“I’ll talk to my father,” I say. When he starts to smile, I grab his shoulder, digging my thumb into the muscle around his collarbone. “But it’s not because of anything you said or any of your threats. I’m going to talk to him because it’s been ten years. We both owe each other explanations.”
He pulls my hand off him and squeezes my fingers as he lowers it back down to my side.
“Do what you have to do now,” he says simply. “Because in the end, you’re going to do what I need you to do.”
I turn away from him. Our hands slowly untangle until the feeling of his fingers disappears. I keep walking, feeling infinitely more alone.
Walking toward my father feels like I’m a crashing airplane, hurtling full speed towards the ground. There’s nowhere to turn that will save me. No matter what, impact is going to hurt. A lot.
He doesn’t even see me coming.
I stop a few feet away from him. His hands have turned into the hands of an old man—ashen, the veins protruding, and tiny wrinkles creasing his skin. Time hasn’t been kind to him.
Those hands grab onto his drink like I saw him do a hundred times when I was younger. It’s impossible to describe what it’s like seeing the same behavior from a man who raised me for eighteen years, but it’s from a man who’s ten years older. Maybe it’s like waking up from a coma except this is a coma I chose to be in.
I reach out and touch his shoulder. He jerks around, his hand reaching toward his holster behind his back. The way his arm tenses, I know the gun is in his hand as his men rise to their feet, their guns already drawn. Recognition dawns on my father’s face in increments—slowly, then suddenly, like a summer storm.
“Cassie,” he blurts, reaching toward me over the corner of the booth. I step closer, letting his hands touch my face. His fingertips tug at my cheeks, pulling me close enough for him to kiss near the corner of my eye. The scent of alcohol saturates his breath. I’d love to imagine that his affection is purely love, but he’s always sentimental and doting when he’s drunk.
It’s when he’s sober that the monster comes out.
He grabs onto my shoulders, hugging me tightly.
“Come, come, sit down.” He moves deeper into the booth. “Drink with us. Everyone, you remember Cassie? Yes? You won’t know Gioffre. Cassandra, that’s Gioffre. He’s a made man now.”
Gioffre gives me a curt smile. The men have all discreetly put their guns back, but their wariness isn’t as covert.
My father hands me a glass of red wine. “Drink, drink. We have to celebrate. When did you make it back to the city? Did you hear that I loved this place? It’s such a good atmosphere.”
He keeps smiling, occasionally grabbing onto me like I’m prone to disappearing. I suppose, from his perspective, I am. When I finish the glass of wine—liquid courage for answering his barrage of questions about the last ten years—he fills up another glass. I down that one, too, as he starts asking about my current job.
He doesn’t bring up my daughter. Even drunk, he expertly avoids any topic that might condemn him.
As he starts talking about his own last ten years, I turn my head enough to see Maksim, drinking his champagne at the edge of the balcony. To a passerby, he might seem to be observing the patrons dancing against each other, but even with his head facing away from me, I can feel his gaze dissecting every movement between my father and me. He might even be able to hear my father with how loudly he’s talking about buying new property.
“We should exchange numbers now before we forget,” my father says, his words slightly slurring now. “You’ll have to come by and see the new house.”
As I type my number into his phone and text myself to get his number, I turn my head to check on Maksim again. Maksim’s arm tenses as he grips the balcony’s handrail.
There is no possible way that tonight will end well.
“Mia figlia,” my father croons a few drinks later, leaning against the back of the booth. “It’s so good that you’re back. I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Papa,” I say, though the words don’t feel right. My dad is far too drunk to notice my discomfort, though.
Suddenly, a scream pierces through the sound of the music.
I turn, but all I can see are people on the dance floor, moving out of the way, their expressions ranging from terrified to concerned to intrigued, depending on how much they’ve had to drink tonight. I look at Maksim, but he’s no longer looking over at us. He’s slowly walking north, trying to find a better vantage point. He either can’t see what’s going on or he can’t make sense of it.
One of his men—Bogdan, I think—runs up to him, drawing his attention away.
My breath gets caught in my throat. The moment Maksim looks away, it feels like some form of protection has been torn away from me. It’s not that I need him or that I don’t know that I can take care of myself, but being close to him and being under his watch, there’s the knowledge that he’s invested in my safety. There’s the sense that someone other than myself cares if I get hurt, if I get killed, if I run away for a decade.
It’s slow motion as I see Gennady rush up the balcony stairs. The slash across his face appears wider now, though the bruises, the fat lip, and the swollen eye are almost enough to distract from the dark red gash. When he raises his arm, it takes me a moment to grasp that he’s holding a gun.
The first shot cracks through the room. A man on the other side of my
