“His latest one died in a car crash, remember?” Fabio interjects. “The Salieri heiress.”
“Yes, but he didn’t fail them.” My voice breaks, but the arrival of a fresh shot of whiskey provides the perfect distraction. I down it and mutter, “He never had to scrape pieces of their brains from his living room floor with his bare hands—”
“God damn it, Don,” Fabio exclaims, clearing his throat. He looks visibly pale, though he should. His sister was the woman in question.
My Olivia…
Could I prove that Salvatore was behind the attack that killed her? No. But I more than got my revenge on the sick sons of bitches who carried out the plan. Gino Mangenello suffered the most of them all.
“Another,” I demand, striking the counter. But the promise of another drink isn’t enough to shut me up. “As vile a cunt as he is, Antonio Salvatore never failed to protect that horrid fucking family of his—”
“Protect?” Fabio sniffs. “The bastard is no father of the year. I’ve heard more than one rumor about his little girl sporting bruises—the one who lives with him.”
“While he may beat his children senseless,” I say over him, “he hasn’t sold one of them—”
“Enough! Don’t even compare yourself to him,” Fabio snarls. He levels me with a hallmark stare that serves as one of the many reasons why his reputation is so respected in our circles. Despite all his pomp, Fabio always tells the truth, no matter how cruel it may be. A skill both valued in an accountant as well as a friend.
“What happened wasn’t your fault, and you’ve made the best of it,” he insists. “And as for that last thing you mentioned…”
“Selling a child, you mean?” I choke down the rest of my drink and gesture for more. “Vincenzo mentioned her tonight. He whispered her name, and I don’t even have the heart to tell him that I’m the reason she’s gone.”
“You were mad with grief,” he says. “That doesn’t make it right, but there is no telling what a man would do in that state. I remember how you were back then. God knows, you could have done so much worse…” He shivers, and the horror unfurling across his face is a testament to how hard I’ve worked to change. Never again will I be that man.
I’ve gotten clean.
Gotten a soul.
But even so, most days, it feels like God is merely mocking me, testing my patience by the day. What might he throw my way that could finally put me over the edge?
“We all have our lot to live with, Don,” Fab says. “Stop punishing yourself. You want to know why? Because even after what you’ve done, you live with it. You’ve done your best to repent, and I think you have.”
Repent. He makes it sound so damn righteous to forsake the criminal underworld I was raised in. Try to forge a path on the right side of the law. Raise Vincenzo with the skills that will never force him to make the mistakes I did.
“Look at our precious boy,” Fabio points out as if reading my mind. “He’s studying to be a doctor. Madonna! Donella is dancing in her grave.”
A tired smile tugs on the corner of my mouth. “She should have married you, you know. Rather than run off with some punk half the man you are. It’s the Vanici in us, always leading us to stubborn defiance of our hearts. The only downside is that Vin would have turned out about a foot shorter and two feet wider.”
He rolls his eyes and stands, fishing a gold money clip from his suit pocket. “Bah! Vin is fine just the way he is. I wouldn’t be half as fanatic a guardian as you are. But as much as you love him, you need to try showing some of that to the man in the mirror.”
I scowl at my reflection, barely visible on the polished surface of the bar counter. In that man’s dark gaze, I see only evil restrained by sheer willpower. I see violence. A lost soul destined to burn in the fires of hell where it belongs.
Then I blink, and I see a smaller face. Rounder, with wide, searching eyes and a hopeful smile. I don’t banish her this time. Reaching out, I stroke the edge of a tiny cheek, feeling only cold, hard wood in response.
“She would be nineteen by now,” I say, though I barely hear myself above the surging thump of my own heartbeat. The sound chugs away, mocking me with every steady beat. She’s dead, but I still live on. Stubbornly, this body lives, enduring the abuse I’ve put it through.
“Her birthday was in the spring. Little Safy. Nineteen.” I chuckle at the thought of it, picturing her dancing at her own debutante ball. The pain returns like a lance, ripping me apart—but still… My heart keeps beating on. “I promised her once I’d throw her a grand party, can you believe that? She was so excited. God forgive me, I promised her—”
“You’ve spent too damn long punishing yourself,” Fab snarls in disgust. “Enough. I think it’s time you strive for a little happiness, huh?”
He sets down a crisp stack of bills. It’s more than enough to cover the tab with a hefty tip to spare.
As he turns on his heel, he adds over his shoulder. “Oh, and Vin made me promise not to tell you, but he’s already used my card to charge a special gift to help cheer you up. It’s in your room.”
He winks, and I’m genuinely unnerved. Vin and Fabio’s “gifts” are rarely of the desirable variety. But hell, at least I’m distracted by the prospect enough to take another drink and clear my head.
“It better not be another glitter bomb or whatever the fuck those things are called,” I grumble, cringing at the memory of the pink sparkles I’d spent weeks trying to wash from my hair the last time the pair felt benevolent enough to give me a present.
Fabio just laughs. “Goodnight.”
When I finally tear myself away from the bar, I approach the group of rooms we rented on the hotel’s top floor. It was an expense well worth Vin’s supposed introduction to high society. I even gave him the pick of the lot with encouragement to enjoy himself with whoever he chose.
Deep down, I know the boy is too much of a goody-goody to take me up on the offer. In contrast to his, my room is a simple suite. I enter it, scanning the narrow space for any hint of Vin’s “present.”
I don’t have to look too hard. On the bed is a silver tray sporting a small white cake, upon which someone wrote in blood-red icing the phrase, “Best Papa.” Surrounding it is a crudely formed smiley face crafted out of what appears to be silver condom wrappers and a handful of the best damn cigars money can buy.
“Little bastard,” I scoff, swiping my finger through a dollop of icing. I’m smiling as I sample the taste. It isn’t bad, though it could be made of shit, and I’d appreciate it no less.
My boy. God bless his devious little soul.
Though maybe more devious than I thought…
A flicker of movement makes me pivot, instinctively reaching for my—still empty—pocket. The lack of a weapon I can easily rectify the second I can get to the safe in the closet. Though, as my eyes narrow over the intruder standing in the corner of the room, I let my hands fall, all thoughts of fighting forgotten.
Damn. An appreciative whistle escapes me as I stand straighter and inspect my visitor fully. For the first night in a while, I wholeheartedly regret dulling my senses with so much alcohol.