Page 38 of Third Degree

The weight of my choices and the sacrifices I had made for the sake of my family settled upon my shoulders, a burden I carried with both resolve and a hint of melancholy.

“I lied to my wife to protect my family,” I admitted, the words heavy with my confession.

The memory of the promises I had made, the secrets I had kept, and the unyielding loyalty to the Cosa Nostra surged through me. Yet, amid the conflicting emotions, there was a flicker of longing for the freedom I once possessed—the autonomy to navigate the world beyond the reaches of the family’s influence.

“I miss the freedom of not being so caught up in the family’s everyday stuff since I came back,” I added, my voice tinged with longing. I locked eyes with her, searching for understanding, and found comfort in her nod.

In that moment, a fragile bond formed between us, forged by shared struggles and sacrifices made out of love and duty. I saw my desires reflected in her eyes—the yearning for freedom, for choices unrestricted by the expectations of the life I had willingly embraced.

“And they didn’t push you to take another wife?”

In our culture, it was customary for a divorced or widowed man to remarry, often for business alliances.

“Nah. Since I’m already involved in your dad’s business dealings and let him launder his family’s money through the club, no one seems to have a problem with whom I choose to be with.” I glanced at her. “At least, not yet.”

Silence hung in the air, and I gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it back in place. She intercepted my hand, gripping my wrist, and our eyes locked in a deep connection.

“How have you been?” I looked at her with concerned eyes.

She murmured, “I’ve been going to therapy and putting in the work. It’s getting better.”

“All I have ever wanted.”

“There are so many words left unspoken,” she whispered, her voice a delicate blend of melody and pain. Our hands remained intertwined, locked in a moment where time seemed to stand still, carrying with it the weight of our unspoken desires.

“Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow?” I proposed, her hand slipping away as her deep-brown eyes bore into mine, searching for answers within the tangled web of her family’s obligations and the deal that ensnared us both.

“Elio,” she uttered, her voice holding the weight of our intertwined fates, the consequences that loomed over us like a storm on the horizon.

“To hell with your family, rosa mia,” I declared, leaning closer, until our faces were mere inches apart. “We’re so close to the end of the deal, no one will suspect a thing. I know a secluded place where we can talk in complete privacy.”

“Just to talk?” she questioned, her voice laced with both longing and caution.

“To talk,” I repeated, and we turned our gazes toward the window, our eyes fixed upon the vast darkness of the ocean in the distance. The weight of unspoken possibilities hung in the air, silently acknowledging the depth of our connection and the undeniable pull between us.

“It’s like old times, isn’t it? Being in your car at night?” She yawned, weariness tugging at her being.

“Yeah, like that summer,” I reminisced, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of my lips. My hand found its way to her thigh, offering a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “But we’re older now, rosa mia. We have the power to shape our destinies and make choices that resonate with our hearts.”

I stole a glance at her, only to find her already succumbing to the embrace of slumber, her presence a comfort that washed over me.

A soft chuckle escaped as I reached for the blanket I had tucked away in the back seat. Something I had always kept ever since that summer. I draped it over her, enveloping her in warmth and protection.

“I will never let you go again, rosa mia.”

The next morning, Gianna was not in the car, like old times. I drove back to Julian’s house, where I was staying. I had to keep my promise. I would never let her go, and I needed to come up with a way to make sure I never did.

When I pulled up to my son’s mansion, I noticed his car was there. I confessed that I had never envisioned myself in suburbia, given my preference for the solitude of our northern house. Julian’s suburban home appeared quaint from the outside, but it revealed its true charm as soon as you stepped inside. Perched on a cliff, it offered an immediate view of the ocean.

My gaze shifted to the vibrant yellow and pink wall above me, a testament to my son’s deep love for his wife. He had it painted for her as a gesture of love and protection after rescuing her from an abusive ex-boyfriend in Mexico. She had always yearned for more color in her home but was consistently denied.

I found it truly inspiring to witness my son’s profound love and the depth of his commitment. Shaking my head, I attempted to refocus my thoughts.

“Julian?” I called through the quiet hallway

“Papa?” I heard him in the kitchen. My sons had created an empire I was nothing short of proud of.

Although they weren’t fully into the family again, they had crafted something of their own. My youngest son was going to be a governor, and Julian worked to funnel government projects using underworld money. In return, there was free access to the pipeline that they needed without fear of being caught.

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