My headache still thrummed against my temples as I steered my car toward my parents’ home. After my short night at the Mione’s mansion, I’d retrieved my car and driven to the hotel to change my clothes and pick up my bag. I’d been on the road back to Indianapolis ever since. My body screamed to lie down, but a message from Mother had me driving to them instead.
When I let myself in with my keys, Emma wheeled herself into the foyer. “I heard your car,” she said softly. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Despite her obvious distress, she scanned my face and said, “You don’t look good. Is everything all right?”
Word about Serafina helping Remo escape hadn’t reached my parents’ home yet. I doubted that it wasn’t making the rounds among my men, though.
I kissed her cheek with a strained smile. “Things have been strenuous in Minneapolis, but let’s not worry about it now.” That was putting it mildly. Shit would hit the fan very soon, and my men’s frustration and anger over the enemy’s coup would hit me even if Dante had made the decision. A few would test my authority, and I’d have to show strength. More energy wasted in the wrong direction.
“Mom and Dad are upstairs,” Emma said, then whispered, “Dad’s been really bad these last few days. I think . . . I don’t think he’ll make it to Christmas.” Her voice hitched and she covered her face with her hands.
I squeezed her shoulder. “He’s recovered before.” He’d had a few bad episodes that had been followed by weeks of better health, but overall, his body had deteriorated. I went upstairs. The door to my parents’ bedroom was open and I stepped in without knocking. Dad lay in the center of the massive king bed, looking like a skeleton—a broken, wilted body only anchored in this world by his sheer force of will.
Mom stepped out of the bathroom, wiping at blood splatters on her white silk blouse. Her skin was pale, her brown eyes red. She jumped when she spotted me and slowly let the hand clutching the washcloth sink to her side. Her brown hair was a mess, her usually elegant chignon tousled, with strands falling out of it.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your father had a coughing fit,” she said tonelessly, then with a strange smile. “I think my blouse is ruined.”
I went over to her and set a comforting had on her shoulder. “When was the last time you slept?”
She shook her head as if the question was irrelevant. “Your dad needs me. He needs my full attention to get better.”
I looked back at the bed. I had little hope that Dad would get better. Maybe he’d cling to life—whatever was left of it—for a few more weeks, but his death wasn’t far off. Emma’s words could prove right. The weeks until Christmas seemed an insurmountable distance for the man lying in the bed.
Thinking of the weeks ahead, a sense of bone-deep exhaustion overcame me. My father’s death and the inevitable upcoming uproar in the Outfit would require all my energy.
“How . . .” The broken word from Father’s cracked lips made us jump. She rushed over to him and dabbed his mouth with a wet cloth. His glassy eyes focused on me. I sank down on a chair beside the bed and leaned forward to understand him.
“How did it go?” Every word tore from his body in a painful rattle, and my own chest ached just imagining his struggle.
I had a millisecond to decide what to say. “It went well,” I said, choosing the lie. Father didn’t talk to anyone outside of the family because he didn’t want to show weakness in front of others. He wanted them to remember him as the strong leader he used to be. That meant the truth about the Remo Falcone debacle wouldn’t reach his ears if I talked to a few key people and made sure they kept their mouths shut.
His eyes flickered with excitement.
“We tortured him to death. It took us two days, but in the end, he begged for mercy. We cut his dick off and ended his miserable life.” As I uttered the words, my own frustration flooded me again. For so long, I’d worked towards the ultimate goal to ruin Remo, and it had all been for nothing.
Father nodded. “They . . . they all do. Did you do the honors?”
“I did.” The lies flowed easily from my lips, maybe because they were easier to stomach than the truth. I still had trouble accepting that Remo was back in Las Vegas, that he’d be going on with his life, and not just that . . . he had Serafina to parade around as his triumph over the Outfit.
“Maybe the girl can move on now. If she sends those kids to a boarding school far away, people will eventually forget they exist,” Mother added.
I swallowed my bitterness. Serafina had moved on, but no one in the Outfit would forget about the black-haired Falcone spawns any time soon, nor about the events that created them.
Father watched me closely, and I quickly masked my feelings. Of course, he caught on to my troubles. He was too good at reading people. “Are you still hung up on the girl?”
Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. I wasn’t sure what I felt anymore. Until a few days ago, I’d felt a strange sense of longing whenever I’d seen Serafina or just thought of her, but after what she did . . . my feelings had done a U-turn.
Marco had a very peculiar opinion about women. He said they were all opportunists at heart, easy to sway toward whatever direction suited them best. They chose the option that brought the biggest advantage. I’d always considered his musings the result of his bitterness toward his mother. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Surely, not all women were that way? But in our world, many chose their own advantage over loyalty.
Serafina had chosen a life at
