both physically and emotionally. His oldest trick was phoning his primary doctor for a refill. He often claimed that his pills spilled down the drain. His other obvious play was going to the hospital. Bobby V. battled mood swings that went up and down like a roller coaster.

Just to give you an idea: The ambulance drivers and fire department were on a first-name basis. He was rushed to the hospital at least once a month for two decades. We would find him practically frozen in the bushes outside the house, or passed out in a car in the projects. Thank heavens for good health insurance! Amelia just dealt with it, smiling and playing the hand life had dealt her. She was content cooking and caring for us children, and she found peace in doing these things.

Bobby V. was most feared in the Northeast. He had a silent guarantee that no one would “fuck with him,” especially not my father. He raised us girls very strictly. We had early curfews, a full hour before our peers, which caused friction for years. Looking back, he did help Alexis and me to become respectful. My siblings were really living on the edge when they got wind of the divorce. Our house was known as the party place: best food, top-shelf booze, and endless fun. There were kegs funneling in. It was quite a landmark party spot in Praying Mantis’s high school history. Couples were screwing in bathrooms, under-age drinking was everywhere in the house, complete with keg stands and, of course, there were drugs. We had a full leather burgundy bar with every liquor you could dream of.

One night, my mother was out on a date with Bobby V. and when she entered the house, all hell broke loose. My sister was planning on going to a Beastie Boys concert with Samantha. For the first time in her life, she was punished. Bobby V. was behind my mom’s new backbone, which made us kids bitter, but they were right: We were out of control. In my sibling’s defense, divorce will change people. Separation was devastating at times, especially when we were known to have the coolest parents in my town.

And in one flash, the money was gone and so was the laid-back environment.

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My mother actually trumped my dad by marrying a gangster hit man from the Italian-American mafia. The world feared him, and it was the only way she could get rid of my dad -- his lies, his women, and the hurt he left behind. My stepfather had had a disappointing upbringing and had been shifted from house to house. In time, Bobby V. felt so excluded and got on the wrong path for many years. He found a home in organized crime, drugs, and booze. When his regal Irish mother, Regina, passed, a part of his soul died with her. Regina was an heir to a famous beer company. Unfortunately, Regina died when Bobby V. was a mere teenager, and he never saw a dime of an inheritance. Bobby V. lived a life on the edge. He partied at the Plaza and lived in Palm Beach. He had three children that he now chooses not to associate with, refusing to unleash too many painful memories. As for alcohol, it does not agree with him; it makes him violent.

Since he married my mother and “started over,” he decided to stay away from booze.

Living with Bobby V. was like walking on eggshells. But he did teach me manners—and always to watch my back. Bobby V. was in prison for a decade. Back in the eighties, his sort of prison was like a country club: steaks, pasta, drugs, you name it. He gained considerable respect and endless credit with the mob because he was not a “stool pigeon”—he didn’t snitch for his freedom. When he was locked up, he would read books constantly to stimulate his mind, something one would not expect. The FBI tailed him for years, and after all his bloodshed, they only got him on a petty crime. He was busted on a money extortion charge that was minimal, considering all the rest that was going on with him. Bobby V. was an expert at covering his tracks, but eventually the FBI was bound to catch him.

Bobby V. was all about etiquette and being considerate to his elders, and this could be attributed almost entirely to his mother Regina. Alexis and I were not allowed to have boys in our bedrooms, and reaching over someone at the dinner table was unheard of. In prison, respect was key.

Someone would kill you sooner or later if you lacked it.

Bobby V. also caused strife in our family. He kicked out each of us one by one with the belief that when you turned eighteen, you had to survive on your own. Francesco took it the hardest and it caused some distance between him and my mother. But he soon flourished and bought a condo in his early twenties. Still, he had been forced to become a man not on his own terms.

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For my part, I would get locked out of the house at least once a week. Fortunately, my best friend, Samantha, lived around the corner. (She was actually my sister’s best friend.) Her long model-like legs and figure caught much attention. She would let me crash at her mom’s. Samantha stood 5’11”, was skinny as a rail, and acquired the name “ring a bell.” My stepfather named her this because she would never knock when she came to our house, she just walked in.

Due to his background, Bobby V. did not like surprises and was always ready to have a gun pointed between his eyes. When he married my mother, he was still partying Tony Montana-style. Most of the time, scattered everywhere around the house were mounds of cocaine on hand-held mirrors.

When I first discovered his blow, I freaked out. I felt like I was the lead actress in some after-school special. I distinctly remember chatting on the phone with Sam while opening and closing the desk drawer. Eventually, I noticed the mountain of powder inside. I immediately ran upstairs to confess what my innocent eyes had discovered. My mom took a stern stand: “Allegra, mind your own business.” And that is exactly what I did for those ten years.

Bobby V. was often hyped-up, full of adrenaline. “Prison changes you,” my mom maintained in his defense.

Anyway, Bobby V. partied like that into his late fifties. In fact, he did not fear death. He smoked two packs of Marlboros daily, with all the windows closed in his vintage convertible black Cadillac. The whole house smelled like cigarettes—in fact, the smell was everywhere: in our hair and clothing even after washing. I detested riding in his old-school Caddy.

Because I was just a kid, I was pretty well sheltered. I remember thinking Bobby V.’s weed was oregano for my mom’s Sunday pasta. My best friend’s who attended boarding school in Maine clued me in that it was marijuana, not some cooking herb. And boy, did Bobby V. notice everything, which is probably why I turned out to be a good kid. Amelia still speaks of her wealthy Jewish suitor named Rod, who was head-over-heels in love with her before Bobby V. She had to pass up on Rod because she knew my relentless dad would destroy their love.

