CHAPTER 1
FRANKIE
Igaze down at my mother in her hospital bed, hoping for some glimmer of recognition. She’s still alive, but her breathing has become shallow. The room is full of people, but I still feel alone.
My Uncle Giovanni stands right beside the door as if waiting for someone to burst in. While my father paces between the hospital bed and the window, two other men, my father’s soldiers, talk to him about business.
I want to shout that this isn’t the time or the place to be talking about bookmakers and gambling debts, but force of habit keeps me from saying anything. Even now, when my mother is so close to death, I can’t bring myself to challenge my father.
I reach for her hand. There are tubes and needles crisscrossing her skin. She looks nothing like the vibrant woman I remember. Cancer does that, I suppose.
A doctor walks in to check on her and immediately my father breaks away from his men. He storms up to the man, a rage in his eyes I’ve seen only rarely. I can tell he’s ready to rip thedoctor apart with his bare hands, but I can’t seem to summon any sympathy. The doctor should be able to cure my mother. Of course, he can’t, but that doesn’t stop me from being angry at him.
“I just need to check her vitals,” the doctor says, trying to get around my father.
Giovanni and my dad move in on the man, as if they’re communicating telepathically. They surround him, blocking off his exits. Uncle Gio takes one arm and my father takes the other. They pull him out into the hallway where I assume they’re going to hurt him.
I’m left alone with Mom and the two soldiers. I don’t know what they’re doing here, or why they stayed. They didn’t know Mom, and they don’t care that she’s dying.
“Get out,” I yell.
They look at each other, mildly annoyed and not the least bit afraid. But they do what they’re told. Finally, I’m left alone with the woman who brought me into the world. She looks like a shadow of her former self, a wax figure draped in white cloth.
I’m not ready to let her go.
The next few hours are the hardest. My father comes back in, his knuckles bloody. A different doctor arrives a few minutes later, looking nervous. He checks Mom’s vital signs all the while not saying a word. I know he’s scared to give my dad bad news, but there’s no hiding my mom’s condition.
Finally, I see my mother relax. It isn’t something dramatic, just a quiet surrender. The monitors blare and nurses come running in.
I go quiet, but my father starts to rage. He swipes all the flowers off the bedside table, punches one of the computer screens, and throws a lamp across the room. I cringe when I hear glass breaking, but I’m not surprised.
My father is a man of few words but with deep feelings. I know he loved my mother and that he’s scared of life without her. But the nurses aren’t as familiar with his temper as I am. Uncle Gio evaluates the situation calmly and leads everyone who isn’t family out into the hall.
Our eyes meet and I nod to him, grateful for his interference. This isn’t the first time he’s stepped up in a clutch, and it won’t be the last.
Years later
My family gathers at a loud Italian restaurant to celebrate my success. Uncle Gio is here, seated right beside me. He’s stoic as always, yet whenever I look at him, he smiles. My father has had a few drinks already. He’s being loud and boisterous, clapping me on the back with every other word.
My stepmother, Marlena, is sitting across from us, stone-cold sober. I wonder briefly why she isn’t drinking, but it’s none of my business. It’s not like anyone has to be the designated driver; we have a chauffeur. Maybe she just doesn’t feel like drinking today, or maybe she has a big day tomorrow. Either way, it’s up to her, and her choice of beverage doesn’t affect me much.
We’re celebrating my graduation from law school. After my mother passed away, I floundered for years. I tried everythingI could think of to help the family out, short of starting a life of crime. I’ve never been interested in getting into fights or threatening people for money. When I was a kid, all my father wanted was for me to follow in his footsteps, but around ten or eleven, he gave up.
I’m just not him. And I don’t want to be.
Finally, I decided to study law. I figured my father needed lawyers, and that was something I could do that didn’t involve hurting anyone. It took me a lot of hard work to get through all the required classes, but with a bit of luck and a healthy dose of one-on-one tutoring from my now stepmother, I passed.
I only have to sit for the bar exam, and then I’ll officially be a lawyer. I have almost two months to study, and I’m ready to get started. But my father insisted on celebrating prematurely. I would have postponed the festivities, but you don’t just say no to my father.
So here we all are, tucked away in a booth in a family restaurant. My dad and Uncle Gio are telling stories about me growing up.
“He couldn’t run, this one,” Dad says, hooking a hand around my neck. He’s rough, even when he’s being friendly.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, hoping to calm him down a bit. “You don’t have to give Marlena the play by play.”
“I took him to little league one time,” Dad continues, ignoring my protest. “He’s running the bases, and I can see that he’s leaning into his heels a bit too much.”
“Dad,” I complain.
