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My face stays blank except for my eyebrow lifting as if to say, Yes? But beneath that, I’m panicking.
What if I’m not what he expected?
What if he called me here to tell me to back off?
What if he’s preparing to tell me I’ll never be a real Russo?
The thoughts fly at warp speed and for a moment, I wish I had Dante here, my rock who would protect me.
He would know what to do, what to say while I flounder.
But then I see it.
The shine in his eyes.
The man is staring at me intensely and his eyes are glossy with tears before one finally falls.
“Jesus,” he says in a croaky whisper. “Madonn’.”
I don’t say anything.
Instead, I watch eyes I’ve seen in the mirror my whole life, eyes I’ve never seen in another face in person, continue to water before tears start falling from them.
“You look just like him,” he says, the words a mere whisper.
“So do you,” I say, fighting the croak in my own voice.
“You’ve seen him?” he asks, his brows coming together. “Your father? You’ve seen pictures?”
“My mother left me one with a letter from him. I was a newborn, and he was holding me.”
Alfredo—my grandfather—stares at me for long moments and there are just more similarities—deeper than features or looks, but personality. He’s debating on if he should say what he wants to say next, the questions battling on his face. The average person wouldn’t see the warring, but I know it well.
“Do you . . . Would you . . . You think I could get a copy of that? My boy and his girl . . . god.” Another tear falls and finally, a part of my facade cracks and I smile, a small, sad thing.
“Yeah. I could get it to you.”
He breathes in deep and its like with this exchange, something in him has healed.
Something that’s been broken for 26 years.
“God. Look at you. He would have . . . Shit. He’d be fuckin’ proud, seeing you. Hear you’ve been wreaking havoc.” I smile, but a swath of panic hits me all the same.
“Heard from whom?” I ask, wondering if maybe the Carluccios haven’t been as quiet and unknowing as we assumed or if Sal and Roz ran their mouths.
“Marco,” Alfredo says with a smile. “Man’s fond of you but says you give everyone you meet a run for their money.”
I smile then look back at my friend.
My . . . guard.
He shrugs and I turn back to Alfredo.
“I do my best.”
“That’s what Arturo would have wanted. He would have babied you like you wouldn’t believe, but he would have made it so you were tough. Took no shit.” His eyes move to my right hand, where I moved my wedding ring. “Definitely wouldn’t have let you marry a goddamn Carluccio on a whim.”
The smile drops from my lips and my blood heats a bit in irritation.