We were convinced that Amelia’s home-cooking kept Bobby V. alive all those years. Every month, Amelia’s perpetual visits to the hospital also kept him strong. Clearly he would never give up without a fight. He paid

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for his twenty years of bad karma with continually failing health. The fact of the matter is that Bobby V.’s lack of fear enabled him to escape his fate over and over again. Mom felt Bobby V. was suffering because he made so many people suffer in his youth.

Bobby V. taught me never to give up in life, and to exercise compassion by putting myself in someone else’s shoes before judging. He also gave me the motivation that was required to be an independent woman.

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Chapter 2

La Famiglia

I had a totally mapped-out existence growing up, thanks to my older, more social sister Alexis. She was prom queen, captain of the cheerleading team, and the most sought-after girl in high school. Alexis had straight brown hair that reached the middle of her back and olive skin that instantly revealed her Mediterranean background. She had a perfect petite body, with curves in all the right places. My sister never had to work on her figure and still prides herself, even after four children, on the fact she can eat whatever she wants and still look fabulous. She was popular and glamorous, refusing to walk out of our house without full makeup perfectly painted, wearing all the trendiest jewelry, clothing and hair styled just right. Alexis really looked like a soap opera star, and was even made up when she gave birth. She was a strict challenge as well, and did not lose her virginity until after high school.

As her younger sister living fully in her shadow, I followed in Alexis’s footsteps. I constantly had to fight for an identity other than being known as “Alexis’s little sister.” I always wished I had the confidence to tell everyone in Praying Mantis, “I have a lot to offer to the world, and I have a name. It’s Allegra, and I am my own person!” Alexis was born with natural maternal instincts, and she filled in for my mom when she was working, which was majority of her waking time. She would accompany me to my dance competitions and coach me when I practiced. She made sure I was perfectly prepared for each and every routine.

Alexis began dating Francesco and Valentino’s best friend, Vincent.

Extremely handsome, with blue eyes and light blond hair, he stood over six feet tall. Even Bobby V. approved of him because he played hockey with Vincent’s dad. “Alexis,” he would say, “you know you are never going to do better than a Targetti!” Vincent came from a wonderful family, and he had a crush on Alexis for years, eventually winning her attention. Each week, Vincent would drive Alexis to and from her two night jobs. They were

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together for years until one day Alexis decided she wanted to explore.

Her change of heart destroyed Vincent’s dream. He moved down South to cope with their break-up, but in time, Vincent decided to return home.

He found construction work with Valentino and his best friend Josh. It was Alexis’s birthday weekend at the time. She was dating Lance, a fully established guy who was head over heels in love with her. He went to great lengths to impress her, arranging a five-star weekend with champagne, ripe strawberries, and a romantic candlelit dinner.

Suddenly, her quiet romantic life took a dreadful turn. Vincent’s older sister, Julie, made the ghastly phone call to inform Alexis that her precious Vincent had been in a terrible car accident and was near death.

“It’s not looking too good,” she told my sister. Vincent and Josh, along with two workers, had been heading for a job in Maine. They were on the road for hours in the middle of the night, and Josh eventually fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a tree.

Josh died instantly that night. The three others, Vincent among them, went into comas. Vincent’s sister, who was extremely close to Alexis, knew that reaching out to her would be “the right thing to do.” Finding out that her heart belonged to Vincent was a pivotal moment in my sister’s life.

She left Lance that birthday weekend and never turned back. When Vincent came out of his coma, Alexis was right by his side holding his hand, and she knew her love for him would last forever. And she has stood by Vincent ever since. We still kid around with Alexis and often remind her that it took Vincent’s brush with death to acknowledge what was right in front of her the whole time. In turn, Vincent’s love for Alexis is consistent and unconditional, and my family could not have been happier than when they became husband and wife.

Everything Alexis did in her life was done with perfection, including her wedding day. Ever since she was a teenager, Alexis dreamed of getting married and dancing to “My Endless Love” on her wedding day. My eyes moistened as I watched her dreams come true before my very eyes.

Now with a big family of her own, Alexis has shown me the importance of having your identity as well as the gift of children. In fact, she’s my inspiration for wanting a strongly bonded family of my own.

I was in my office. Autumn had arrived. The weather was mild, with temperatures in the low sixties. I had an amazing day working out, enjoy-

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ing the change of season. At around six o’clock my mobile phone rang. It was Francesco, my oldest brother. I heard a voice, but it was not Francesco at all. It was my father – his voice serious and nervous. My heart sank as I heard him say, “Francesco was rushed to the ER. His left arm got numb.

Francesco could not breathe, and his heart rate was out of control. They are trying to stabilize him.”

With one phone call, my perfect day had become perfectly dreadful. I had been printing my paper for writing class. Immediately in a panic, I phoned my best friend, Samantha, to ask her what I should do. Samantha has such a level head. “You are going to ditch class,” she explained, “calmly get into your car, and head to the hospital.” I did just as she advised: laced up my chocolate leather boots, zipped up my black sweatshirt, and pulled my black cashmere hat onto my head.

I ran to my car and sped at 95 mph in 55 mph zones without flinching, cutting the one-hour drive to the hospital down to 35 minutes. As my oldest brother, Francesco was someone I looked up to. He was only 40 years old—I had to be there.

As I drove down the parkway through the darkness, I thought about how important Francesco’s life was to our family. Francesco was the first-born, and the most hard-working member of my family, following in my grandfather’s footsteps. Just under six feet tall, Francesco looked more like my father’s side of the family with his jet-black hair, chiseled features, olive skin—and boy, what a personality. He was stubborn and critical just like my grandfather, but very clever and extremely loyal. Francesco would help anyone in a pinch, including me. He was a successful businessman, all about making the money, and in many ways he served as a father figure in my life.

