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Clearing this debt will barely put a dent in my accounts. When my mother died, Bash and I were left with significant trusts. I’ve never touched mine, allowing it to grow for years while I built my wealth on my own. I’ve been smart and made good investments. “If the jet was tampered with, I don’t think it could have been the Canadians,” I tell him, adding, “I don’t think they had the time.”
“Is she worth this, son?” Pop sounds tired. It’s closing in on midnight back home. He’s probably sitting in his home office, finishing the last of his work for the day with a glass of wine from his vineyard in Calabria next to him and a cigar in his hand.
But none of that changes that this question was asked and answered last week when I told him what I wanted to do.
What I needed to do.
“My answer hasn’t changed, Pop.”
“This woman isn’t even yours, Sam. I haven’t met her. You need to fix that soon if she’s important to you. I want to meet the next Beneventi principessa.” As if realizing what he said, my father pauses. There hasn’t been a Beneventi princess since my mother was alive, but by then, she wasn’t a princess. No, she was the Beneventi queen.
As if invading my thoughts, he asks, “Would your mother like this girl?”
All Ma ever wanted was for us to be happy. She was born into this life. She understood it. She accepted it. But she never stopped pushing for us to have more, whatever that looked like. “Yeah, Pop. I think Ma would have liked her. I think she would have loved her.”
Pop sighs. “She was the best of us. Make sure this woman is worth it. When you’re an old man looking back on your life, make sure it’s without regret, son. Loving your mother... it was easy.”
“Everything okay, Pop?” It’s not like my dad to be this reflective.
“Make sure she’s worth it, Sam. And bring her to the house soon. I want to meet her. Give your nonna someone to fuss over.”
The call ends, and I momentarily try to picture myself, years from now, looking back on my life. But I can’t.
I don’t see it.
Can’t see it.
What the hell does that mean?
