促銷資訊載入中...
The Donna Hears Thoughts — Her Son Wants Her Dead
Novelix
已完結
I'm Vivian Russo. They call me Donna. I built the Russo Family from a Brooklyn food cart to a nine-figure empire — and my only son is lazy, spoiled, and married to a girl I can't stand. Every month ...
章節（3）
第1章
I am the godmother of the underworld, a formidable figure who has held sway for four decades. One day, I suddenly heard my daughter-in-law's inner thoughts.
On Sunday night, I hand my daughter-in-law ten grand to cook dinner for the Family — and she serves me a table full of boiled cabbage.
I stare at the green leaves. I can't put a fork in it.
I tell her to drop ten grand on an envelope and bring Carla back to cook something real.
She fidgets. She won't open her wallet.
My hand goes up. I'm about to slap her across the face.
But right before my palm comes down, a voice crashes into my head. Her voice. Desperate.
"Old witch. You can beat me dead, I still don't have ten grand."
"Before the wedding, he said the penthouse and the Benz were a gift. Lie. Zero down. I'm working three jobs to cover the notes."
"She brags at every charity gala — thirty grand a month allowance for the daughter-in-law. What hits my account? Eight hundred eighty bucks."
"Fifty bucks of groceries, and she wants a ten-thousand-dollar spread."
My hand drops.
Zero down? Eight-eighty? Fifty?
When my son married her, I wrote the full-cash check for that penthouse. For the G-Wagon. Every HOA bill, every tank of gas, comes off my books.
So where the hell is my money actually going?
I'm Vivian Russo. People call me Donna. The Donna.
I was twenty years old pushing a food cart on a Brooklyn corner, selling pasta out of a steam pot. Forty years. Rain, snow, bad men, worse cops — I clawed Russo's Restaurant Group into what it is now. Nine figures a year, legit, on paper. Everything underneath — the clubs, the docks, the ledgers only I touch — that's mine too.
My husband Frank is the Don on paper. Everyone from Staten Island to the Bronx knows the real name on the chair is mine.
Only problem — my only son, Danny Russo, couldn't run a lemonade stand. So I keep working. I keep waiting. I figured when the grandkid came, I'd raise that one myself. Do it right this time.
Then Danny went and picked the wife.
Hazel. Lazy, I thought. Spoiled. Spent money like water. Thirty grand a month allowance from me, every month, and the girl never cracked a smile. Said in front of the whole table she didn't want kids. Didn't want to give the Family an heir.
I told myself — be patient. She'll come around.
Three years in, she greets me less and less. The bills get longer and longer.
Imported caviar. Hermès Birkins. Cartier. A private Pilates trainer. Thirty grand a month, gone to the last dollar.
I asked Danny once. "She really burns through that much?"
He jumped in fast. "Ma, Hazel grew up poor. She's catching up. Give her time."
"Her family had nothing. She's embarrassed. Don't ride her."
Even Carla, the housekeeper back then, told me the "young missus" had a temper. Hard to talk to.
After a while, I stopped trying. I just prayed Danny would wake up one morning and file.
Then Sunday Family Dinner comes around.
By house rule, the daughter-in-law runs it.
I text Hazel. What's the menu. No answer.
I call. What time are we eating. Nothing.
Finally I give up and wire ten grand to Danny instead.
"Family's small, but the table shouldn't look cheap."
Afternoon rolls around. Frank and I show up early at Danny's building. Penthouse. The one I bought.
Dining table — empty. No bread. No wine. Kitchen cold as a morgue.
Nine o'clock at night, Hazel finally comes staggering through the door. Dirt all over her shoes.
I remember one of the line items on her bill — equestrian lessons in the Hamptons. Thirty-eight hundred a session.
She left two senior citizens sitting here starving for four hours — to go play with horses?
It's Sunday Dinner. I bite my tongue.
Then she starts bringing out the food.
My jaw drops.
Cabbage with chili flakes.
Cabbage stewed with potatoes.
Cabbage over plain spaghetti.
Cabbage in watery rice.
Ten dishes. Not one piece of meat. Not a drop of sauce. No wine on the table.
And Hazel — the woman who just dumped this garbage in front of the Donna of the Russo Family — doesn't say hello, doesn't look at me. Walks straight to the corner seat and sits down.
I can't hold it anymore. I slap the table and stand up.
I'm about to tear into her.
Then a voice slips into my ear.
"Here we go."
"Old lady's gonna say I made her lose face again."
I freeze.
Frank's in the bathroom. Danny's hunting for a bottle. Nobody at this table is talking.
Hazel's got her head down. Won't even glance at me.
The voice comes again.