Ever since his boyhood, Francesco had loved animals and would make sure he brought a new pet home each week, from frogs to bunnies and everything in between. As an adult, he has five Hawaiian parrots, two Persian cats, two German Shepherds, a Dalmatian, a Lab, several bunnies, and a pond of coy fish. Everything he owns makes him money, including his cars and animals. When his German Shepherds had puppies, he made a tidy sum selling them. He even tried to convince me to marry his Italian friend who needed citizenship to make a quick $75,000. I mean really!

Some of his plans are far-fetched, to say the least.

Francesco started off by following the legacy of our grandfather and

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went to culinary school, graduating first in his class. He actually obtained a full scholarship to Johnson and Wales, but elected to go old school straight into earning money. My mother encouraged my brother to follow his passion. She would drive him to and from work at a popular Italian restaurant in the middle of the night just so that he could follow his dream.

Eventually, Francesco got fed up with cooking and the life of a chef.

He decided to focus on construction and he unexpectedly developed a very lucrative business. When I was debating between jobs, he would sort me out. “Allegra,” he would say, “something is always better than nothing or just waiting around for the next big opportunity.” He actually took me under his wing when Bobby V. kicked me out of the house, and allowed me to live in his home, which helped me immensely. I actually was able to earn my Master’s degree because of his kindness.

In graduate school, I became obsessed with my weight. I developed a trick: I would not eat but would drink Metamucil throughout the day.

I was scary skinny, and my caring brother threatened to break down the door unless I gave up my Metamucil. Thanks to Francesco I decided to kick that bad habit. We were able to laugh about the incident for years after.

Then there was the time he took me car shopping and taught me how to hustle a deal. When I did start making money, I would spend all of it on shopping. I would sneak my new purchases inside under my clothes or just leave them in my SUV. One day, Francesco busted me in the act and was a good sport about it. He taught me financial responsibility and how to balance my checkbook. One night when Francesco was away, and I was house sitting for him. His friend decided to stop by at midnight, and he tried to stuff an envelope through the letter slot on the door. He was mumbling, and I could not understand him. I didn’t realize that his mouth was wired shut. I thought someone was trying to break in. Adding to the confusion, Francesco’s German Shepherds set off the alarm system. I phoned my father, and he called the police. When Francesco found out, he nearly killed me, but as I said to him, “What kind of jackass drops off money in the middle of the night?”

Francesco spent years looking for the right woman, and each time it failed. He was extremely faithful. Over the years, he battled gaining weight.

It actually took heartbreak for him to keep off the pounds. He remained in a ten-year relationship with a successful red headed businesswoman from Manhattan named Lauren. Our family adored her in every way. She was

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friendly but super independent, which ultimately hindered their relationship.

The day that Francesco planned to propose to her, they got into a serious fight that ended their relationship. Poor Francesco spent countless months dealing with diamond mines in Africa to build a symbolic ring that would express his love. When he went off to Mexico to blow off some steam from the break-up, he got into a fight with some punks. When he went to throw a punch, the guy ducked, and he ended up punching a brick wall. Francesco had to cut his trip short to take care of his broken hand.

When he returned home, I was housesitting for him. Samantha and I were sleeping in his master bedroom. He met this girl at a club, and they came back to his place to have drinks. Never thinking of long-term commitment. When she set foot into the house, she assumed that I owned the home and that I was a lesbian because Samantha and I had crashed together upstairs. Francesco, after a decade of waiting, fell head over heels in love with Ingrid in just a few months.

Ingrid suited his personality better. She would not take shit from him and was comfortable catering to him. She adopted the Italian culture and even learned how to become an excellent cook. When Francesco got married, he looked as if he’d won the lottery. I actually have never seen my brother so happy. He grinned from ear to ear. Since then, he has put on weight and actually has a belly now. Ingrid and Francesco have two beautiful children, Gabriella and Francesco, Jr. Gabby has poker straight honey hair and she’s an angel. She is totally daddy’s little girl. Francesco Jr. is as energetic as his father. He is very witty and has no trouble expressing himself. The last time we were together, I asked him, “How’s school going?” He looked up with his big brown eyes and said: “It sucks.”

Francesco found love in a situation he would never have thought twice about. He taught me to have a strong work ethic, to stand up for myself, and showed me that power and aggression in the business world are the same qualities we’re referring to when we call someone “street smart.”

Valentino was the second-born in my family and has a more timid soul and a heart of gold. He has pale skin, curly dark hair, and a mole on his cheek. Valentino would do anything Francesco asked of him.

Back in the ’80s, my parents owned an Italian restaurant, La Famiglia, which catered to the local business community. Breakfast began at five

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in the morning, and lines consistently formed. Grandma Annie would start her hearty soup recipes: Italian wedding, split pea, lentils, and pasta fagioli with ditalini pasta. Grandma would also get a head start on the lasagna the day before to let the flavors develop for an entire day, and let all of her savory ingredients to come together like magic. La Famiglia, as my mom described it, was a comedy show and the animated characters were always there waiting for their dish of homemade pasta and daily specials.

Located in the heart of Praying Mantis, La Famiglia was the place to be. The restaurant was vast and simply decorated with a long counter overlooking the kitchen. The place could easily seat over a hundred people any given day. Everyone in the Toscana family pitched in at the restaurant.

It was a family assembly line, and we made a great team until dad got a deep gambling itch. The restaurant’s profits went in and out like the wind, fast and furious.

Francesco was helping in the kitchen. He’d had a passion for cooking from the time he was a little boy. Valentino was in charge of the catering end of the business. Alexis and I would help Grandma mix the ground beef and family recipes, and we would help out on the floor if things got busy. With a smile that lit up everyone’s day, Mom was always at the cash register. Mom would pick me up from Auntie Trieste’s nursery school, and I basically grew up with La Famiglia as my babysitter.

