We take them back to the firing range where we stand shoulder to shoulder, emptying our rounds. Edoardo pauses and puts hiseyes on me. I can feel his stare boring into me and wonder what he’s so intent on.
“You don’t seem like yourself, boss,” he says thoughtfully.
I put a bullet in the head of the target in Edoardo’s lane, effectively telling him to shut up. He takes the message and turns away. I don’t need my own staff questioning my decisions. What I need is Carlo Andretti in my crosshairs.
Two hours and many rounds later, I’m finally feeling more like myself, and we set off. I was a little off my game, but after practicing, my aim is better. I need to do this more often. Even though I’ve got a ton of things on my plate, I need to make room for more regular practice. It’s the only way I’m going to manage to stay focused in an actual gunfight.
I arrive home to find Marlena waiting for me. I can see what she’s going to say. It’s written all over her face. Still, I go through the whole song and dance with the irrelevant chit chat.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Okay,” she says, meaning anything but. “Can we talk?”
“Yeah,” I agree, trying to stall.
The longer I can draw this out, the more time there is before I hear her awful words. I walk her back to my office, where I offer her a seat. This is more like a business conversation than a marital one. Although the stakes are much higher. We’re not talking about money here, or power, or who controls what street. We’re talking about our lives, about our hearts and why our relationship is ultimately doomed.
I pour myself a drink. She gets the message. She’s silent for so long, I hope she’ll reconsider. But just as I take a sip, she stands up.
“When I get to Italy, I’m going to stay with my family,” she says, working up to it.
“That’s the plan,” I tell her.
“I’m not coming back,” she states.
I turn to face her and I can’t keep the hurt out of my eyes. She sees it and almost begins to cry. I’m not making this easy for her, and I don’t care. I don’t want it to be easy. I want this to be the most difficult thing she’s ever done.
“I can’t stay,” she begins, her voice cracking. “Please try to understand.”
“I don’t,” I snap. “You have a choice.”
“My brother?—”
“I don’t care about your brother,” I say viciously.
“That’s the whole problem!” she cries. “I promised him that I would keep him safe.”
“And you did,” I remind her.
“Only after he was kidnapped and tortured,” she insists.
“That wasn’t your fault!” I shout, raising my voice even though it unnerves her.
I’m grateful that the walls are soundproofed, and that no one else in the house can hear us. This is a private conversation, but I can’t help feeling like there are more people involved. She’sso concerned about her brother, about her father, about the law and the way people will see us. I can’t help any of that. All I’ve got to offer is myself, and it tears at my heart to know that isn’t enough.
Marlena cowers at my outburst. I turn away, afraid that I might do something I regret. The last thing I want to do is drive her away. I want to create such a welcoming home that she’ll be drawn to it and never want to leave. But she’s chosen her previous life over the new one. She’s bowed to fear and hostility and won’t accept that our love is the solution.
“Go,” I whisper.
She obeys my command, hurrying from the room. I turn around only when I hear the door click shut, and by then it’s too late. I look around my office, it all seems so normal, what any businessman would have in his office. But that’s the thing, I’m not a normal businessman, and that’s the whole problem.
I sweep my hand across the desk, knocking everything to the floor. I pick up the lamp and smash it into the desk, the sound of crackling glass only driving me closer to the brink. I grab books off my shelves and slam them into the wall, one after another, over and over again.
It isn’t enough. Nothing I can get my hands on will satisfy my rage. In blind desperation, I punch the door until my knuckles bleed, until the pain of what I’m doing resonates through me. Exhausted, I stumble back.
There’s a knock at the door. I want to ignore it, but I can’t. I have a job to do, and that means being available to my people. I grip the doorknob and yank it open, not caring who sees the mess I’ve made.
Frankie’s standing there, and when he catches sight of the mayhem, his eyes soften. “Hey Dad,” he says, stepping inside.
