I nodded. “I do.”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess—” She looked behind her.
“This is personal,” I said.
“Oh.” She drew the word out even more, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you hate me?” she blurted.
Even though I’d gotten better with feelings, having a wife and daughter who were as special as they were about them, they were still not my specialty.
Even though hate was a strong word, I never felt it for most people who did us wrong. I felt indifference, which took zero energy. Even after how shit had gone down with Rosaria and Scarlett, Carmen and Juliette picking sides—fuck me—Carmen was good for Dario. She made him happy, and I respected her for it. I also respected her for hashing out issues with my wife. Scarlett had told me we had our own things to work out, and so did the women. Even so, my wife told me, most of the time the women were only supporting their husbands.
Meaning, she had clarified (probably at the clueless look on my face), if Dario sides with Rocco on how things should be handled, then Carmen would support Dario—and Rosaria by default.
Too many fucking wires for me to disentangle.
“No,” I said, my voice probably blunter that necessary, but my mind wasn’t on petty things of the past. “I don’t.”
“That would take too much energy, huh?” She smiled. Then she dallied for a second before she met my eyes. “I’m glad we’re all in a better place. I’ve talked to Scarlett, and even though she’s struggling right now, I know she’ll get through this. I feel…lighter, you know? Like this is a new start. Whatever you’re about to do for her…I know it will take sacrifice. That’s something I’ve always admired about you and your family. That thing with Rocco, how you gave him what he’s always wanted, to stay close to him—you’re an amazing brother.”
Hesitant, she squeezed my arm and then went to walk off.
“Carmen,” I said, stopping her.
She stopped and turned toward me.
“You and Dario should come visit sometime. The kids would love it.”
“The kids, huh?” She laughed. “See you soon in New Orleans!”
When I turned, I found my son behind me, my father with his hand on his shoulder.
“Papà,” Matteo said, as formal as his surroundings. “I request to see him.”
Him. The fuckingratto.
“Tell me what’s on your mind.”
My father released his shoulder, and Matteo seemed to stand up even taller, his head held high.
“He tried to take my mamma away from me, from my sister and brothers—from you. I want to look him in the eye before you steal his heart. I want him to see me and remember me in hell. I will be ice water, right out of reach.”
There was nothing funny about the statement. He said it as a man would, and meant it.
“Tell me, son,” I said in Italian, “will this release you from his grip or bring you down with him. Think wisely.”
It took him a minute.
“Release me,” he said. “I feel his claws in me too.”
I stared at him for a few seconds and then nodded. I set my hand on his head, turning him in the direction we needed to go.
“Come,” I said. “It’s time to slay a wannabe monster.”
* * *
The villawhere therattowas being held was one of the finest.It boasted stunning views, and rich décor from one end of the place to the next, and when he was brought in to see me, to see my son, he was shackled and chained in tattered rags.
My eyes moved like my sons, taking in the sight of him, this fucking rat that had chased us for years. He was older, much older, and the hand of time had not done him any good.
