by Cora Reilly
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, after all I’d almost run him over. He briefly scanned my outfit, and I cringed inwardly. This wasn’t the impression I wanted to make.
He released me and stepped back. “No need to apologize,” he said in a voice that spoke of a long night. “Is your father downstairs?”
“Yes, he is.”
I gave him a forced smile and excused myself, wanting to make myself presentable to salvage my dignity. Fina had never paraded around Danilo in childish nightclothes.
I wanted to scream in frustration, but instead I got dressed in a nice dress before I rushed back downstairs, hoping I could make up for my first appearance, but when I stepped into the dining room, Danilo wasn’t there.
Mom and Dad sat at the table, drinking coffee.
“Where’s Danilo?” I asked as I settled across from Mom.
“He needed to return to Indianapolis,” Dad said.
I nodded, hardly able to contain my disappointment. Mom didn’t say anything. She looked exhausted, and her eyes were swollen from crying.
I reached for the pancakes and loaded a few on my plate. Adelita came in again with the last two bowls. One of them contained an assortment of berries, the other grapefruit slices. My stomach became a hollow pit at the sight of the perfect pink halfmoons.
Fina was the only one who loved grapefruit.
Mom and Dad must have thought the exact same thing because their faces fell when Adelita set the bowl down.
“You can throw that away,” Mom said sharply.
She never talked to the staff like that, not even when she was stressed. Adelita jumped, then realization filled her face. By now, our staff would know about Fina. News like that spread like wildfire. My heart felt heavy at my sister’s disappearance. By now, she’d be in Las Vegas with the twins, in enemy territory. Would I ever get the chance to talk to her again? To see her again?
Adelita reached for the bowl, but I stopped her and pulled it over to me. “Don’t worry. I’m in the mood for grapefruit this morning.”
Adelita nodded slowly before she left the room, looking as shaken as I felt. Mom took a sip of coffee, her fingers white from their tight grip on the cup.
Dad looked back down to his newspaper, but not before giving me a small, grateful smile.
I speared a slice of grapefruit and slid it into my mouth. The bittersweet taste bloomed on my tongue, and I had to stop myself from grimacing. After a few more bites, my taste buds got used to the bitterness, and I finished the rest of the fruit. Mom briefly glanced up before she filled her cup with coffee again. I was the only one eating.
“Have you seen Samuel?” I asked eventually, unable to bear the crushing silence a second longer.
Mom shook her head. It seemed as if the small movement cost her too much energy already.
Dad put down his newspaper. “He was still sleeping the last time I checked.”
“He was pretty drunk—”
Dad shook his head. “He shouldn’t be drunk in front of you.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t a baby anymore. Since Fina’s kidnapping, I’d seen so many disturbing things that I wasn’t as easily shaken.
“I think I’ll go looking for him,” I said, waiting for Dad to give his okay. He nodded and I stood from the table. I poured a coffee for Samuel and grabbed a pastry before I headed upstairs. It was silent behind his door. I knocked a few times, but there was no sound behind the door. Eventually, worry overcame me. Drunk people could choke on their own vomit. What if something like that had happened to Samuel?
I opened the door an inch and peeked in. The bed was untouched. Samuel definitely hadn’t slept here last night. I turned and moved downstairs to the office where I’d left Samuel last night. When I stepped inside, my stomach tightened.
Samuel lay on the floor, an empty bottle of Scotch beside him. I set the cup and pastry down on the side table, then fell to my knees beside him, worried that he might not be breathing. My eyes registered the rise and fall of his chest. He stank of alcohol. I shook him hard. “Sam? Wake up.”
It took a few moments before his eyes peeled open, and he looked at me. He was squinting as if the light was blinding him.
“What’s going on?” he grunted, sending another wave of alcohol stench to my nose.
I leaned back slightly. “You slept on the floor. You must have been very drunk.”
