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“Something came up, or did he pull another disappearing act?” Sonny nudges his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose.
Sonny is a royal pain in my ass, right up there with Vinny on the list of people who provide me constant headaches. What aggravates me the most with him is his harbored resentment over my father being boss, not him. Thank God the impulsive hothead isn’t. And since he isn’t boss, I have no obligation to answer him, so I ignore his question.
“I need to get home,” I tell my father, checking my watch.
“It’s a little early to call it quits,” Sonny grunts before downing his drink and setting it down.
I glare at him. “Of course someone with no one waiting at home for them would say something like that.”
Sonny grunts again, shoving his gray hair from his eyes with both hands. “I was too busy working my ass off for this family to find a new wife.”
“Hmm.” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “That sucks.”
Sonny has no children because he can’t find a woman willing to tolerate him long enough to have a family. His first wife went missing in Canada during their honeymoon. The second walked in front of a bus in traffic. He hasn’t had a third.
I leave his office and drive home. When I turn on the private road that leads to my house, my mind drifts to Gigi and the gala. A few days before the gala, Benny came to the casino to see me. We shared a drink, and when he asked what happened at L’ultima Cena, I told him it was nothing but simple conversation. He accepted my answer but made it clear I was on their radar.
Not that I gave a shit.
Radar or not, if I see his sister, I won’t keep my hands to myself.
I hit the button on my car dashboard to open the gate and garage door. My secluded home, nestled in the outskirts of New York suburbia, has miles between me and any neighbors. Before her death, I gave Sienna, my wife, free rein to choose our home; my only request was privacy. She went with some medieval Tudor home once owned by a former president.
At first, I hated it, but it’s grown on me. As I’ve raised my daughter here, it’s become more than just a place to lay my head at night; it’s become our home.
We moved in right after we found out she was pregnant with Amara seven years ago. This is the only home my daughter has known. It holds so many memories with us. It’d almost feel like losing a part of my soul if we moved.
My body is sore as I unlock the wrought-iron door, enter the passcode, and press my finger against the scanner. When I walk inside, I pass the monitor that provides live feeds from the cameras inside the house and around the property.
“Good evening, Antonio,” Clara greets, emerging from the corner while wiping her hands on her apron.
“Hi, Clara,” I say in exhaustion while entering the living room to find Damien, mycaporegime, sitting in a chair.
Damien motions toward my shirt. “You look like you had a good day.”
I pull at my shirt collar, noticing the red stain—residue of Jack the sleazeball. “Typical day at the office.”
“Daddy!” Amara bursts into the living room, clutching a doll in one hand and a stuffed pig in the other.
I kneel, lifting her into my arms, and all the tension that’s taken permanent residence in my body loosens some. Amara never fails to help give me pause from the problems on my mind.
“Can we have pizza tonight?” she asks, pouting her lip. “I had veggies for lunch, so I’m all healthy!”
I kiss the top of her head before settling her onto her fluffy, sock-covered feet. “I’ll think about it.”
“She had two carrots,” Clara says from behind me before joining us in the living room. “I don’t know if that qualifies asveggies.”
Amara frowns at being ratted out.
“Yo, Amara!” Damien says. “You’ll never grow as tall as a unicorn if you don’t eat your veggies.”
“See!” Clara squeals. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to grow a glitter horn from your forehead? That takes eatinglots and lotsof vegetables, sweet girl.”
Clara is my biggest help with Amara. She’s her nanny, tutor, and grandmother. She’s my mother-in-law. I can protect my daughter, but there’s a long list of shit I can’t do. My French braids are pathetic. I pick out the wrong pink outfits. Clara’s my savior, helping me not feel like a complete failure as a father.
Amara holds up her tiny finger with pink glitter polish. “I’ll put veggieson my pizzathen.”
“If she wants pizza, give her pizza,” I say in fake annoyance before tickling Amara’s side.