On a hot summer afternoon at the restaurant, the boys decided they wanted something sweet. Francesco, about ten years old at the time, wanted ice cream from across the street. As Francesco left the family restaurant for the ice cream shop across the street, Valentino scurried behind him like a puppy. Francesco noticed he was short on cash, and ordered Valentino to run back across the street to get more money. Valentino ran into the middle of the road not even noticing the pickup truck coming at him.

On impact, Valentino flipped in the air, he was in such shock he landed on his feet and continued running to make sure Francesco had the money he needed for ice cream. By some miracle, Valentino was not hurt. He would move mountains for Francesco just to gain his approval.

Valentino got into big trouble when he crossed the wrong kid in high school—the son of a Hell’s Angel. His ear was going to be chopped off for kicking the shit out of this guy that beat up Alexis’s close girlfriend.

Valentino took it upon himself to go to his home, drag him outside onto his front lawn, and beat him bloody. Bobby V. was his only savior; with a

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couple of phone calls, he saved Valentino’s life.

Valentino fell in love with a model named Ashley. She had big lips, piercing eyes, and a sexy look that really made her stand out. Ashley instantly took me under her wing. hooking me up with her modeling agency that catered to the Latino community. My portfolio turned out beautifully, and ironically made me look very ethnic. I was very tan, and the photographs were extremely sexy.

The agent, Julio, was a bit slimy by nature, and he proposed to have a photo shoot and wanted Alexis to be a part of it as well. My mother was not so convinced but eventually agreed upon it, because she could see that Alexis and I were so enthusiastic. One week before the excursion to the Caribbean, Alexis, who was friends with a local broadcaster, heard about a scam where models were being kidnapped, shipped to the Islands, and forced to engage in sexual acts. The trip was called off, and our relationship with that agency ended. To make it up to me, Ashley offered to let me go down to Motor Vehicles and get my photo with her driver’s license.

At the age of sixteen, I was on the map, able to get into any bar or club during my high school years. It was really risky, but it meant unlimited freedom at my fingertips. I had always wanted to be a grown-up and catch up to Alexis, and now my wish had been granted.

Based on our father and Francesco’s example, Valentino thought gambling was extremely glamorous, and he got in over his head throughout his entire adult years. Francesco bailed him out time and time again, knowing how much his younger brother looked up to him. Valentino owes Francesco so much money that he’s lost count over the years.

Unlike our father and Francesco, Valentino doesn’t know how to quit, and he has often landed himself in some nasty predicaments that jeopardized his life and even the well-being of his family.

I once received an unexpected call from Valentino begging me for a $100,000 loan. “Allegra, if you ever want to see your brother again you will help me!” His timing couldn’t have been worse. My industry was faltering.

I took big loss in my investments, and my jumbo mortgage was depleting my cash flow. I was also on the brink of breaking up with Jack, my fiancé.

I told Valentino to reach out to our father. I said, “I wish I could help you bro, but my hands are tied.” My father stepped in and worked out a negotiation with the relentless bookie who had threatened his son’s life.

Valentino met Elise and fell in love in high school marrying his

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sweetheart in their early twenties, and that forced him to grow up fast. To this very day, Elise is so madly in love with Valentino that she’s convinced he can do no wrong. She has stuck by Valentino through his countless affairs, including those with the wives of his clients. Valentino seems too innocent to cheat, but cheat he does.

In fact, Valentino even takes risks with women. He was a bodyguard for a genius, a multimillionaire who is an inventor devoted to developing cures for diseases, currently working on a cure for cancer. Once Valentino was invited in for a cup of coffee and got more than he bargained for. The scientist’s hot bombshell wife greeted him. She immediately began stripping down, unveiling her D-cup breasts and her petite tan body. Valentino still brags about how his gun dented their granite counter top from banging her so hard in the kitchen. Valentino had a gig. He got double bonuses that year. He was a kept man. The affair with his boss’s wife went on for an entire year without getting discovered, but eventually the family had to move for his career.

Elise had an unconditional love for her husband. She would move mountains for him and she overlooked all of his shortcomings. Her love for him has increased his fondness for her over the years. They have two beautiful children, Zack and Sky. Zack is the double of Valentino personality-wise, and Sky strongly resembles her mom physically. Valentino has seen much darkness from excessive gambling, and he continues to play the tables, just like our father. His positive and comical outlook on life encouraged me not to take life’s journey too seriously.

Being the youngest, the so-called “baby of the family,” I always had something to prove and I’ll admit I am deeply determined. It was difficult for me to adjust to a new younger brother. I am certain all families have a hidden vault of secrets that is never opened. Italian families are notorious for this, especially my mother Amelia. If something was not perfect, she hid it under the rug, and the past always went unrevealed. I am exactly the opposite. I would rather the world knew exactly where I came from and where I am going, for people to understand my soul, my pain, and my happiness.

My uncle Roberto stood six-feet-four-inches tall. He was very handsome, with thick, curly dark hair, and he weighed over 250 pounds.

Uncle Roberto was a good soul. Francesco considered him our young, cool uncle. Unfortunately, he was born with obsessive-compulsive disorder cou-

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pled with bipolar-mania. My grandparents dedicated their entire existence to finding ways to make him happy. My mother described her childhood as “upsetting.” My grandparents were workhorses, and she felt sorry that her younger brother could not find fulfillment. Roberto loved the drums and had a vintage electric blue drum set. He adored playing, and music turned out to be a fantastic outlet for him. In fact, Roberto eventually became an excellent musician.

My mother was ignored when she was growing up because of the focus on Roberto. As a result, she did not have a close relationship with her parents, only respect, but she made up for it by making sure she stayed close to her own children. My mother and I are like sisters, which has made me feel so blessed over the years.

