Then I catch it. A woman’s shrill laugh from the floor above, followed by Dom’s distinctive chuckle. There’s a reason I call him “Laugh Track.” When Dom discovers humor, everyone in the vicinity knows.
I take another gulp, deeper this time. The laugh shifts into a groan that reverberates through the ducts. Then another voice—masculine. Ricky, certainly.
This is their nightly routine throughout the week.
Every Sunday we return home. Not to my father’s residence, not since my mother passed. But to Dom’s family estate. His mother—now lovingly referred to as Mama Bavga—stands as the family matriarch. And every Sunday, following mass, we all gather at Mama’s place for dinner.
It unfolds exactly as you’d imagine. Complete Sopranos’ fashion.
But it’s worthwhile. I enjoy heading home. Visiting the family, the countless nieces and nephews—my eldest brother Angelo has five children, and my middle brother Marco has three. Plus, all the cousins.
Italian families are serious business.
It’s pleasant, though. This aspect.
But it’s what follows dinner that I’m growing tired of.
The origin of the moaning and laughter that plagues me here, night after night.
Dom imports women from Pittsburgh. Every Sunday we head back to the family estate, deliver the exhausted girls to their original locations, attend church, eat at Mama Bavga’s table, and when we depart to return to Riverview, Dom’s got three new women in the rear of his Escalade. New faces, new diversions.
It’s a pattern as reliable as the changing seasons.
And I’m tired of it.
My grip on the bottle strengthens. The moisture makes it slick between my fingers.
Initially, there was some appeal, but I detest unfamiliar people. I have no fondness for these women. When I do grant them attention, it’s detached and brief.
What purpose does detached and brief serve?
That’s identical to me and my palm in the shower.
So I’ve grown weary of this custom and now simply find these guests irritating.
I could voice my objection. It’s my residence. My boundaries.
But Ricky and Dom transcend friendship, they’re my everything. It’s the three of us against the universe until the end. And if they desire to fuck random women like porn stars every evening of the week, what right have I to intervene?
Another moan, louder this time. A thump against the wall. Then Ricky’s voice, “Come on, baby. You can open wider than that.”
Gagging noises come next. Ricky’s kind of a freak. Likes to fuck his girls in the throat.
I advance toward the staircase, prepared to ascend and call it a night. Perhaps I’ll imagine a scenario involving Little Miss Take.
A door bangs shut, trailed by additional chuckling. I take another swallow of beer, each footfall on the stairs a calculated decision. The glossy timber groans beneath my Italian leather footwear. These aging residences communicate. They retain memories. This one formerly murmured about the coal tycoon who constructed it, about his wealth, his downfall.
Now it murmurs about me.
The second-floor corridor extends before me like a catwalk. Five entrances, all shut except one. Ricky’s door remains partially open, illumination flooding into the hallway alongside noises nobody should have to hear from their business associate.
I don’t mean to look. I don’t want to see. But my eyes catch it anyway—a flash of bare skin, tangled limbs. Two women, not one. The blonde meant for me is on her knees in front of Ricky, his cock in her throat, while the redhead works her mouth on his neck.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Ricky groans, his eyes closed, head thrown back as he pumps his hips. The redhead is now humping his leg like a dog, rubbing herself all over him.
I halt. Not out of curiosity. From assessment. This marks the third instance this month he’s claimed my share without permission. A trend developing. Something to register.
The blonde turns her head slightly, catches my silhouette in the hallway. Her eyes widen. She doesn’t stop sucking his cock, but something changes in her expression. Hope. Like I might rescue her from Ricky’s punishing attention.