"What's she staring at?"
"Cheap and loud at the same time. Classic."
"Back when my shifts paid out on time, I could at least swing a lobster and some oysters."
"Economy's shit now. Two of my gigs haven't cut checks. I did what I could."
That's when I know.
I'm hearing Hazel. In her head. Clear as a wire tap.
But — thirty grand a month allowance. Why the hell would she be working gigs?
I lower myself back into the chair. Slow.
I look at her.
"Did you not get the dinner money?"
---
第2章
Hazel doesn't answer.
She tucks her chin lower. Her knuckles go white around the fork.
Her thoughts come with teeth now.
"Has the nerve to ask. Peanuts, and she wants a feast."
Heat shoots up my neck.
Ten thousand dollars is peanuts?
I'm opening my mouth to go off — and here comes Danny, strolling back from the kitchen with two bottles of wine, grinning like a used-car salesman. He plunks the bottles down and slides sideways in front of Hazel like a shield.
"Ma, relax. Breathe."
"I sent her the dinner money. Every dime."
"Hazel started this new skincare program. Trainer's strict — no red meat, no sauces, no alcohol. That's why she did it light. She wanted it clean for your health."
Skincare program. Of course. God knows what that costs.
I stare at Hazel. Her hair falls forward. Her neck is dull and gray in the lamplight. Doesn't look like any skincare program is working.
Danny bends down and whispers in her ear. Low. But not low enough.
"Don't run your mouth. You know how Ma is about appearances."
Every word walks right into my ear.
Before I can speak, Hazel's thoughts kick back in.
"Here we go again."
"Because she cares about appearances, I'm not allowed to say the word 'money' in this house."
"If I'm too trashy for her perfect Russo table, don't make me the daughter-in-law."
"If I don't do skincare, don't take her stupid classes — suddenly I'm not good enough for the great Donna?"
"Then write the damn check, lady."
My chest tightens.
But it's Sunday Dinner. I'm not blowing the roof off at the table.
Frank comes out of the bathroom. Sees the sea of cabbage. His face goes dark too.
Danny snaps his fingers at Hazel. "Pour your dad and ma a drink. Come on. It's a holiday. Don't kill the mood."
She drags herself up. Walks over. Pours. Won't lift her eyes.
Danny nudges her. "Hazel. Say hi to Ma."
She finally picks her head up. Dead tired. Voice flat and hoarse.
"Danny's dad. Danny's mom."
I almost think I misheard her.
The woman I write a thirty-grand check for every month — on Sunday Family Dinner — won't call me Ma.
Frank's face turns to stone. He's holding the wine, not sure whether to drink or not.
I don't give him the choice.
I jerk my hand and dump the whole glass on the floor.
Danny jumps. "Ma, what are you —"
"Hand."
"What?" Both of them stare.
I lock eyes with Hazel. "I said give me your hand. Now."
Hazel slides her hand up from under the table. Palm up on the wood.
Three years of bills. Best manicurist in Manhattan. French imported hand cream.
This hand? Nails bitten down to nothing. Little rips of skin on every fingertip.
And a red welt across the base of her thumb. Deep. Like a rope ground into her for hours.
I had that same mark. Forty years ago. From hauling pasta crates off the food cart.
I don't move my eyes. "What is that."
Her fingers curl into a fist. Hiding it.
Danny jumps in fast. "Ma, that's from yoga. Weight bars. Resistance bands. Nothing. Don't read into it."
Hazel's fist clenches harder in her lap.
"Sorting UPS packages till three in the morning. He calls that weight bars."
"Ringing up the diner till my legs give out. He calls that body sculpting."
"I split a fifty-dollar grocery run into two weeks of meals. He tells everyone he gave me ten grand."
"Is this family's reputation really that goddamn important?"
UPS? Diner?
Ice goes down my spine.
On one side — my son. My blood. The boy I raised.
On the other side — the daughter-in-law who won't even call me Ma.
Who's lying to me?
---
第3章
I'm still staring at the welt on Hazel's hand. Still have another question coming.
Danny steps in front of her, grinning the way he used to when he was eight and had a broken vase behind his back.
"Ma. Holiday. Let's eat. Let's just eat."
"Move."
I look him dead in the eye. "That mark on her hand. Where did it come from."
He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
The doorbell rings.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Fast. Twice.
Danny is at the door in three steps.
Standing on the mat — Carla Benson.
Our housekeeper of twenty years.
She's forty-something now. Looks better than she did when she was mopping my floors. Hair done. Soft blouse. Fresh lipstick.
"Donna Russo. Happy Sunday."