Roberto grew up, and with his great looks, height, and talent, he won the heart of a charming Italian girl Angelica. He fell madly in love with her, but the lack of knowledge back then regarding his disease controlled his destiny; lithium was known as the “go-to” golden seal drug. He broke off his relationship with Angelica, not wanting her to have to deal with his illness and raise a family. My grandparents were devastated, but at the time it was the noble stand for him to take. In time, Roberto found a new love.

Eva was Italian, straight off the boat from Sicily. Eva and Roberto met at a mental hospital. Eva was actually a paranoid schizophrenic, which is one of the most challenging disease states, due in part to the patient’s lack of compliance when it came to taking medication.

Eva also had a jealous streak that reached new heights. My uncle Roberto felt comfortable with her. They decided to marry and they soon had a child, Roberto Jr. He was such an adorable baby: big green eyes, porcelain skin like that of my mother, and very healthy. The family had a new treasure. It was the first time my uncle truly seemed happy. When we were kids, Uncle Roberto was the coolest. He would play his version of hide-and-seek where we would hide behind objects, but he would remain on the couch. He entertained us for hours. It’s no wonder fatherhood came so naturally to him.

Life seemed to fall into place for the newlyweds. Eva was stunning with her jet-black hair that reached her lower back and deep emerald green almond shaped eyes. Her beauty was irresistible, and Roberto Jr. resembled both parents. In the beginning, my aunt and uncle would bring Roberto

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Jr. over for family outings and dinners. Suddenly, everything came to a halt when Eva’s sickness set in. She became jealous of all the women in our family, including my mother and us girls. As a result, Uncle Roberto, who had been so compliant over the years, began skipping his medication. In no time, his tranquility vanished. It was depressing. We were no longer allowed to associate with my uncle or his family. Three years passed, and little conversation surrounded the void as my uncle and his family disappeared from our life. During these three years, poor Roberto Jr. lived in utter turmoil. We did not find out until it was too late.

It was a typical Friday night, as the story goes. Uncle Roberto went to pick up a pizza. Eva’s paranoia at this point was cycling out of control.

When she noticed a woman working at the restaurant smile at my uncle, it was deadly. When Eva and Roberto entered the house along with Roberto Jr., it amounted to my uncle’s last pizza ever. Eva’s emotions exploded like a volcano. She began drinking red wine; she apparently was quite a drunk. In the three years we were absent, she turned to alcohol. Eva would drink in lieu of taking her medication. Knowing Eva’s disease state, this amounted to practically suicide, exacerbating a very dangerous situation.

Eva began striking my uncle with her high-heeled shoe. Roberto called Edward, my great uncle, who convinced Roberto to “just sleep it off ” because “it will be better by morning.” These words were to haunt my Uncle Edward for the rest of his life. Roberto had cried wolf so often that Edward didn’t realize that this time he had the ability to save Roberto. Uncle Roberto, at the young age of forty, was pronounced dead; they said he had a severe heart attack and head trauma from all the conflict. Eva killed him that night, but got away with it by pleading insanity. Deemed unfit to take care of herself, let alone a child, she was shipped off to a mental hospital.

My mother received the phone call that her only brother had passed away. I remember her expression as she heard the horrible news.

She dropped the phone and fell to her knees in pain crying. Roberto was her only immediate family member. Now he was gone. She would have to pick up the scattered pieces.

She started by assuming guardianship of little Roberto. We found Roberto Jr. locked in a bedroom like an animal. He was naked and dirty from poor hygiene. He was malnourished. Roberto had nothing in his bedroom, just a green stained carpet. The only toy Roberto had was his imagination. He would rip pieces of white paper into strips and twirl them

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around.

I remember holding back my tears. It was horrid to witness my first cousin in such inhuman condition. What had they done to this poor child?

My mother and Bobby V. decided to adopt him and have him move in with us. Bobby V. felt great sympathy for him and could relate to his circumstances, being from a broken home himself.

Both Bobby V. and Antonio both became amazing fathers overnight. They changed their corrupt lives in a positive way. The first month Roberto couldn’t relate to a bed, so he slept on the floor, and he had terrible night terrors. Roberto’s memories of seeing his father’s dead body on the floor plagued him for months. It was heart wrenching to watch an innocent boy cope with such loss. It took our household months to help him adjust to living in a loving and nurturing home.

We taught Roberto Jr. to use a knife and fork. Amelia, who was basically the best mother in the world, was up for the challenge, and overnight I became Roberto’s big sister. We developed a tight bond over the years, from bickering as kids to developing one of the closest bonds in my life. I protected Roberto Jr. like an older sister. He has added more joy to my life than I could ever have expected. The love Roberto Jr. felt from our Italian family changed the odds for him in a positive way. He actually grew up as a healthy, normal kid. He has an outstanding work ethic and respect for people, which is especially impressive.

Roberto Jr. not only attended Yale, where he earned a bachelor’s degree, but he also married his soul mate. His wife can relate to his past as her own family battles mental illness. I watched Roberto, all grown up at twenty-five, with tears of joy as he walked down the aisle with the love of his life, Kate. He recently bought a house and they began trying to have their first child. Miracles can come true, and Roberto Jr. is living proof. We are not born into our destiny. We can create change through all challenges and go against the odds and endure to be the best we can possibly be.

I remember the moment the hospice phoned Uncle Edward to order Zia, a.k.a. Aunt Trieste, a bed at home. I was shortly off to Europe and knew in my gut this was my last goodbye. I remember watching the nurse pulling the curtains as the doctor adjusted her morphine drip. I could not hold back my tears; Zia was like a grandmother to me. Uncle Edward stood by her side until her eyes closed forever.

