Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“But Luciano didn’t hurt him. The fire was an accident. It was my fault.”
“Dad—”
“You won’t understand.” He looks pensive as we approach the entrance to the old metal-constructed building. Scrap parts of rusting machines languish in the weed-covered lot. “Nobody could know, not when I was the Don, but now—” He pauses and smiles to himself, but his smile quickly fades. “I should have told you all sooner, but your mother made me swear not to say anything. After Davide was taken, she begged me to forget everything with Luciano, and I swore to her that I’d do it. And so I’ve kept the secret all these years. At this point it’s like second nature walking around with the truth hidden away.”
I feel myself shiver. This is the closest I’ve ever come to peeking beyond my father’s veil. I’ve always known there’s more to him than what he lets his family see, but now he’s hinting at something darker than I ever imagined.
“What secret?” I ask, heart racing, my fingers sweaty.
But he pushes open the door and doesn’t answer. It creaks loudly and echoes into the empty hallway. He moves on, limping on his cane as he makes his way to the main storage space, and we step out onto the big, open central floor. It’s covered in boxes, shipping crates and various containers, and Dad pauses to take it all in.
“We might as well get started,” he says. “This is what I’ve been reduced to now. The former Don doing grunt work. But don’t tell Simon I said that. He thinks it makes me happy to contribute even in these small ways, and I don’t want to disabuse him of that idea.”
My head’s reeling. I want to push him on this secret thing, but my nerves get bad, and all I can do is walk after him. I keep glancing up at the catwalks above waiting for shadows to appear, men with guns prepared to rain bullets down onto our skulls. But the place is quiet except for the sound of my father opening boxes and murmuring to himself as if he’s really inspecting the goods.
I follow, trying to look bored. Sweat’s pooling under my arms. He pretends to explain how a particular rifle works, and I feign interest. Dad makes a joke and laughs at it, and I marvel at how good he is at acting like nothing is strange here.
I’m a trembling wreck. I’m happy I don’t have to actually open one of these crates since I’m pretty sure my hands would shake too much and it’d give us away. After a few minutes, I start to think maybe Brody followed through with his threat and called the whole meeting off in a vain effort to spare me from danger, and a part of me actually hopes I get to go home without having to face Santoro head-on. Because if my former uncle is here, that means he’s here to kill my father. And Dad doesn’t seem to mind. It’s almost like he wants this.
There’s a noise at the far end of the space followed by the sound of footsteps. Dad stops what he’s doing and looks at me, a little smile on his face, like we’re about to get a wonderful surprise. I move closer to him and watch as Luciano Santoro enters the room followed by a single man, the corrupt cop Luca Moretti.
They walk toward us and Dad turns to face his former best friend.
I’m very aware that the last time they met, Dad got shot and nearly died.
The room feels humid like moisture’s dripping down the boxes. Santoro stops ten yards away while Moretti leans up against one of the stacks of crates, a gun held loosely in his hand, not even bothering to hide it. Dad should be afraid, but instead he’s got a smile on his face, and he takes a step closer to his old friend. I stay behind him, fighting with myself. I should run, I should hide. I should do anything but stand here and stare.
“It’d been a while, Luciano,” Dad says, and his voice sounds almost fond. It’s horrible. The most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen. I want to scream at him: this man tried to kill you, this man stole your son, this man has been your mortal enemy for a long time. But he doesn’t seem angry.
Santoro smiles. His lips curl back, and I’m aware that he was handsome once, back when he was younger, back when he was my uncle. But now he’s balding, overweight, wrinkly. All the scars and evidence of a life lived very hard clear on his face. But his eyes remain sharp.
“Hello, Alessandro. I was skeptical when I heard they had you doing stock-boy duty, but here you are with your daughter, no less.”