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I wasn’t one for religion, so I didn’t spend a lot of time in places like this. But my brother found a Gambler’s Anonymous meeting this afternoon in a town an hour away and asked me to drive over with him. I wanted to encourage him, so I agreed. As a bonus, this trip got me away from the winery.
I crossed my legs and killed time on my phone. The meeting was closed today, which meant only those with addiction issues could attend and participate. So I was sitting in the hallway, waiting for it to finish. With time on my hands, I did something I’d resisted doing before now.
I looked Vito D’Agostino up online.
Except . . . there was nothing.
Not a word, not a whisper. No photographs or links that mentioned his name. I added “Toronto” to the search, but that didn’t help. Then I added “mafia.” Nothing. It was like the man was a ghost.
Then I searched for Massimo D’Agostino. There were mentions at a few various restaurants, all in Italian, but no pictures. What was the older brother’s name? Something with an E. Enrico? No, Enzo.
I typed out his name.
A photo of a very handsome older man popped up. Expression flat and almost angry, he was standing next to his wife, Gianna Mancini, who was a men’s fashion designer. Damn. Those two looked good together. I couldn’t see much of a resemblance between Enzo and Vito, though.
The doors to the meeting room abruptly opened and I hid my screen quickly, even though I had nothing to be ashamed about. People, almost all young men, filtered through the doors and into the hall. Mikey finally emerged, chatting and laughing with a guy his age. The two of them slapped hands and made a promise to keep in touch.
When we were alone, I asked, “How did it go? It looks like you made a friend.”
“Yeah, he’s cool. And the meeting wasn’t as bad as I expected.”
Thank god. This gave me hope that he’d stick with it for the long haul. “Should we get pancakes? I saw a diner around the corner.”
Our parents used to make pancakes for dinner whenever Mikey or I had a bad day. My mom claimed they were the ultimate comfort food, and she hadn’t been proven wrong yet.
“Good idea.”
“Cool.” We started walking toward the stairs. “Then you can tell me about the meeting.”
“It’s anonymous, dummy. That means I can’t tell you anything.”
“Even if I don’t know who you’re talking about?”
“Yes. People need to know what they say in the room will stay in the room.”
I guess I knew this—I did watch TV, after all—but I hadn’t expected Mikey to be such a stickler for the rules. “You know I won’t tell anyone.”
We climbed the steps, me going up first. “That’s not the point,” my brother said. “And don’t make this harder on me than it already is.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
Once we sat and ordered pancakes, I studied him. He looked . . . better today. Less tired. “Do you think these meetings will help?” I asked.
He sipped his water. “I do, yeah. It was weird, talking about mom and dad and the winery. But hearing the other stories made it easier. And it’s helped me to see that I’m not alone, if that makes sense.”
“Good. I’m really glad, Mikey.”
“Listen, I have to tell you something else.”
I paused in the process of folding the paper straw wrapper. Oh, god. What now? “Please, don’t. Because I honestly can’t handle any more bad news.”
“This is something you should know. I’ve been keeping it from you because he asked me to, but it’s not right. You should know.”
“He, who?”
“Vito.”
I dropped the paper wrapper and folded my hands tightly. That motherfucker. He was taking Mikey into his confidence, trying to keep me on the outside. Well, I wasn’t about to let that happen. “Let’s hear it.”