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They are.
So heartbreaking.
My father lifts his fork to his mouth, the enormous gold ring on his finger indicating his role as head of the family. Head of the mob in NYC. As if its required.
He was born powerful.
His dark hair is now gray, a seventies-style mustache thick on his upper lip and his face lined with knowledge and experience.
And death.
I’ve watched him flick his fingers, move his eyes, and had men kill for him. A nod and a trigger pulled.
As hard as my mother tried, she could not shelter me from the death and corruption. He wouldn’t let her.
This is her future, he would say.She must learn and respect the family.
Not a day goes by that I don’t hate that my apartment is paid for by blood. My clothes, my phone, my jewelry. At least I can say my groceries come from the work I do each day at Bloom Events.
“Boss,” Jimmy “Fingers” says as he walks into the room. Jimmy is Father’s head enforcer.
Gabrielle turns his head and watches him like a hawk. He’s in on everything going on with the business, and soon, Cade will take his place.
Then one day, step into my father’s shoes.
I sip my drink and watch them all, realizing I’m being watched back. Papa isstaringat me.Fuck.I hate that I still can’t read him twenty-four years on.
He doesn’t move an inch to acknowledge Jimmy, but the man leans down to his ear and says something.
Papa nods once.
“Take him downstairs, and I will be down when I have finished lunch,” Joe says.
“Got it, boss.” Jimmy leaves, but not before he lifts his arm to indicate one of the guards should follow.
They both walk out.
Papa shoots Gabrielle a glance, and he pushes his chair out. “Excuse me,” and leaves.
It’s nearly over, and while I mostly hate these Sunday lunches, I do enjoy seeing my family. Just not with the dark cloud of my future hanging over my head.
Despite what they do, I love these mobsters.
Cade watches the interaction with Jimmy and my father—ever the eager apprentice. They share a look as my father wipes his mouth with his napkin and throws it on his plate.
Seriously, this is just another day in the Mancini family.
Hashtag MobLife.
Father takes a healthy drink of his wine, then drops it down, and his eyes land on me. Directly.
Oh, shit.
“Mia, I have given notice on your apartment. Two weeks, you are coming home,” Joe says, and my eyes fly open.
My stomach lurches, nearly bringing up my entire lunch, and it feels like all the blood leaches from my body.
I go cold.