With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position. He cradled the side of his head, his face scrunching up in pain. “Fuck. What—”
Realization crossed his expression, as if he remembered yesterday’s events. He quickly masked his anguish and looked at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you,” I said. “And I brought you coffee.” I got up and grabbed the coffee and pastry. “I think it might be cold by now. I didn’t know you were down here.”
Samuel took the cup from me. “Thanks, Sofia. You’re a lifesaver.”
He downed the coffee in two gulps, then let out a sigh and leaned back against the sofa but didn’t bother getting up from the floor.
“Do you want me to get you another coffee?”
He chuckled. “I must look like shit.”
I bit my lip. “You don’t look good.”
“You’re too nice,” he said, then his expression softened. I handed him the pastry and went to get him more coffee.
I wanted to help Samuel. It distracted me from everything that had happened and made me feel useful. When I stepped into the dining room, Mom and Dad were already gone and Adelita was clearing the table.
“Is there more coffee?” I asked.
She looked up in surprise.
“For Samuel,” I clarified.
She smiled, but the pity in her eyes almost undid me. I’d learned from an early age that pity was something undesirable. Pity was gifted but everything worth receiving had to be deserved.
“I can make fresh coffee.”
“Yes, please,” I said. Grabbing a few plates, I followed her into the kitchen.
“You don’t need to help me. That’s my job,” Adelita said as she took the plates from me and put them in the dishwasher.
I watched her prepare the coffee. Our second maid busied herself cleaning a pan, but she slanted me a curious look.
“Is Samuel hungover?” Adelita asked.
My defenses shot up. Our maids practically lived in the house, so it was only natural that they witnessed a lot but revealing Samuel’s vulnerability still felt wrong.
“He’s doing fine. He just wants some fresh coffee.”
I was relieved when I left the kitchen five minutes later with a pot of steaming coffee. Samuel hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor, but at least he’d eaten the pastry.
His expression smoothed when he spotted me, but I’d already seen the darkness.
I poured him some coffee, and he took a gulp, hissing at the scorching heat.
I sank down on the floor beside him, wondering what to say. Samuel had been more closed off since Fina’s kidnapping, and now that she’d run off, it probably wouldn’t change.
For a few minutes, we sat in silence, Samuel cradling his coffee and me lost in my thoughts. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Do you think we’ll see Fina again?”
Samuel stiffened. “She betrayed us. She drugged me so she could save Falcone.” He fell silent but his harsh expression told me more than his words.
“She did it for the twins. Nobody liked them here in the Outfit.”
Samuel grunted. “She could have sent them to Vegas.”
“Do you really think Fina could have lived without her babies?”
But Samuel wasn’t in a state of mind to listen to reason.
“What happens now?” I asked.
Samuel shrugged. “We’ll move on. Serafina’s gone, and we won’t try to get her back this time. Maybe she’ll come running back to us one day once she realizes what kind of madman Remo Falcone is.”
“Would th
e Outfit take her back?”
Samuel looked away, and despite his anger and sense of betrayal, his eyes told a clear answer. “She’s a woman,” was what he said instead.
“Maybe one day there’ll be peace with the Camorra.”
Samuel shoved to his feet. “There won’t be peace unless Dante wants a mutiny at his hands. Danilo, Dad, and I would never agree, and knowing many of the future
Underbosses, I doubt they want peace. We don’t need it.”
When I stood, Samuel touched my shoulder. “Don’t worry about the war. Just try to be happy and be a kid, Sofia.”
I forced a smile. “Our family needs me to be a grownup, and now that I’m promised to Danilo, I can’t be a kid.”
“You can put Danilo out of your mind for the next six years, ladybug. Our family will heal on its own. You can’t mend what Remo and Serafina have broken.”
He squeezed my shoulder before he left.
Maybe he was right, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to put my mind to rest. I wanted to mend our family and show Danilo that he made the right choice.
