Page 15 of The Mafia's Surprise Gift

“Fuck you,” Dino groaned. “She ain’t fucking anyone if she was flirting with you.”

“Maybe she likes choices,” I pointed out, then I leaned back and cast an arm wide. “I’m irresistible, after all.”

“The next bullet you take had better be in your face, you handsome fuck.” Dino laughed. “Shit. You know, coming back here, I did think about Mary, but in the same way you remember old classmates. I can’t believe she’s still in this town.”

“Me neither.” Rocco sighed deeply and drained his glass in one gulp. “Whatever. I’m glad she’s doing well.”

“Bullshit,” I shot back immediately. “You pined for her for years, and now you find out that she’s here, possibly single, and you’re just happy for her?”

“She has a kid,” Rocco sighed. “That means she’s committed, or there’s some asshole in her life.”

“You could kill him,” Dino pointed out. “I could kill him.”

“Don’t put ideas in my head when I’m drunk,” Rocco replied, and for the first time in what felt like an age, he laughed.

Dino smirked. “You’ve got me on speed dial.”

With a flick of his wrist, Dino refilled all of our glasses and Rocco fell silent once again. Only, there was something different about this silence. His eyes were focused rather than blankly staring into a pit of grief.

He was planning something.

I knew it.

7

MAE

Four years ago, my father was the victim of a carjacking in the middle of New York. The police told us that it was a painfully common occurrence, but his death had been swift, and he likely hadn’t suffered. Rather than cry, my Mom yelled at me as if it were my fault.

If I hadn’t moved to the city, he would still be alive.

If I hadn’t insisted on him driving because his car was safer, then he would have been at the apartment with us.

I knew it was the grief talking, but those words stuck with me for years after he passed. He was cremated in New York, and my mother brought the ashes with her when she returned to Baxton, swearing to never set foot in New York ever again. Then, two months later, she called me up and told me that she’d had Dad’s ashes buried in the cemetery because having the urn in the house was too much to bear.

As I approached the cemetery, my gut twisted into soft knots and my heart skipped a few beats like someone’s hand was wrapped around it. This was my first time visiting his grave, and something about that made me nervous. Like he was going to be sitting there next to his grave, ready to interrogate me with the hatred my mother displayed that night.

The warm summer air baked down onto my bare arms, but despite the heat, a chill stole across my shoulders when I stepped through the wrought iron gate. Gravel crunched underfoot, and I winced, not wanting to disturb anyone else in their grief. The crepe paper protection around the flowers in my hand crumbled as I tightened my grip. Rows upon rows of gravestones dotted the cemetery, scattered amid crypts, trees, and benches, all commemorating someone who passed too soon. For a town so small, the graveyard was uncomfortably large and full.

I followed the gravel path, mapping out my mother’s instructions in my mind.

He’s buried next to Aunt Jude, all the way up near the sycamore tree.

Truth be told, I didn’t know what a sycamore tree was, but after twenty minutes of wandering between different trees and scanning headstones, I found him.

Gold ink swirled across black marble splattered with grey.

Keiran Murphy, loving father and husband.

Gone far before his time but never forgotten.

As I stood before the stone, I realized that this was the first time I’d seen his name written down since his cremation. One day, he was there. The next, he was just a memory that wasn’t even written about anymore.

I tucked my feet together and crossed my arms over my middle as my gut twisted sharply.

“Hey, Dad.”

Silence was my answer. Of course it was. Breathing deeply, the scents of sweet sap and freshly mown grass invaded my senses while I traced the gold text with my eyes.

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