She leans in, smiling. "I figured the Family was together tonight. Made a roast chicken. Danny's been crazy about my chicken since he was little. I'm not working for you anymore, but I wanted the old boss to taste it one more time."
Carla did twenty years in my kitchen. Cooking, laundry, errands — top to bottom. I was happy with her.
Two years ago, when Hazel had been married in about a year, she sat me down and told me, "The housekeeper's paycheck is too high." Fired her.
I thought the girl was cheap. Pocketing what should've been Carla's wages.
Now Carla shows up at my son's door uninvited, on Sunday Dinner, with a roast chicken. I can't exactly throw her out.
I set the question about Hazel's hand aside. For now.
Carla walks in, sets a brown paper bag on the table, folds it open.
Crisped skin. Honey glaze. The smell punches through all that cabbage like a Cadillac through a chain-link fence.
My eyes drop to her hands.
Pale. Soft. Rounded fingertips. Nails filed clean. A glossy layer of hand oil catching the light.
Then I look at Hazel in the corner. Cracked knuckles. Hangnails. A rope burn across her thumb.
The maid looks like the Donna's daughter-in-law. The actual daughter-in-law looks like she sleeps on a subway grate.
Thirty grand a month. Which fake clinic swallowed all of it?
My stomach twists. My face stays blank.
"Since you're here, sit. Eat with us."
Carla doesn't argue. Slides in next to Danny. Reaches straight across him, rips off a drumstick, and drops it in his bowl.
"Danny. Eat it hot. The skin's best when it's crispy."
She's known Danny since he was in grade school. I don't think twice.
With that one chicken, the table finally feels like Sunday.
My eyes flick to Hazel.
She's crammed into the corner. Staring at the chicken. Not blinking. Her throat moves once as she swallows.
"A whole month."
"I haven't had meat in a whole month."
"God, it smells good."
"I want the other drumstick so bad. But if I grab it, she'll say I'm trashy again. 'Low class girl.' Can't do it."
My fingers go still on my fork.
A month. No meat.
Thirty grand a month on paper. And she can't afford one goddamn meal with meat in it?
Diet? Please.
I've been in the food business forty years. I can't sit at a table and watch somebody go hungry.
I rip off the other drumstick. Set it down in front of Hazel.
"Eat."
Her head jerks up. Her eyes blank out for a second. Like she doesn't understand English.
"Is this real?"
"Is the old lady testing me? One of those etiquette traps?"
She doesn't touch it.
I put on my hard face. "I said eat. Quit stalling."
Only then does she bend her head and start pulling at the meat.
Like she hasn't seen food in two weeks. Not three days — two weeks.
Something's wrong.
Then — out of the corner of my eye — Carla's hand pauses on her own plate. Her mouth tightens. Just a flash. Like she's glaring at Hazel.
Then it's gone. Smooth smile back on. Like a mask dropping into place.
"Donna Russo, you spoil your girl rotten. That's beautiful."
I tell myself I imagined it.
Two sentences later, Hazel's drumstick is bones.
Really that hungry.
I set down my fork and look at her.
"In this Family, we cut corners on a lot of things. Food's not one of them."
"Carla was with us twenty years. Fast hands. Good cook."
"So I'm making the call tonight. Carla's coming back to work for you kids."
"Hazel. Since it's Sunday Dinner — you put ten grand in an envelope and you give it to Carla. We'll call it a signing bonus."
"Can't have a Russo house where nobody can put a real meal on the table. Looks like hell."
Carla's eyes light up. Her mouth plays coy. "Donna, no, that's too much, you shouldn't —"
I wave her off. "You earned it. Take it."
Hazel says nothing.
She stares at the bones in her bowl. Doesn't move.
One second. Two.
Carla's smile freezes. Her eyes flick to me. The message is clear:
Your daughter-in-law doesn't want to pay me.
Frank — bless him, he always has my back — clears his throat and reaches for his money clip.
"It's a holiday. I'll cover it."
I throw my arm across him.
"No."
Any other day, fine, I spend. But bringing a cook into her kitchen? That's for her life, not mine.
Thirty grand a month pours into this girl's account.
She can't come up with ten thousand of her own?
I look at her. Slow. Clear.
"The money. Comes. From. Hazel."
Everyone at the table turns to her.
She just sits there. Head down. Lips pressed into a thin white line.
Then I hear her again. Her thoughts crack in my ear — almost sobbing.
"Old witch. You could kill me, I still don't have ten grand."
"Those cabbages on the table? I unloaded crates at the market till nine o'clock last night to pay for them."
"Where am I supposed to pull ten grand out of?"
"She throws me eight hundred and eighty bucks a month, then plays Mother Teresa for the maid."
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