“No, thank you.” Steven took a seat and I pulled out the chair next to him. Marta hovered at the head of the table, one hand clutching her cardigan at her throat like she was afraid it might spill open.
She smiled at Steven and fresh tears welled up.
“How fast was it?” she asked.
Steven seemed taken off guard by the question. “How fast was what, Martha?” he asked.
“You know what I mean. Did he… did he suffer?”
“No,” Steven said and stared down at the table. He took a breath and looked up. “No, he didn’t suffer, I can promise you that at least.”
She nodded once and sat down abruptly in the chair at the head of the table. I wanted to go to her and hold her hand, but I knew that wasn’t my place.
There was a noise toward the front of the house. I turned and saw a girl come down the steps. She was a teenager, no older than sixteen, with dark hair in tight curls down around her shoulders. Her skin was blotchy and she had an angry scowl on her face as she walked toward us, her arms crossed over her chest. Her sweatpants were gray and baggy and a couple sizes too big, and her white t-shirt looked like it had been washed ten thousand times.
“What’s he doing here?” the girl asked.
“It’s okay, Tessie,” Martha said. “Steven’s just here to talk about Davide.”
“We don’t want you here,” Tessie said, staring at Steven. “You think you’re welcome here? You got my brother killed, you asshole.”
Steven flinched like he’d been slapped but he raised his eyes. I couldn’t believe the sorrow I saw in his expression, and for a second I wondered if he was faking it.
But no, he wasn’t faking. His voice trembled the slightest bit when he spoke.
“I loved your brother like he was my own,” he said. “The way things went down… that wasn’t supposed to happen. You both have my heartfelt apology.”
“You can take your apology and shove it up your—”
“Tessie!” Martha said. “Stop right now. Show Steven some respect.”
“Respect?” Tessie spit the word out like it was a disease. “How could you respect this man, Mom? Davide would be alive right now if it weren’t for him.”
“It wasn’t Steven’s fault,” I said, and everyone stared at me, including Steven. I blanched a little and felt myself sink back into the chair, but I forged ahead anyway. “He did his best in a bad situation. I was there when Davide died, and it was… it was a freak accident.”
“Nobody gets shot in the head in a freak accident,” Tessie said.
“Tessie,” Martha said. “Stop right now. I don’t want to hear this.”
“I know you don’t, Mom, but everyone’s talking about it. He got shot in the head when you were out killing some guys in that… what’s it called? The Celtic Club? That stupid Irish mafia.” She made a face and glared at me. “I bet you know a few of them, don’t you, bitch?”
“That’s enough.” Martha slammed her hands on the table. I jumped in surprise and stared at Steven. He only looked at Tessie with an expression caught between anger and sadness, but didn’t say a word. “Tessie, go back upstairs right now.”
“Screw this,” Tessie said. “You’re just as bad as everyone else, Mom. They don’t own you. They’re not worth it.” She shook her head, turned away, and stormed back upstairs.
Silence hung over the table, thick as the living room carpet.
“I’m sorry about her,” Martha said after a long moment. “Her father died three years ago from cancer. And now she’s not taking Davide’s death very well. It seems every man in her life ends up dead.” She smiled a rueful, angry smile.
“I’m sorry again, Martha,” Steven said. “I didn’t come here to defend what happened, only to reach out and let you know that the Family will always take care of you and your family.”
She nodded a little and touched her eyes with the tissue. “I don’t blame you, you know,” she said.
“It’s okay if you do.”
“But I don’t.” She reached out and touched his hand. He flinched, but didn’t move it away. “Before the Family took him in, Davide was troubled. He was on drugs, getting into fights, causing problems around the neighborhood. Then you came around and made him a better man. I’ll never thank you enough for that, and as far as I’m concerned, all the time we got with him while he was working for you was all just a bonus.”
Steven took her hand and squeezed it. He gave her a long look then released her and reached into his jacket. He took out a fat envelope and placed it down on the table and pushed it toward her. She hesitated then took it up and clutched it against her chest like a treasured stuffed animal.
“That’s just a little something to start,” he said. “I swear, I’m not paying you for Davide’s death. I’m only providing for his family, as he would’ve wanted. I’m sorry again, Martha.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
I stood and followed him around the table. Martha walked us to the door, her eyes glistening with tears as Steven turned the knob and opened it. A small wooden cross with a cherub floating at the top of it rattled as he went to leave.
“Steven?” Martha said.
He looked back.
“You’ll come to the funeral, won’t you?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said, then turned and walked down the stoop.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said and hurried after him.
Marta stood in the door as Steven got behind the wheel and started the engine. I got in the passenger side and he pulled out, driving too fast. I clutched the dash for a moment before he glided through a stop sign, made a left then a right, then pulled over on the side of the road.
He sat there staring at the steering wheel before he punched it. He punched it hard once, twice, again and again.