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The day Zia died, he died too, in spirit. My mother overheard the two doctors watching Edward’s loss as he walked away with his head lowered in defeat. As one doctor remarked as he covered Zia’s cold body with a white sheet, “When a couple gets that old, it would be better if they both died in a plane crash together.”

Zia waited for me to return to American soil before passing, and she became my inspiration to travel. Zia was a world traveler herself, and it was so exciting to grow up hearing about all her journeys. She dressed very elegantly with Hermes silk scarves and always wore her signature scent, Chanel No. 5. Zia had big blue eyes and thick dark hair. As soon as I reached customs, Uncle Edward, heartbroken, reached out to me for comfort. Letting her go was challenging, but keeping her alive while she suffered was too horrible to witness. It was my ex-fiancé who convinced me to stop praying for her to live and suffer, but to pray for her to feel peace. I never thought about it, but my prayers were selfish, keeping her alive in such pain, and the moment I prayed for peace, God answered my prayers. It is such a difficult challenge to let go of someone you hold so dear to yourself. I still think of her every time I travel. She is constantly in my thoughts and prayers.

Uncle Edward and Zia stepped in and were like grandparents to Roberto Jr. and me. As soon as Uncle Roberto passed, they became strong influences in our lives. We went on family trips around the country. This worked really well for my mother, given that Bobby V. had absolutely no desire to travel. Instead, Bobby V. stayed home and worked with his first cousin in construction. He became a diligent worker, woke up at five, and took his job very seriously, never missing a day.

Every summer we would pick a new destination. We went to Disney World every August in the hot sun; we went to Canada and all over the US. We had great fun bonding as a family. Uncle Edward was the most generous soul and helped mentor Roberto Jr. and I. They supported us through our education and helped us with academics. Uncle Edward was a true survivor. He made it through the Depression, and he fought in World War II and earned his stripes. During the last phase of his life, he waited for true love until age fifty and then married Zia. Their marriage lasted over thirty-six years until she passed.

My Zia owned a nursery school. I attended it when I was only three. She would often complain that I was her worst student ever. I would

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bang on the door and want my mommy for hours, and any chance I had I would make a run for the parking lot. I do remember washing the tables with a cleaner that had a distinct odor, all while singing “This is the way we wash the tables.”

Years later, I felt at home at school. I practically became a professional student. I was the most academic member of my family, getting straight A’s year after year. My scholastic start was rocky and misleading, yet it worked out.

Uncle Edward was the male mentor in my life. Apart from my mother, he was one of the kindest souls I have ever known. Edward was fit and stands over six feet tall. He dressed in very preppy style with argyle sweaters and tan bucks. He was precisely the type of individual the world needs. His entire existence was dedicated toward prayer, intellectual thought, and hard work. He saved money his entire life and lived humbly due to the harsh conditions he endured during the Depression. When Zia passed, he stocked his cabinets with Spam and other canned goods to live in a survival mode. He had a sense of guilt about living too lavishly and he paid for everything in cash. He has a strong old-school moral fiber, something our society needs. Edward donated half of his fortune to charities and people less fortunate, for he was deeply compassionate. He also was a big advocate of education, and he financed both Roberto Jr.’s and my education, along with that of his nieces and nephews.

Today, Edward is 93, sharp as a tack, still mastering the New York Times crosswords, and following politics. While he outlived his wife, his best friend, and his youngest brother, all lost within the same year, he remains resolute and strong. I learned compassion for the elderly after witnessing his knees failing and his dealing with loss with exceptional strength and not falling victim to feeling sorry for yourself.

Zia was lucky to have experienced love, to have seen the world, and to have had a loving man by her side until her death. I still have fond memories of her penne marinara. She would dice up onions to start the tomato sauce, and Edward and I would wait for hours with our mouths watering.

My Aunt and Uncle taught me so many beautiful qualities: to give to the less fortunate, the precious gift of education and travels and that love can happen at any age even later in life!

Alexis had a best friend named Samantha. Sam lived just past the woods behind our home in Praying Mantis. When they say a sister’s love is

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unconditional, I know that to be true: She shared with me her best friend in the whole wide world. Samantha is the most genuine and understanding friend anyone could hope for. With her background as colorful as ours, we all felt an instant loyalty that has endured ever since. Samantha’s father, a wealthy businessman, decided to split, leaving her Irish-American mother Carrie to fend for herself. As a single mom, she had to go on welfare and educate herself while raising three children.

Samantha came from a very academic family. They have a traditional legacy of attending Harvard, including her uncle and grandmother.

Samantha does not believe in organized religion, yet she has spirituality in her soul. She has never touched drugs, even after attending the biggest party school in the nation and living in Miami. Her witty ways coupled with striking beauty have given her an adventurous love life. Growing up, Sam was spoiled by her father who took her on shopping sprees each season.

Her mother, knowing her biological father never paid a lick of child support, would advise her to buy as much as she could hold. Samantha had the best wardrobe in town, and we were fortunate enough to be friends with her and to borrow her outfits. I recall the vivid red and yellow tones and funky patterns. I would beg Alexis to wear Sam’s clothes to middle school.

Clothing was a real status symbol in school, and the right clothes guaranteed popularity. Samantha’s first boyfriend was the most sought-after guy in high school. Those two dated seriously for two years until his possessiveness got so unruly he began smacking her around. Samantha had enough sense to bail.

Over the years, Sam and I have been through countless relationships and breakups, the party scenes, and family shifts. When Carrie remarried, Sam dealt with the same adjustment of having a stepfather and stepsiblings. Through all the tribulations, our friendship has bonded us.

There is something touching about connecting with a person who knows your past, present, and is as linked to our family as Sam is. There is a comfortable trust that is one of the most treasured gifts in the world.

