Page 3 of Wounded King
He chuckles, shaking his head like I amuse him. "Wouldn't dream of it, compadre."
I pat his cheek once, deliberately patronizing, then push up from the couch. Luciano and Casimo step aside immediately, flanking me as I head toward the door. Matías stays seated, watching me leave, wiping the sweat from his neck. He thinks he got away with whatever he's up to. He didn't. I'm positive, now, that Matías works with Edoardo.
I just don't know how or why yet. But I'll find out, and then I hope God will have mercy on them, because I won't.
Luciano, Casimo, and I enter the elevator to get back down to the garage where we parked the car and where the rest of my bodyguards are waiting.
I was born in New York and lived here for the first sixteen years of my life, which is longer than I lived in Sicily. One could say I've returned to my roots, and they wouldn't be wrong. I just need to get rid of the roots anchoring me to a rotting tree—to two rotting trees—my father, Carlos Orsi, and Edoardo. Both need to be cut down.
Surprisingly, Toni, the new capo of the DeLuna family, and a couple of the other sons of capos, like me, have already set things in motion.
"Why all these questions now, Vi?" Mom asks like she always does. This is not the first time we've had this conversation. I've lost count of how many times I've asked her over the years. At twenty-seven, you'd think I'd know when to let it go, but I just can't.
"Because Scott wants children and?—"
She cuts me off, all too happy to change the subject. "I thought you two broke it off?"
I sigh. Wedidbreak it off. A month ago. For several different reasons, but one of them was my inability to produce any information on my father. Scott is a genealogist specializing in children's research. He isn't about to bring children into this world without fully knowing their genetic makeup. In other words, he's an anal asshole. If it had only been that, I might have been able to put up with it, but there were other things as well. "We did, Mom, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't know anything about my father."
Her hands fly in the air, and her eyes roll heavenward. "His name was Hank Meade. He died before Sebastian was born. There. Happy?"
Not really. She's told me all this before. This and nothing else. "How did he die?"
"Oh, why don't you just go ahead and rip your mother's heart out, won't you?" Her eyes fill with tears.
Shit.
I rush over to where she sits on the couch and wrap my arms around her. "I'm sorry, Mom. I really am."
"Me too," she hugs me back. "So sorry. You have no idea."
This is where our conversation always stops. My mom loved my dad. I was five when he died, and I don't have any memories of him, save one. I remember seeing him and my mom dancing by the Christmas tree. It's fuzzy, and looks more like a scene from a movie, but I know it happened. Mom can't even say his name without her eyes watering.A fairy tale loveis what she once told my brother, sister, and me.A real-life Prince Charming. It wasn't so much her words, but the faraway look in her eyes and the wistful smile around her lips as she said it that had me spellbound. I was still a kid, maybe nine or ten, but I swore I would never settle for anything less than what she and my dad had.
Hah, and look at me now; I nearly settled for Scott.
Still, it would be nice to know a little bit more about Hank Meade, father of three, husband of Linda Meade. Hank Meade, the ghost. I've searched Google and every other search engine, but there is no trace of a Hank Meade who lived and died in New York City. I've even expanded the search, first to all of New York, then to the entire East Coast, but there's nothing.
Before Scott and I broke up, he made me take a gene test, including one that claims to find your ancestors. The results came back a few days ago, but I haven't had the courage yet to open them—I wanted to give Mom one more chance to tell me first. Partly because Scott and I took the test together, and partly because I somehow feel like I'm betraying my mom. Which is stupid and childish, but there it is.
I might feel better if I had a picture of my dad, but even that doesn't exist. Shortly after Dad's death, our apartment burned down, and everything we owned was destroyed. Mom said we were at the doctor's office for a checkup on her pregnancy with my brother Sebastian. I suppose that was fortunate for us, but also unfortunate because we didn't have the chance to save anything. The entire building burned down, and everything was gone.
One would think I'd have some memories of this, at least, because both were pretty traumatic events, but all I remember is mom waking me and Elaine, my sister, in the middle of the night. Elaine, a year older than me, claims she doesn't remember that either.
Elaine and I spent many childhood hours conjuring up a father who is as mystical to us as a unicorn. In some of our stories, he was a policeman who was killed on duty while saving children. In another, he was an astronaut still floating through space, with a small chance of coming home with fantastic tales one day. In another, he was a secret agent, likeJames Bond. He was forced to take on another identity and lost his memories. One day, he'll remember and come back.
My sister says she remembers some of our dad. Black hair, hazel eyes. She says I got his eyes, but my mom's blonde hair. I have to take her word for it.
Mom dabs her eyes, "Come, I've got some of the cheesecake you love so much in the fridge waiting for you."
I'd much rather continue our conversation, but I'm smart enough to let it rest. I'll just have to look at the report later. Plus, she's right about one thing: cheesecakeismy favorite. She says it's an old family recipe, arousing my curiosity once again, but just like she doesn't want to talk about our dad, our grandparents are off the table, too.
"They're all dead, let them rest."
The problem is, I can't. I'm not Elaine, who's perfectly content to go along with Mom'sdon't askedict. And I'm not a gene-obsessed control freak like Scott, either—but he did have a point. With all the advances in genetic screening these days, youcancatch a lot of inherited conditions before getting pregnant. A couple of simple tests, he said, and if something serious popped up, we'd at least have options.
I'm still not sure where I stand on any of that. Of course I want a healthy baby, but I'm not about to play God either. Luckily, I never had to dig too deep before we broke up. But I do know I want kids someday. When I find myPrince Charming—hopefully with a better fairy-tale ending than Mom's.
"So, how's the job? " Mom asks in a fake cheerful way, indicating that our previous conversation is over.
