Page 106 of The Deal

They treated me no differently—with zero empathy and compassion—the offspring of the devil who’d gotten his just desserts.

I clear my throat, trying to push the tightness in my chest down, but it won’t budge. I feel Chloe’s delicate hand slip into mine and hold tight. That move nearly shatters me.

I’ve been struggling to keep it together since I got the call on Christmas Day. That day, I experienced a foreign kind of happiness, but it was short-lived, as it eventually morphed into my worst fucking nightmare.

I’ve forced myself to stay composed, to stay strong and be the rock everyone around me needed. I’m unsure how much longer I can keep the dam from breaking.

I managed to hold it together during the service, and I think that was primarily because it felt impersonal. There were no eulogies, slideshows, or music beyond a few solemn church hymns.

I’ve chosen two songs to be played tomorrow when Papa’s coffin is lowered into the ground. “My Way” by Frank Sinatra—he always had a soft spot for Ol’ Blue Eyes, so it feels fitting—and “Time to Say Goodbye” by Andrea Bocelli, sung in Italian.

I have fond memories of Papa relaxing in his recliner in the evenings, listening to Frank Sinatra vinyls on his old-school record player, and sipping a glass of amaro.

The second song I remember hearing blasted through the house the morning of my mother’s funeral. I came downfrom my room and found my father holding an image of Mamma in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other as he wept. It was the first and last time I ever saw him cry. But like the unshakable Mafia don, who I later learned he was, he kept his composure in front of the congregation at her service, never letting anyone see the cracks in the façade.

After we thank the priest and turn to leave, Dante reaches for the cuff of my jacket from his wheelchair, tugging slightly. “Do you mind if I have a moment alone with Papa?”

“Of course,” I reply, my voice steady despite the heavy and unrelenting weight on my chest. I wait until everyone else exits the church, then push his chair toward the coffin.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say quietly as I turn to leave.

As I make my way down the aisle, I hear a strangled sob tear from my brother’s throat. I pause, caught in the ache of it, torn between wanting to rush back to him and knowing I can’t. He needs this—needs to grieve in his own way. I’ll have my moment with our father tomorrow.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you … that I survived and you didn’t, Papa,” he chokes out, and the words hit me like a physical blow.

Tears burn at the back of my eyes. I worried that he might experience some survivor guilt, being the only one to make it through, and now I know for sure.

If I could choose who survived between the two of them, I’d pick my brother without hesitation. Yes, he’s done unspeakable things, but to me, he was always just a product of his environment. My father, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was getting into when he took on the mantle of don.

Dante has spent his whole life trying to earn the kind of attention I got freely from our father. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why he stuck around after I left, that, in some strange way, he was still hoping to gain his approval.

I carry my suitcase down the stairs and set it by the front door before heading into the kitchen to say goodbye.

I’ll be gone for the rest of the week. The burial is later today. Tomorrow, I have an appointment with the family lawyer for the reading of the will. My father’s official memorial is the day after. Chloe and Lina will look after Giovanni in my absence.

I hate leaving them behind, but it’s safer for them here. For all I know, I could be walking straight into an ambush, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Hopefully, once the formalities are done, I can close this chapter for good, leave all of this behind—including my hometown of Griffith—and finally move forward.

When I enter, Lina and Carmella are sitting at the breakfast bar, going through the photos Carmella took in Italy. She returned last night from her holiday. Giovanni is at the far end, tucking into a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

He’s living his best life here in this house, getting spoiled rotten by all the women, but I love that for him. I’ve yet to hear anything from Sophia.

“Where’s Chloe?” I ask.

“She said she was going upstairs to look for you,” Lina answers.

That’s strange. I didn’t see her when I was up there.

I’m not going to lie, a tiny bit of panic rises inside me as I head back the way I came, only to see her descending thestairs. I feel an instant relief. I think we’re past the running away stage … well, I hope we are.

As I take her in, I first notice that she has changed from casual clothes to a black pantsuit.

“Where are you off to?” I ask, a mix of confusion and irritation tightening my chest. I don’t like the idea of her leaving the house without me.

“With you.”

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