My headache still thrummed against my temples as I steered my car toward my parents’ home. After my short night at the Mione’s mansion, I’d retrieved my car and driven to the hotel to change my clothes and pick up my bag. I’d been on the road back to Indianapolis ever since. My body screamed to lie down, but a message from Mother had me driving to them instead.
When I let myself in with my keys, Emma wheeled herself into the foyer. “I heard your car,” she said softly. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Despite her obvious distress, she scanned my face and said, “You don’t look good. Is everything all right?”
Word about Serafina helping Remo escape hadn’t reached my parents’ home yet. I doubted that it wasn’t making the rounds among my men, though.
I kissed her cheek with a strained smile. “Things have been strenuous in Minneapolis, but let’s not worry about it now.” That was putting it mildly. Shit would hit the fan very soon, and my men’s frustration and anger over the enemy’s coup would hit me even if Dante had made the decision. A few would test my authority, and I’d have to show strength. More energy wasted in the wrong direction.
“Mom and Dad are upstairs,” Emma said, then whispered, “Dad’s been really bad these last few days. I think . . . I don’t think he’ll make it to Christmas.” Her voice hitched and she covered her face with her hands.
I squeezed her shoulder. “He’s recovered before.” He’d had a few bad episodes that had been followed by weeks of better health, but overall, his body had deteriorated. I went upstairs. The door to my parents’ bedroom was open and I stepped in without knocking. Dad lay in the center of the massive king bed, looking like a skeleton—a broken, wilted body only anchored in this world by his sheer force of will.
Mom stepped out of the bathroom, wiping at blood splatters on her white silk blouse. Her skin was pale, her brown eyes red. She jumped when she spotted me and slowly let the hand clutching the washcloth sink to her side. Her brown hair was a mess, her usually elegant chignon tousled, with strands falling out of it.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your father had a coughing fit,” she said tonelessly, then with a strange smile. “I think my blouse is ruined.”
I went over to her and set a comforting had on her shoulder. “When was the last time you slept?”
She shook her head as if the question was irrelevant. “Your dad needs me. He needs my full attention to get better.”
I looked back at the bed. I had little hope that Dad would get better. Maybe he’d cling to life—whatever was left of it—for a few more weeks, but his death wasn’t far off. Emma’s words could prove right. The weeks until Christmas seemed an insurmountable distance for the man lying in the bed.
Thinking of the weeks ahead, a sense of bone-deep exhaustion overcame me. My father’s death and the inevitable upcoming uproar in the Outfit would require all my energy.
“How . . .” The broken word from Father’s cracked lips made us jump. She rushed over to him and dabbed his mouth with a wet cloth. His glassy eyes focused on me. I sank down on a chair beside the bed and leaned forward to understand him.
“How did it go?” Every word tore from his body in a painful rattle, and my own chest ached just imagining his struggle.
I had a millisecond to decide what to say. “It went well,” I said, choosing the lie. Father didn’t talk to anyone outside of the family because he didn’t want to show weakness in front of others. He wanted them to remember him as the strong leader he used to be. That meant the truth about the Remo Falcone debacle wouldn’t reach his ears if I talked to a few key people and made sure they kept their mouths shut.
His eyes flickered with excitement.
“We tortured him to death. It took us two days, but in the end, he begged for mercy. We cut his dick off and ended his miserable life.” As I uttered the words, my own frustration flooded me again. For so long, I’d worked towards the ultimate goal to ruin Remo, and it had all been for nothing.
Father nodded. “They . . . they all do. Did you do the honors?”
“I did.” The lies flowed easily from my lips, maybe because they were easier to stomach than the truth. I still had trouble accepting that Remo was back in Las Vegas, that he’d be going on with his life, and not just that . . . he had Serafina to parade around as his triumph over the Outfit.
“Maybe the girl can move on now. If she sends those kids to a boarding school far away, people will eventually forget they exist,” Mother added.
I swallowed my bitterness. Serafina had moved on, but no one in the Outfit would forget about the black-haired Falcone spawns any time soon, nor about the events that created them.
