“To die. Like he did,” I add. Again, my face crumples beneath the pain and I’m struggling to breathe.
He considers this for a long time. Takes in a deep breath. “Yeah. Sometimes. But then I think don’t I deserve it? I have blood on my hands, too.”
I know he does. I know after Sergio’s murder, the Benedetti family unleashed their wrath. They took vengeance for the death of the first-born son. And what a vengeance it was. What a brutal retribution.
“Did he really do that? Call you? Tell you to take care of me?”
Salvatore nods. “Drunk in the middle of the night.” He chuckles.
The silence that follows is awkward, suddenly. I shift my gaze to the sheet. Reach over to take the red marker. To draw the cross.
“Mob killing,” I say. And somehow, I don’t cry. I draw the cross carefully. Perfectly. I color it in. I take my time because once this part is done, there’s no erasing. Not that there ever was a going back. I know that.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks.
I look up at him. “Leave. I want nothing to do with your family.” I don’t apologize for it.
He nods.
“Will he let me go? Now? With the baby?”
He knows who I mean. “If what you want is out, I’ll make sure you’re out. I’ll protect you. I gave Sergio my word and I intend on keeping it.”
“Even against your father?” Because that’s what this would be. Franco Benedetti has no intention of letting me take Sergio’s baby and disappearing.
“Even against my father.”
30
NATALIE
One and a Half Years Later
If it wasn’t for Salvatore, I wouldn’t be here, in my own house in Asbury Park, right now. Franco was hell bent against me leaving. Against me taking his first grandchild away from him, taking that last piece of Sergio with me.
I understood something in these months and I’m glad for it. Franco mourned Sergio. He was devastated by his loss and it made me see a different side of him. A human side. Still cold. Still manipulative and all powerful, but human. This is the one thing Franco Benedetti and I have in common. We’re both hurting over the loss of Sergio.
So we came to an agreement. Franco Benedetti will still be a part of my son’s life, but he won’t be in it, not now. Not yet. I’ll deal with the future later.
I named my son Jacob Sergio Benedetti. And when he looked at me the first time, I was grateful that he did look like Sergio after all. It hurt, but it also reminded me of him. And I don’t want to forget Sergio. I don’t want to forget a minute of the littlebit of time we had together. And the baby we made, the love I feel for him is sometimes overwhelming.
It’s almost eleven at night when the doorbell rings. It’s Salvatore. He usually visits once a month, but I’m not expecting him for a few weeks, and when he comes, he usually comes early in the morning to spend time with Jacob. Although, we’ve become friends since Sergio’s death and I like him. He struggles with the life he’s now bound to lead. It’s strange, he thinks of things so differently than Sergio did.
Something’s up, though, because Salvatore called not twenty minutes ago to see if I was home. Asked if he could come.
“Hey, Salvatore,” I say, opening the door.
He’s preoccupied. It takes him a minute to even say hello back.
“Come on in,” I say, opening the door wider.
“Why is it so quiet?”
“It’s late. Jacob’s asleep.”
“Oh.” It’s like he didn’t realize the time. He steps in, stops. Shakes his head with a snort as if he were continuing some conversation in his mind.
“What’s going on?” I ask when I close the door.