Samantha has been there for me through it all. When I was kicked out of my house, when I had no money, and was broken hearted, she opened her home and her heart. Whenever I was lost and needed direction, she has been there. Each year since I was twelve, her love has been unconditional and non-judgmental. Samantha and I both went through decades of challenging relationships to arrive at the truth of refusing to

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settle. She has mentored me with men and my life path. I often joke that Samantha is the female version of my soul mate, and I needed to find the male version of her. Since I was twelve, I know I can count on one hand how many fights we have had because we understand each other and respect each other’s way of life, even though they are entirely different.

Samantha taught me the art of communicating in relationships, and she helped guide me by emphasizing the importance of respecting my soul and knowing my self-worth.

I met my best friend in typing class when I was twelve. Her name was Kiera, and she looked like she could be my sister. We stood the same height and had the same weight—a kind of Kate Moss waif look—and we shared the same fashion sense. Kiera had almond colored eyes and silky long chestnut hair. Her skin was like that of a China doll, and her long torso, fingers, and legs would lead you to think she was a famous ballerina.

Kiera came from a privileged background. Her mother was like Martha Stewart, the ultimate housewife, her father was an established heart surgeon—he graduated from both Yale and Harvard—and they lived in an upscale neighborhood in a beautiful white colonial house filled with antiques and art. I loved going over there for dinner parties in the garden. Mrs. D was a great Italian cook. Her specialties included homemade pesto over angel hair pasta, and tortellini with fresh tomatoes and basil, equally deeply delicious. I would come home each week and brag about Kiera’s family and how lucky she was.

Kiera’s family reminded me of the way my family was before my dad and mom split, and going to Kiera’s was my way of coping with my parents’ divorce. My mother did not take it personally, but I was certain it must have been challenging for her to hear about their perfect life. The conversations and company were inspiring for me. I would go home to share all my wonderful stories with my mother.

Then came my lesson of a lifetime: I learned that circumstances and people are not necessarily what they seem. In one snap of a finger—or better yet, one stroke of a pen—divorce papers were drawn up; Kiera’s perfect family was suddenly just like my own. We were all devastated. After thirty years of marriage and commitment, her father admitted he was gay and that he drank alcohol to escape this harsh reality. We watched painfully as all of their collectible antiques were sold at an estate sale and tag sales for pennies on the dollar. It was a sad adjustment, and that summer we relied

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on partying to comfort Kiera’s painful endings.

In high school, she had a locker full of the coolest clothes. I would borrow her trendy coats, which would brighten my day. Kiera and I really were fashion divas. We would spend hours following the runway trends scanning through Vogue magazine. We adored pairing vintage clothing with new designs. Kiera eventually went off to study at Parson’s in New York, and I went to Florida. Kiera and I experimented with various aspects of life together and we slowly discovered the drug community. At a private school party, we smoked pot for the first time. We entered the den and discovered every imaginable way to smoke pot right at our fingertips. There were bongs everywhere, and electronic gadgets too. Managing to steal a roach, we quietly tiptoed upstairs and smoked it old-school-style with tweezers. That night, I almost burnt Kiera’s lips off, but luckily no disasters happened other than getting really stoned. We walked around the party hip to hip. Kiera kissed so many guys we lost count. I, on the other hand, could not stop laughing. I felt like we were sailing through the party on a big boat.

That year Kiera had a foreign exchange student staying at her home.

Since her mother told us not to be a bad influence on the exchange kid, we made sure to be on our best behavior. One night we decided to take her to our old school hang out in New Haven. We were under-aged, but we didn’t need fake IDs because we were so hot. We got in because the bouncer, some guy named Adam, had a crush on Kiera. Adam was a painter, and he wanted to paint a reclining nude of Kiera.

The Gatsby was famous for its house brewed beer and had several rooms, each with a different vibe. We left Helga, the exchange kid, alone for a minute, and when we turned around, she was being fingered and tongued by some random guy. Our mouths dropped. This scene was getting ugly fast. Suddenly, the random guy’s aggressive and very angry girlfriend came out of the restroom and caught the whole twisted situation. I could tell she was going to slug Helga, so I stepped in and punched the guy’s girlfriend first. We had made a promise to Mrs. D, and we took full responsibility for Helga. All three of us ran like hell to escape that bar. When we returned to Kiera’s, Mrs. D. didn’t believe a word we said. Kiera and I decided never to take Helga out with us again because she had caused too much trouble for us in one night.

Kiera did everything first, before me, including losing her virgini-

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ty. She broke the news to me during a torrential rainstorm, outside of our favorite boutique. I focused on the wipers during the entire conversation as tears began streaming down my face. It was a big deal, being only seventeen. I felt all alone and excluded, literally like “The Last American Virgin”.

Kiera had landed the hottest guy and bad boy in school. His name was Jake, and he’d gotten kicked out of private school. Jake was the guy everyone had a crush on, including me. The funniest part about Kiera having sex for the first time was that she became surprisingly bored with every moment of it. She confessed every detail. “I don’t get it,” she said. “It was so terrible! He was painfully big to top it all off!”

We would go to Manhattan and party at Life and the Tunnel each week. Kiera and I would prepare for hours. At the time, Life was a popular nightclub, and we loved to dance there, often getting into trouble with guys. One night I met this handsome bad boy named James. He had thick dark hair, hazel eyes, and a muscular build. We were dancing on the dance floor, and he suddenly moved his hands up my dress. He began touching me; something that sudden and improper made me feel liberated. I decided to peel off with James while Kiera was safely put into a cab home.

We ended up at his gigantic warehouse apartment that was actually zoned commercial, but James had cunningly made it into a residential space. He was an artist, so paintings were displayed everywhere. James conveyed pain in his works. You could tell by his style and drastic colors; it was a total turn-on. He pulled out opium and started smoking it. I decided to take a back seat and watch. We kissed and fooled around, but I was very prudish. He dropped me off at home on his Ducati royal blue motorcycle.

