"Ah, visitors!" My father's voice carries from the hallway. He stands there in pressed slacks and a cashmere sweater, looking every bit the powerful Don he's been for decades. For a moment, my resolve wavers.
“Your granddaughter is dying to see you,” Gabriella says, walking over to greet our father.
My father's brow furrows. "Granddaughter? When did this happen?"
The room goes still. Gabriella's smile freezes on her face.
But I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s a pro at dealing with him when he’s like this.
“Three months ago. Remember, Marco knocked me up and?—”
My father laughs suddenly. "Of course, of course! Little Sabina! I was just teasing you all." But the momentary confusion in his eyes tells a different story.
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of what I must do. This man taught me everything.
How to tie my shoes, how to clean a gun, how to command respect, how to lead. And now I must tell him he’s unfit to lead this family.
Gabriella places Sabina in his arms, and my father's face softens.
His large hands, once capable of ordering death with a simple gesture, now cradle this tiny life with gentleness.
"She has the Monti eyes," he says proudly, and for a moment, he's fully present.
I force a smile, hiding the fracture in my heart. This is the right decision for the family, for business, for La Corona. But watching my father coo at his granddaughter, I've never felt more like a traitor.
“Brunch is ready,” one of the kitchen staff announces.
We head to the dining room where my father takes his seat at the head of the table.
As the first-born son and heir, I sit to his right, with Gabriella to his left and Marco next to her. Sabina sits in a carrier set on a stand between them.
We eat a feast of eggs Benedict, waffles, bacon, sausage, and fruit as my father tells a story about a close call from the 90s.
His hands are animated, his eyes bright as he gives us a play by play in outwitting the FBI.
For a moment, he's the father I remember.
“It was like the keystone cops, the way their cars piled up and we just drove off into the sunset.” He laughs, slapping the table.
I smile. The story is good, except he's mixed up names and dates. The incident happened in 2005, not 1992, and it was local police, not the FBI.
“You were always the best at evasion,” Marco agrees, smoothly covering the inconsistency. "You taught us all well, Antonio."
My father beams with pride, then suddenly frowns at his plate. "Is this how Maria makes eggs now? Something's different."
"It's eggs Benedict, Dad," Gabriella explains gently. "Your favorite Sunday brunch. Same as always."
"Of course, of course." He waves dismissively, but I catch the flash of confusion in his eyes.
I reach for my water glass, needing something to do with my hands. How many more moments like this will we have?
How many more Sunday brunches where he's mostly himself?
How long before he’s forgotten everything, forgotten us?
"Luca, you're quiet today," my father observes, his gaze suddenly sharp. "Something on your mind?"
I force a smile. "Just thinking about business."
