“I know it’s not a great idea.” I’m hedging. He knows it.
“You’re not going,” he says plainly. “You’re not walking into a room of Irish mobsters in their hometown as the deposed heir to the Donovan family and the husband of the Morelli Don. You’d be dead before your foot made it over the doorstep.”
“He was my Pops,” I say simply. “Whatever else happened, the man did raise me for—well, some of my life.”
“When I get home, we’ll mourn him. We’ll go to church and pray for his soul and light every goddamn candle they have. But please, Finch. Please promise me you won’t go to Boston.”
“Okay.”
“No, not ‘okay.’Sayit.”
“I won’t go to Boston.”
I hate lying to my husband.
But I have no intention of letting my sister Maggie take over the last memories of my father.
* * *
The thingabout going to this wake is, sure, therewillbe a bunch of drunk Irish mobsters there. But myfamilywill also be there—my aunts and uncles, cousins. My sisters. So maybe there’s a lot of crossover as far as drunk mobsters and family go, but I can’t believe theyallhate me as much as Maggie. I haven’t seen most of them for years, not since I was a kid.
Not since my mother’s funeral.
She didn’t get a wake, or not one I was told about. But my Pops wouldn’t go out without a big damn fuss. At least his death was natural, or that’s what Tara told me, anyway. His heart gave way. When she told me that, I was so relieved it wasn’t Maggie who killed him that I almost made a dumb joke about that stone heart finally cracking open. I caught myself in time. Maybe being with Luca has taught me a little about when to keep my mouth shut.
I know it’s stupid for me to go to Boston. I know it’sbeyondstupid for me to go to the wake. But I also know my family, and I know their traditions. No way will Maggie have me killed there in the house while Pops’ body lies in state. I’ll get in fast, pay my respects, and get the hell out again within an hour or so.
Three, max.
I don’t plan to hang around for the funeral. The wake is the important part, as far as I’m concerned. That’s the time for remembering, for mourning, for celebrating. And there’s some small part of me—the death-wish, daredevil part of me—that wonders how I’ll be received.
With hugs or a hit? Kissed or killed? I’m as curious as any cat.
But I really don’t want Luca to worry about me. He has enough on his mind. I don’t like the fact that he’s putting his own life on the line, but I understand why he’s doing it. I wish he could understand why I’m willing to take the same chance. But better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
It takes Marco a little while to catch on to where we’re going. I asked him to drive me, since I’ll need backup, and I spun a long story about going out to Martha’s Vineyard to check on one of Tino’s properties there. I don’t think there’s any Morelli property out there. There might be. Marco doesn’t know any better, though. So we got about two hours into the drive when I started fiddling with the GPS and said, “Yeah, so we’re going to Boston.”
Marco pulled over on the side of the road. “Can’t do that, Mr. D’Amato,” he said firmly, and even took the keys right out of the ignition.
“Sure we can.”
“The Boss’d kill me. I mean, literally kill me. Cut the damn balls off my corpse and shove ’em in my mouth, then string me up in Central Park as a warning.”
“What a charming image, Marco. You’re quite the wordsmith when you try. And you don’t need to worry about that, because Luca knows I’m going.”
Marco gives me a withering look. “Uh huh. You know what, Mr. D, I’m no dummy. I figured you probably had some ulterior motive for wanting to drive out this way, conveniently towards Boston. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt, because I wanted to give you a chance to prove me wrong. And now here you go, asking me to contradict the orders I’ve been given and lying to me that the Boss knows? Well, I’m sorry, but—”
“Please.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said please to Marco before. By the way he blinks at me, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing.
He shakes his head again, but I can see his resolve wavering, so I push on.
“He was myPops. I never got a chance to say a proper farewell to Tino Morelli, and I only found out he was my real father after he was gone. I can’t miss out on saying goodbye to the man I called Pops my whole life, Marco. Please don’t do that to me.”
He stares at me, his brown eyes sympathetic, but his mouth firm.
“I’ll drive myself,” I offer. “You get out here, I’ll pay for an Uber back to the city—”