Father watched me closely, and I quickly masked my feelings. Of course, he caught on to my troubles. He was too good at reading people. “Are you still hung up on the girl?”
Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. I wasn’t sure what I felt anymore. Until a few days ago, I’d felt a strange sense of longing whenever I’d seen Serafina or just thought of her, but after what she did . . . my feelings had done a U-turn.
Marco had a very peculiar opinion about women. He said they were all opportunists at heart, easy to sway toward whatever direction suited them best. They chose the option that brought the biggest advantage. I’d always considered his musings the result of his bitterness toward his mother. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Surely, not all women were that way? But in our world, many chose their own advantage over loyalty.
Serafina had chosen a life at the side of a Capo, in the spotlight, with her children as successors to the Camorra throne. She’d just as quickly come running back to the Outfit once she realized that Remo Falcone wasn’t fit to be a father, that he didn’t share his throne. Women meant nothing to that madman.
“I have to say I’m happy Sofia is going to become a Mancini. She’s more down-to-earth, easier to control. She’ll give you less trouble than her older sister,” Mother said.
I wasn’t sure what Sofia was. I didn’t know her, and I wasn’t sure I had it in me to change that any time soon. I’d had enough of the Mione women for the time being. The problems arising before me were plenty. Getting to know my soon-fiancée wasn’t a priority.
Father clung to life until Christmas. He was too weak to eat downstairs in the dining room, so we took our plates upstairs to share a meal with him. Emma had decorated the windowsill and headboard with tinsel and baubles to give the room a less depressing atmosphere.
Emma talked about her new hobby—pottery, a way to pass her time now that she couldn’t do ballet anymore. Mom and I kept up the conversation with tidbits of our daily life and gossip making the rounds. Father was too weak to speak more than a couple of words, but he listened, his chest rattling with every breath. The worst thing about his broken state was that he was still fully there in that broken body, his eyes alert and hungry for life, but his body unable to go on.
The
days that followed the Christmas holidays dragged on, with Father getting worse every day. Walking into his room became harder every time. I didn’t want to see him so lifeless and weak, I wanted to create a bubble of denial similar to what I’d felt when I’d visited Emma in the hospital after her accident. But denial didn’t alter the truth.
On the last day of the year, I entered the master bedroom and found Father gasping for breath, his face scrunched up in pain with Mother bent over him, crying. She glanced at me. “I don’t know how to help him. I just don’t know.”
Father’s eyes met mine. “She . . . needs . . . to rest.” He coughed, moaning in agony as he did.
I grabbed Mom’s arm and led her out. “Lie down on the sofa. You need to rest.” She didn’t protest. She wrapped her arms around me. “You and your father are so strong. Emma and I’d be lost without you.”
I nodded, then gently pried her arms off me and returned to the bedroom, closing the door. Dad slumped in the bed, every ounce of tension leaving his muscles and the determination in his face with it.
“Danilo,” he croaked. I stepped up to the bed, shocked to see tears on his cheeks. His shoulders began to shake, his coughs mingling with sobs. I tensed, unsure what to do. I’d never seen my father like that. He’d taught me to hide emotions, especially tears. It was weakness, and here he was sobbing like a child.
I clutched his hand. “It’s okay.” The words were meaningless, but I was at a loss how to brave Father’s despair.
“I’m scared to die.”
I sank down on the edge of the bed. “You’ve faced death so often.”
“Not like this, never like this.”
Listening to his croaked words pained me. His hand shook in mine, his eyes begging me to help him, but there was only one way to ease his suffering at this point.
I wasn’t ready for that step yet, neither was he.
“What if death is the end? What if it isn’t? I’m a sinner. There’s nothing ahead of me to find absolution.”
I squeezed his hand. God had played an abstract role in our lives. We’d gone to church on Sundays because our men were religious and it was expected, but Father and I had never given much of our time or thoughts toward faith. “Whatever lies ahead, you’ll conquer it, Dad. You are strong.”