Page 2 of Luca

I jump to my feet. “Bullshit. With all the technology and…”

My dad shakes his head. “There’s nothing they can do except medications to reduce the risk of further damage, but this is it, son. I’m being called to the mat for all the shit I did. All the people I hurt.” He leans back and takes a swig from the whiskey bottle.

“What do you mean about the people you hurt?” My brows draw close together, confusion and fear battling for dominance in my head.

I’ve never known the man to hurt a fly. Sure, he’s a big guy who may look and sound intimidating with his deep voice and a thick Boston accent, but he’s a caring single father who works for the power company and comes home every night to have dinner with me. He’s the man who throws the ball around with me on the weekends, who takes me camping and fishing. He’s not violent or a bad guy.

He leans forward and picks up the picture of him and the two other guys that I was looking at moments ago. “I have to tell you some things. Things I swore I would take to my grave, but seeing as that day is coming sooner rather than later, I need to get this off my chest. It’s been just you and me since you were a baby, and when I leave this world, I need you to know you aren’t alone. That you have family out there.” He waves his hand toward the front door before he tilts his head, indicating for me to sit back down.

“This is really fucking cryptic, Dad.”

Usually the old man would have my head for dropping the swear words that are flowing freely from my mouth, but he doesn’t comment. He rummages through the stack of pictures and finds the one he’s looking for. Taking the photo in his hand, he stares at it for several silent moments, then hands it to me.

I stare at a picture with my mother holding me standing next to the man that was in the other picture with my dad.

“So this guy knew my mom and you?”

My dad purses his lips and stares me in the eye. “That’s your father.”

Looking back at the picture then to the man sitting across from me—the man who raised me—I shake my head slowly back and forth. “No, you’re my father.”

His eyes squeeze shut and a tear escapes. Never in all my life have I seen this man cry.

“I knew your father, but I never met your mother.” He picks up the picture of the three men and hands it to me. “The man in the middle is Francesco Cataldi. He’s head of a Mafia family back in Boston. Your father, the other man next to him, was Elio Romano. He was Francesco’s consigliere.”

I look at him in confusion. My father knew people in the Mafia?

“What’s a consigliere?” That is seriously the least important part of this conversation.

“It’s a sort of advisor to the boss. I was a capo in the organization, and when Francesco needed things handled quietly, he’d send me in.”

“You were in the Mafia?” I stare at my dad. I’m surely misunderstanding what he’s saying or this is going to be some horrible joke. This entire conversation has to be some horrible joke. He’s not my father? He didn’t even know my mother?

“I was in the Mafia until the night I met you. The night I killed your parents.”

I sit stock-still, too stunned to speak, to breathe, just staring at my father, who seems to be holding his own breath, waiting for my reaction.

“This is crazy,” I whisper, looking at the picture then back to the man in front of me. “This is fucking crazy!” The volume of my voice doesn’t faze my dad. Or maybe I should start calling him Frank because, apparently, he isn’t my dad at all. In fact, he killed him.

“You killed my parents, then stole me? For what? Were you jealous of my real father and wanted what was his?”

None of this makes sense. The last ten minutes have turned my world upside down, and I can’t begin to make sense of anything he’s telling me.

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. Fuck. I can’t believe any of this is real.”

I jump from my chair and pace the room, looking from Frank to the pictures and shaking out my hands. My entire body is vibrating with wave after wave of barely contained anger crashing into me. A sickness washes through me, and I clutch my stomach as though I’m going to throw up from the force of the rage slamming into me. My head is spinning out of control, just like my life in this moment.

“Let me explain, Luca.”

Facing the small fireplace in our living room, I keep my back to my dad, shaking my head violently back and forth. I want to cover my ears so I don't have to hear anything else that comes out of his mouth. It’s too much. This is all too much.

“I don’t know how you’re going to explain any of this to make it make sense. What? Do you expect some sort of forgiveness? You expect me to tell you that it’s okay you murdered my family since you took me in and raised me? Now that you’re dying I have no choice but to hear you out and forgive you for killing my real parents?” I place both hands on the fireplace and claw my fingertips into the rough brick, taking several deep breaths in an attempt to calm the nausea swirling in my gut. It doesn’t work.

“I can’t expect your forgiveness, Luca. That’s not why I’m telling you this. The Cataldis have no idea you’re still alive, and neither does your mother’s family. You can keep it that way if that’s what you decide, but I couldn’t leave you and not tell you that you have family back in Boston. I couldn’t leave you alone in the world, son.”

I whirl around and face the devastated man on the couch. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your son.”

“You’re right. You aren’t mine by blood, but the first moment I saw you—” Frank’s jaw tightens for a moment before he continues, his voice rough with emotion. “I knew I was sent there to protect you. If he had sent anyone else to do the job, you would have been dead.”

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