Page 73 of The Taste of Deceit

I snort.

“Please. You are the most satisfied man in Los Angeles.”

He grins.

“Very true.”

“Anyway,” I drag out out the word, and he laughs. “I was actually hoping you could tell me a little about your dad.”

“Oh,” he says, shifting to look at me. “I mean, there isn’t much to tell. He died when I was five. I don’t remember a lot.”

“I know, but must have heard stories, right?”

“Yeah.” He nods, slowly. “What’s this about, Baby Girl?”

“I guess...” I glance down at our hands. “Watching your mom made me curious. She’s one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. It made me wonder what kind of man she loved.”

He takes my hand in his.

“To a little kid, my dad was a superhero. He wore nice suits. He carried a gun. He said things like, ‘Forget about it,’ in that thick Italian accent of his. He kissed Ma every chance he got. He made sure Carmela knew never to settle for some idiot, and he always told me, ‘Luca, you treat every girl you meet with respect.’”

I smile.

“He was everything to us. He loved us like we were the most important thing in the world.”

“That’s because you were.”

He doesn’t answer straight away.

His thumb drifts back and forth over my hand before he looks away, his jaw tightening.

“Sometimes, I wonder,” he says quietly.

I frown.

“Why would you say that?”

He lets out a long breath through his nose before giving a small shake of his head.

“Pop was in the life, just like me. Just like the rest of the family.” His eyes remain fixed somewhere across the room. “He was Uncle Dante’s most trusted man.”

“Dante,” I say. “That’s Michael’s dad?”

“Mm-hm.” He nods. “Everyone always says they were inseparable. Everywhere Dante went, Pop wasn’t far behind. They trusted each other with everything.”

He pauses again.

“Pop was only a year younger than Dante. They both got married young. Aunt Catarina had Mikey, and then Ma had Carmela.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles.

“They both worked under my Nonnu. He ran the family until he died right before I was born.” He pauses. “After that, Uncle Dante took over. He was the oldest, so it was always going to be him.”

I squeeze his hand a little tighter, but I don’t say anything.

“Anyway,” he says quietly, “I remember that before Pop died, he wasn’t home as often.”

His thumb continues its slow path across the back of my hand.