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“Keep your voice down,” he hisses, looking up and down the dingy hallway.
“Like anyone is going to come. No one else came whenever Mom cried out for help. She’d scream, but no one listened. I should have listened. I should have helped her, and I didn’t.”
“That’s not my fault, son.”
I scoff. “Not your fault? You’re the one who fucking beat her! Who killed her! If that isn’t your fault, then who’s is it?”
“I think you should leave now.” He starts to close the door, but I stop him again.
“You want to know what’s been going on with me? I got married.” I show him my wedding ring. His eyes widen. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She made me realize I could respect and love women. That I didn’t need to hurt them. To humiliate them. That I could a woman happy. It felt so fucking good because it was the right thing. I loved her.” The moment the words come out of me I know how true they are. “I fucking loved her. Love her. But because of my past mistakes, she’s gone. And she might never return, and I can’t even blame her for that because why would she? I don’t deserve it. I’m a bastard. I’m a bad man. All because you were my role model. And I hate you for it.”
He stares at me for a while, not saying anything. I want to keep screaming at him, but I know it’s pointless. With my dad, nothing ever gets through to him.
“If you hate me so much, what are you doing here?” he asks, startling me.
“What?”
“If you claim to love your wife, go after her. Don’t make my mistakes. Don’t stand here blaming me for something you did.” He shuts the door on my face, and I don’t try fighting it.
I hate to say it, but … my father is right. I put myself into this mess, and it’s my job to fix it. I need to show Francesca how much she means to me—how much I was telling her the truth when we went on our dates and spent our nights together. I started things with her over a bet, but I really do love her.
She needs to know that.
I’m going to New York to get her back.
As I hurry out of the apartment building, I pull out my phone, ready to get a ticket to New York. But I’m interrupted by a call. It’s Jerry, the manager of the Velvet Lounge.
“Jerry, now is not a good time,” I growl as I pick up.
“I know who’s been stealing from the club. I managed to get a glimpse of their face on the security cameras.”
“Who is it?”
The moment he tells me the name, I’m off in my car and heading for the club, texting that person to meet me there. Here’s only hoping he actually shows up.
Relief courses through me when I reach the club and see Henry at the bar, drinking his stupid pina colada like he hasn’t done anything wrong.
I approach him. “Stealing from the club, buddy?” I whistle. “Let me tell you. Not a good look.”
Henry tenses slightly but doesn’t look at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I grab the umbrella out of his drink and smash it into his eye. Henry screams, jerking up from his seat. The bartender glances over, but once he sees it’s me, he doesn’t interfere. Everyone who works here knows to not interfere in Mafia business.
“What the fuck?” Henry hisses. He doesn’t get to say anything else before I slam my fist into his face. He stumbles back, hitting the barstool and falling to the ground.
“You’re just as bad as me,” I seethe, punching him over and over again. “You made that bet with me.” Punch.” And then you told Fran, acting like you were the high and mighty one and I was nothing but scum.” Punch. “And then I find out you’ve been stealing from the club. Stealing from Marco. He’s going to love to hear this.” Punch. “So, it seems our bet actually came true.” Punch. “I got to fuck Francesca, and you made yourself look like a fool in front of Marco. I win.” Punch, punch, punch. My knuckles are bloody, though I’m not sure if it’s my blood or Henry’s. He gurgles and tries to reply, but I don’t let him. I continue hitting him until I decide to be done.
Henry is lying on the ground, his face battered, bruised, and bloody. The memory of my mother flashes through my mind—her bloody face, body splayed on the ground—but unlike Henry, she died. Unlike my dad, I know when to stop.
I jerk Henry up, and he wobbles on his feet, squinting at me through swollen eyes. “I’m taking you to Marco and letting him know what you’ve done.” I drag Henry out to my car. He’s in so much pain; he can’t even object.
“You’re wrong,” he says, though he sounds like he’s speaking around a mouthful of rocks.
“How am I wrong?” The California landscape passes us by as I drive to Marco’s mansion in the hills.
“You said”—he gulps— “that I act like I’m better than you.” Henry slumps forward, gripping his knees. “But you … you’re the one who thinks you’re better.” He gasps, clutching at his face. “All because you got the girl. All because you think you’ve changed. But you haven’t changed.” He laughs, then quickly winces. “You’re still the same Leo who likes to hurt women. You’ll always be that way. Nothing can change it. And bringing me to Marco won’t fix things with Francesca.”
“So, I might as well let you go? That’s what you’re implying?”
“Yes.”
