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I stay around the corner, my back plastered against the wall, and silently beg for invisibility while straining to hear their conversation.
“Stupid fuckers didn’t even use an unmarked car,” my father says tensely. “It’s like they want us to know it was them.”
“Word is, it was Lombardi’s last wish to kill me. A son for a son.”
“Last wish? What does that mean?”
“I have no idea, but I’ll ask him that question right before I kill him.” Benny releases a stressed breath. “But first, I need to make sure my wife is okay.”
“I’m proud of you, Benny. I don’t know if I say that enough, but I’m honored to be your father. What happened to Neomi wasn’t your fault. It was Vincent’s. Don’t let your mind go there.”
“Is that how you felt when Vinny took Natalia?”
“At first, no. I almost let it eat me alive. But then I realized it was more important to help my wife deal with the trauma of what had happened than feel sorry for myself.”
“I’m going to kill them for creating that trauma.”
“Take care of your wife. Then we’ll kill them.”
Bruno calls my name, and I back away from the wall. He drives me home, and I wait to cry until I’m in my bedroom.
It’s time for me to fulfill my duty to protect my family.
For me to abandon my innocence and become a ruthless Marchetti.
I need to speak with my father.
My life is about to change.
23
There’s nothing better than seeing my daughter happy.
After weeks of Amara’s persistent pleas, I relented, allowing her to return to dance classes on the condition that Damien or I was in attendance.
Sitting in the packed theater’s aisle, I watch Amara’s show, and when it ends, I stand, giving them a standing ovation. The dancers take their final bows, and Pippa leads them offstage.
I rub my temple with one hand and withdraw my phone from my pocket with the other. During the show, I kept it on silent. My daughter deserves an hour of my undivided attention. A list of missed calls and text notifications crowd the screen.
“Fuck,” I hiss, and that gains me a dirty look from the yuppie parents beside me.
I glare at the high-powered stockbroker who turns to glare, and his wife shakes her head in distaste.
Little does the asshole’s wife know, I’m not the only one who has blood on his hands. A decade ago, her husband paid us a hundred grand to murder his competition for a job promotion.
I stand, elbowing the side of the asshole’s head, and walk into the lobby. The first call I return is Damien’s.
“Neomi Cavallaro was shot at Tommaso’s funeral,” he immediately says with no greeting. “The target was Benny. Neomi was hit by accident.”
“Fuck!” I roar, gaining disapproving looks again. “Did Sonny call it?”
“Your father.”
I tighten my grip on the phone. “Come to the theater now.”
“Already on my way. ETA: five minutes.”
“Meet me in the lobby.” I end the call and hit my father’s name.
