Dirty Play (The Ferrari Family Book 1)
The Ferrari Mafia Family Series
Dirty Play – Ferrari Family Series © 2020 Hazel Parker
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Nick
Chapter 2: Izzy
Chapter 3: Nick
Chapter 4: Izzy
Chapter 5: Nick
Chapter 6: Izzy
Chapter 7: Nick
Chapter 8: Izzy
Chapter 9: Nick
Chapter 10: Izzy
Chapter 11: Nick
Chapter 12: Izzy
Chapter 13: Nick
Chapter 14: Izzy
Chapter 15: Nick
Chapter 16: Izzy
Chapter 17: Nick
Chapter 18: Izzy
Chapter 19: Nick
Chapter 20: Izzy
Chapter 21: Nick
Chapter 22: Izzy
Chapter 23: Nick
Chapter 24: Izzy
Chapter 25: Nick
Chapter 26: Izzy
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December 18th, 1962
It was an unusually cold day on the outskirts of Las Vegas, which meant the temperatures had “dipped” to the low sixties.
From my porch, wearing a light jacket and with a freshly made warm cup of tea, I sniffed the wafting wisps of herbal scents as I watched my family play on the front yard. My wife, Mary; my boys Bill, Nick, and Frank; and the princess of my family, the most beautiful thing that had ever happened in my life, my three-year-old daughter, Maria. The boys were playing some sort of chaotic version of football while Mary and Maria sat about five feet from the edge of the road, playing in the grass.
In many ways, the day was the perfect culmination of nearly two decades of pursuing the American dream. The means didn’t matter so much as the ends. I had gotten us to where we needed to go.
“Ow!” Bill yelled when Frank managed to tackle him. “That hurt!”
“Hey, hey, hey!” I yelled. “Bill! If you’re going to play football, you’re going to get hit. Don’t be mad because he did it right. And stay out of your mother’s garden, would ya?”
I could admit I didn’t have a great understanding of the rules of football, but I had seen the game enough to know it was a violent endeavor, far more aggressive than what I had known “football” to be back in Italy.
“Alf, dear,” Mary said. “The mailman’s coming. Won’t you meet him for the mail?”
I rose from my seat, stretched, and put the tea on the porch table. Yes, I supposed I could do that. I supposed that for my family, I would do just about anything—what was getting the mail on top of the things I had done to get to this point?
I strolled down the driveway, pausing for a second and scooting back to avoid Nick trying to drag Bill and Frank to some imaginary goal line. I slowed my walk down when I saw the face of my young Maria. I then met the mailman, a gentleman by the name of Paul, and nodded to him.
“How are you doing today?”
“Oh, just fine.”
There was something off about his voice. He was usually pretty easy and chatty, but his voice sounded a little more stilted.
I turned around. Bill was bleeding from his elbow, and though it was just a scrape on the ground, it was the sort of thing that couldn’t be left alone.
“Boys, go inside and clean up!” I shouted before turning back to Paul. “Just fine, huh?”
“Yep, can’t believe how cold it is.”
That felt a little more like Paul, and I chose to believe that I had just misread him, especially after having just basked in the glow of the queen and princess of the family.
“That’s the desert for you; during the day, it can feel like you’re going to melt to death, and at night, it’s like you’ll freeze,” I said. “So probably just a bit jarring when it’s cold.”
“Just a bit,” Paul said with a nod. “You have yourself a good day now.”
Paul never ends the conversation first. I wonder if the office has put some sort of time frame for delivery.
“You too,” I said.
I turned back to Mary and Maria. I wanted to tell them to come inside now that the boys were there and that I’d be right behind them.
But then, ever the wondrous and awe-filled child, Maria walked over to our garden. Mary followed her, and I decided to let them be. I’d have all the time in the day to get them inside, and as long as they weren’t shivering cold, what difference did it make?
I got inside and heard the boys jostling with each other in the kitchen.
“Hey, settle down!” I yelled. “Your mother’s gonna have a fit when she sees the mess you’ve made.”
I turned my attention to the mail. I had a couple of bills…some business advertisements…a letter from one of the nearby casinos…
And then a yellow envelope with just the words “Alf Ferrari.” It did not have my address on it, and it did not have a return address. In fact, it did not even have a stamp on it.
With some trepidation, I opened the envelope.