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I stood, impatient to end my visit with the past. I wanted to walk away from memories I’d kept chained to stay as the cold and vicious bastard only my demon understood. The only way to survive in this hell of a world.
“Why are you really here, Lucca?” Sal asked.
“Diego will be dead by the end of the day.”
I was here out of respect.
Sal’s lips twisted, unhappy with my words, and his eyes lifted, trying to understand.
“Why?”
“Katia.”
He laughed. Full chuckles that dared his lungs. In a roar, he gulped deep breaths, his chest begging for air.
Fucking Sal.
“Happy to know you find his death funny.”
“You’re a fool, Lucca.”
“Don’t call me a fool, old man.”
“But you are, and I am happy to see it.”
His smile broke free, and his teeth shone teasingly. My jaw tensed at the absurdity of Sal’s words.
“You are not here to tell me you are getting rid of Diego.” He shrugged. “You do as you please with no regard for others.” Sal adjusted his oxygen tube and continued, “And you are a fool for thinking I don’t know you, kid. You’re here because you are losing your edge.”
“You don’t know anything,” I gritted out.
Sal shook his head. His mood quieted, and only a partial smile remained on his lips.
“I think I know more than you right now.” His eyes wandered before he announced. “I’ll join the next family lunch.”
Confused, I wanted to ask why. But I stayed silent.
The truth was, Sal was right. I wasn’t really here to tell him about Diego. I wanted to see him. Talk to him, and I hope my mind will be pacified. Instead, I felt more unhinged and unbalanced than when I stepped into the humid air. Just like any other time, I would remain trapped in my thoughts—alone. Because allowing my mind to speak freely will be a weakness.
My phone rang, cutting through our stare, and after taking it out of my pocket and looking at the area code for New York, I had to take it.
“I have to go,” I announced, but Sal’s hands were already rushing me to leave. “Stay breathing.”
His eyes slid, and I smiled, walking away from the ill-tempered asshole I mirrored.
Out in the open and under the beaming sun, I answered as I walked my way back to my house.
“Pronto,” I said in Italian.
The voice that replied back in Italian was one I hadn’t expected or trusted—Mario Vitelli’s.
“Moretti, quite a mess.”
“One that I see as necessary.” As I stood in the backyard, away from prying ears, I waited for Mario to figure out his next words.
“And yet it has reached a high level in New York,” he spat.
“Did you expect it to be any different? After all, it was the Vitelli name who broke a vow.”
