The Mallone sisters look Irish, but don’t let their blue eyes fool you. “It’s all in how you say it,” their grandma Anona proudly says. “Ma-llone is Irish. Mal-lon-e is Italian.” Growing up Italian in the 1920s, in Hell’s Kitchen, an Irish enclave, requires toughness, thrift, and a calculating mind―even for the three beautiful Mallone sisters. And when their baby sister Gracie is swept off her feet by no-good Frankie Merelli, Helen and Mary will do anything to make sure Grace gets the life she deserves, even if that means going after her husband… The Sisters Mallone is a black comedy about the power of sisterhood and the importance of family―and family connections. Through irrepressible characters, and infectious and suspenseful writing, The Sisters Mallone reveals the American immigrant’s dream―with a twist. Louisa Ermelino is the Reviews Director at Publishers Weekly and author of the novels Joey Dee Gets Wise , The Black Madonna , and The Sisters Mallone . She lives in New York City with her husband, Carlo Cutolo, and daughters Ruby, Lucy and Ariane. Chapter One That Friday was the first day of Frankie Merelli's wake. He had died on Monday, but what with the police investigation, the state of the corpse, and the undertaker's pride, it was four days before the body was ready for viewing. Frankie Merelli was being waked downtown, laid out in Nucciarone's funeral parlor on Sullivan Street, just the way Gracie wanted. She had pictured the first day of Frankie's wake. She was the widow, after all. She had seen it in her mind like the newsreels that came before the movie at the Loews Sheridan on Greenwich Avenue. The family would gather in front of the building on Spring Street where Frankie had lived as a son, a husband, and a father. There would be a bouquet of carnations tied with a white ribbon pinned outside the door, a card announcing the funeral information. The family would walk together, slowly, arms linked, in an unofficial procession up Sullivan Street to Nucciarone's. As they passed St. Anthony's Church, the women would bow their heads, make the sign of the cross and kiss the tips of their fingers. The undertaker would be waiting for them outside the funeral parlor. He would escort Frankie's mother into the viewing room and the rest of the family would follow in hierarchical order. It was how it was done in this neighborhood. It was the tradition. But Anona balked at this ritual, remembering the funerals in Bocca al Lupo, the whole village walking endlessly behind the black death coach pulled by plumed black horses. This American thing, she said, was a poor second, a stroll a few blocks north to sit in what looked like someone's front parlor. Nothing would convince her. She wouldn't do it. It was the least she could do for Gracie, Mary and Helen told her. The sisters wanted everything to go smoothly. It should all be normal and ordinary, just another wake, just another funeral, even if nothing about Frankie Merelli's death had been ordinary. But then Gracie said it didn't matter how they got there and Helen had shrugged. If Gracie didn't mind, then...and Gracie didn't mind. She was willing to go along with what Anona wanted. Gracie was easy that way. It was her strength and her weakness, and maybe the reason she was burying a husband. Forget the family march up Sullivan Street, she said. She would meet her sisters at Anona's at Thirty-eighth Street and Tenth Avenue and they'd go downtown together. Helen came early to Anona's, to the apartment in Hell's Kitchen where Anona had raised them. Alone, Anona liked to remind them. She had raised them alone because there was no one else to do it. Mary showed up next and they all sat down at the kitchen table. It was clear of dishes and food. When she wanted to, Anona followed the old ways. They would eat later or not at all. They were in mourning, she said, but she did pour them all shots of the anisette that she made in the cellar. She counted out three coffee beans for each glass and they sat together to wait for Gracie. "Peccato about Frankie," Anona said. Helen looked over at Mary before she drained her glass. She chewed on one of the coffee beans. It was bitter in her mouth. But Helen liked bitter. Anona used to say it was the most Italian thing about her. "Be honest," Helen said to Anona. "You never liked Frankie." "I don't like him for Gracie's husband but I don't wish him dead. It's always wrong when a son dies before his mother." Anona stuck out her bottom lip. She looked around the kitchen. "We have no luck," she finally said. "We're cursed," and she shook a fist at the statue of St. Rita. "Don't go on about curses," Helen said. "We don't believe in them." "Ha, Miss Smarty Pants. These bad things, they just happen? It's the malocchio. What else?" Anona lowered her voice, looked around as if the evil eye might be skulking, even now, around a corner or under a chair, waiting to pounce. "I rack my brain trying to figur