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6
LUCA
I know who’s inside.
Standing at the window of my father’s study, I can see my house. What is she doing? All I want is for her to relax, get comfortable, and make herself at home. She’s my world now. Every minute I spend away from her is spent counting the seconds until we’re together again. It leaves me edgy and impatient. And patience was never one of my virtues in the first place.
“I’m sorry…” My brother’s voice rings out behind me, just as sharp as the crack of a whip. That’s what he thinks he’s doing. Whipping me. “Are we interrupting your daydreaming by talking about business?”
“I’m sorry,” I counter, looking over my shoulder to where my brother glares at me from a chair in front of Papa’s desk. Like the kid who always has to sit in the front row so the teacher knows they’re paying attention. He might as well bring a polished apple to leave on the desk—insufferable ass-kisser. “I’ve been staring at your ugly face for hours and thought I would try for a change of scenery. What was I thinking?” I ask as I return his glare.
“All right, that’s enough,” Papa murmurs, shaking his head. “I swear, the two of you never stop. We are all under the gun here. We don’t need to pick fights among ourselves and make things worse.”
He makes perfect sense, but he never had a brother like Dante. Uncle Tomasso was so much like my father. They were practically interchangeable, nearly identical in appearance, right down to how their stomachs started to go paunchy in middle age. Their voices were close enough that I couldn’t tell them apart over the phone, and they shared the same booming laugh and a sense of humor to go with it. I was positive they had to be twins during my childhood, and I was stunned when I found out otherwise.
It was easy for them to get along, as alike as they were. Dante and me, on the other hand? There have been times when I’ve considered getting our DNA tested to confirm we have the same parents.
Dante clears his throat and jumps in before I can speak a word in my defense. “All right. Today, we confirmed the Accardi and Marino families are still backing us and are squeezing Vitali out of sports booking in the other four boroughs. Antonio and the crew back in Sicily promised additional soldiers whenever we need them.”
“Let’s keep that in our back pocket,” Papa decides as he leans back in his chair with a weary sigh. “We can have them here within a day once we send word we need them. There’s no sense in calling them too soon.” He opens the top two buttons of his shirt, releasing a shaky breath. A glance in Dante’s direction tells me he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy taking notes.
Papa is close enough that I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. The faint smile I get in return is only a shadow of his normal self. His pallor is gray and sickly, while dark circles stand out under his eyes. I know better than to jump to conclusions, especially when it comes to someone like my father. He won’t be babied or coddled, and it’s easy for him to mistake concern for being treated like a child. It’s his pride.
I can’t pretend I don’t relate, but it’s damn frustrating when I’m standing on the outside, looking in. Should I ask if he’s feeling well? Maybe he won’t give me any answers, but Mama will if I ask the right way. I’m starting to think the time has come for me to do that. What’s the alternative? Standing around and watching him slowly fade away?
It feels traitorous to entertain a thought like that, but facts are facts. I’ve watched him more closely ever since that first dinner after Emilia moved in, and his condition only seems to have gotten worse in the two weeks since then. That I’m thinking of it as a condition makes me feel sick and uneasy. I hope I’m wrong.
For once in my life, I want to be wrong.
“Sicily offered a fresh influx of cash,” Dante continues. “Whatever we need.”
“We shouldn’t need it.” Papa looks my way like he’s checking for confirmation, and I nod firmly. “We’re in good shape last I checked the books. And there’s still the stockpile of weapons and ammo at our warehouse in Queens, so that’s settled.”
“I double-checked the security detail we’ve set up there,” I interject, hoping to comfort him. “Everything is running smoothly.”
The look of relief that touches his face turns to irritation when Dante snorts. “Wow. Congratulations. You managed to make a phone call.” His sour smirk is the perfect punctuation mark, one I’d love to wipe off his face.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I demand, ignoring my father’s quiet groan of dismay in favor of marching around the desk and standing in front of my brother with my feet planted and my fists clenched. “Are we in this together, or aren’t we?”
He has the audacity to blink as he tilts his head back to look up at me, like he’s innocent or somehow confused. “Why would we not be in this together?” he asks with a sickening smile.
“Boys, enough of this,” Papa murmurs.
But that’s the thing. I have had enough, and I’m still ingesting my brother’s shit. All for the sake of keeping the peace and maintaining a united front in this most dangerous time. I’m doing everything I can, yet he insists on heaping more of his shit on my plate at every opportunity.
“When are you going to grow up?” I ask him, tipping my head to the side. “Honestly. When will you learn to accept defeat gracefully?”
“That depends,” he tells me, still smiling with those same hard eyes. “I haven’t been defeated yet.”
All I can do is bark out a laugh. “Right. I didn’t know you were a comedian.”
That gets him. His face darkens while his nostrils flare, and now I know he’s taking the gloves off. Good. I’d rather lay everything out bare than dance around his obvious resentment. “Listen up.” He snarls. “You can keep your little slut here?—”
My breath catches. “Shut your fucking mouth!”
“But don’t expect me to be happy about it,” he continues, ignoring me. “I’m not going to sit here, pretending I agree with it, and I won’t pretend the extra work you’ve heaped on all of us?—”
“I said enough!” Papa slams his hands against the desk, jumping from his chair and growling at both of us. Now he’s the man I grew up loving and fearing and equal parts, practically on fire, ready to rip our heads off. “I am sick to death of listening to the two of you bickering like a couple of children! Dammit, this didn’t only happen because of that girl, Dante,” he barks out.
