Page 49 of Mafia King's Surprise Baby

I turn to my father. “What happened?”

He nods at the couch. “Sit down.”

There’s something in his tone, a dead ring that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I undo the buttons on my suit jacket and sit down carefully next to my grandmother.

My father stares at me with narrowed eyes for long seconds. I want to squirm, but I keep myself in check. I’m his second in command—one day, I’ll be the Don in his stead. I have to control myself, appear aloof and unmoved externally, and for this, the storm inside me must be kept in check.

He takes a sip of the whiskey in his glass then sighs.

“What I’ll tell you right now stays in this room between us forever.” His eyes narrow even more. “Promise me.”

I swallow, dread curling inside me. This is important, possibly life-changing.

“I promise you,Padre.”

“Good. Because you just made a promise to a dying man, and that’s binding.”

I jump to my feet with surprise and outrage. “What’s going on? Who did this to you? I swear, I will kill—”

My father chuckles. “Take that up with the Good Lord, my son.”

I blink and shake my head. “What?”

“I just told yournonna, felt she had to know first. You’re the only other person who needs to be made aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“I have frontotemporal dementia.”

It’s like a bomb explodes in the room, the blast cutting the muscles and tendons holding me upright. I fall in a heap on the couch, the breath stunned out of me.

I’m locked in a bubble where my senses go haywire as much as they stop existing. Sounds are distorted at the same time silence stings my ears. My hands can feel the warmth from the fire in the grate, yet they’re also numb and unresponsive.

Then reality slams into me.

My father’s gonna die.

I knew this was going to happen. One day. Someday. Maybe in another thirty years, at least. Look atNonnaValeria, strong as an ox even in her mid-eighties. My grandfather took a stray bullet in a shootout fifty years ago; he didn’t die of natural causes.

I don’t know how a sense of calm—numbing, calming, competent—comes over me as I stare at him.

“How long?” I ask.

“How long have I known? Or how long do I have to live?”

“Both,” I reply.

“I noticed the tremors a few weeks ago. I might have five, six years left, though I don’t know in what state I’ll be by then. Atleast, aphasia doesn’t seem to have struck.” He must’ve caught my frown because he goes on to explain. “Aphasia is when you start having trouble communicating, finding words, speaking them aloud. Like after a stroke.”

He’s so matter-of-fact about it, it rattles me. Has he already made his peace with it?Nonnaseems to have, as well. She’s never been a basket case of nerves and tears, but she’s in check, too. Well, except for the deeper press on my shoulder earlier.

It dawns on me then. “You have something planned.”

He sighs. “Let’s make my death count for something.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “How do you plan to do that?”

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