His smell was distinct, and I knew he could corrupt me.

Kiera scolded me the way a mother would, making me promise not to disappear with a guy I didn’t know ever again. I agreed—probably not the most intellectual decision I’d ever made. When James called me a few days later and said, “Would you like to fuck and eat salads?” I knew he was too aggressive for me.

Eventually, Kiera reached her late twenties and had a successful career in fashion, but she wanted out of the rat race. She’d mastered serial dating in New York. She made a career of it, and who could blame her?

Beauty and success were contagious, and a girl had to eat. She detested cooking and cleaning, but her positives and big heart certainly outweighed her deficiencies. On one of her dates she decided to make asparagus. She

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phoned her gay guy friend and told him, “I cut off all those ugly tips to make the asparagus look pretty.” One of my favorite stories was the time Kiera purchased catered food and plated the entrées on crystal flatware.

She added an apron and disheveled hair to her look to impress this guy she was always bitchy toward. When he walked in, he looked at the food, turned to her, and said, “Look, Kiera, this is getting way too serious. I have to go now.” Kiera stood there speechless, but was so flattered that he thought she cooked everything she took it as a real compliment.

Fed up with the exploitation of the fashion industry, Kiera found the courage to start her own fashion collection and became recognized by W as the “best new designer.” She landed her collections in every exclusive department store, including Barney’s, Bloomingdales, Neiman Marcus, and throughout Asia. It was epic. I was so proud of my best friend. She was a great influence for me because she put her career at the forefront of her life for many years.

With her success, Kiera and I had a new “It” party destination— Hollywood. Each year, we had reunions and we experimented with a new drug together. The year we tried E., she convinced me by bartering her stiletto Gucci boots, and while Kiera was dreaming of sunsets, I was paranoid, flossing my teeth for hours, going to the bathroom every two seconds, and bugging out. The next morning, we promised Mrs. D we would attend Mass and have breakfast with all her society friends. Of course we miscalculated the half-line—how long we would be high—and we went to church rolling. I remember wearing this tight mini-dress, the only dress Kiera had at her mom’s. We had no time to get clothes. I looked like a stuffed sausage. The dress was at least a full size too small for me, and my boobs were popping out. The mass was long, and I had funny visions of screaming out and running down the aisle. The smell of incense lingered in the air, and I focused on the bright candles. All that and trying to act normal made this the longest hour of my life. After Mass, I approached the priest to thank him. My dress surely caught his attention.

We laughed for hours at how tight my dress was, and I gave her a hard time for letting me leave the house in it. Meanwhile, we lost her car, her keys, and it was a holiday weekend. We had to pay off a taxi driver to return her keys that were left in the back seat of his cab. The funny part about Kiera is that this key incident was not isolated; we often found ourselves tracking down keys or pocketbooks after partying too hard.

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We tried cocaine together one New Year’s Eve with our guy friends Dan and Jake. They were our friends from our hometown, and both were connected in the movie business. We went to some big deal Hollywood party with them. The entire night Kiera complained, “I don’t get it, I feel nothing,” after blowing more than a few lines. It was an obvious non-drugof-choice for her. The latest and greatest were our pot brownie adventures before a party. On my visits, we would each eat one and feel like movie stars.

Kiera and I have been through it all: divorce, drugs, break ups, and financial disappointments. My one comfort is pasta; she’s there for me, and I’m there for her. But there is nothing that can replace the bond shared with a best friend, and through all our arguments and adventures, Kiera and I had grown up together and we shared a history. Our paths ran parallel, and we influenced each other’s directions. Although we live oceans apart, we still spend hours chatting on the phone, and we have great party adventures each year.

Our high school actually had sororities and fraternities. I had to rush two, thanks to the pressures of Samantha and Alexis to follow in their footsteps. Once their chapter closed down, I had to rush again with the hippest one that all my friends were in.

Preferring to stay under the radar, Kiera was not into joining sororities or being popular in those ways. She was the smarter one.

Sorority Rush was taken to new levels. My sorority sisters would dress us in the most embarrassing outfits and mismatching colors. Some days I looked like a rainbow. I sported pigtails and carried a lunch box.

During the entire Rush period, we were dared with various pranks in between and often during classes. One morning we got access to Brett’s love letter. He was one of the most popular guys in school. We found out the pet name he would call his girlfriend, and I had to approach him in the middle of homeroom and expose him. Brett immediately flipped out and flexed the muscles he used on the football field. He pinned me against the wall. Having two older brothers, I held my own and kicked him as hard as I could in the nuts and he went down for the count. Then I punched him just to teach him a lesson never to touch a girl again. We both landed two weeks of suspension, but I instantly became highly popular with my new friends.

Our Rush lasted for a week, and hell night felt like a nightmare.

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They dumped us into a field blindfolded, and we were fed food that made me vomit. Then we were chased into a pile of putrid goop. The fraternity brothers peed on us, and we had to announce who we thought was the least attractive sorority sister. It was truly mortifying.

Kiera taught me the meaning of true friendship, taking the road less traveled and the infinite power of being a dreamer.

- About the Author -

Debra Jean Longobardi

Born and raised in a small town within Connecticut, I have lived my life through an optimist’s mindset, which has brought me into many exciting adventures from childhood to now. I have travelled the world, and lived a Jetsetter lifestyle much like my main character Allegra Toscana. My life has been full of pitfalls and triumphs, which have produced many fruitful memories. I live life without regrets and will always be a risk taker and my style of writing as you will see pushes the envelope but what’s life without a little edginess.

Over the last three years, I have written my trilogy while maintaining a corporate job which business executive and everyday creative can appreciate. I live a double life and am doing whatever it takes to get my books out to the masses; this is why I need your help Kickstarter.