My grandfather's voice—rough as gravel, but still strong—cut through the room.
Nicodemo Russo. Nonno. Ninety-one years old and somehow still breathing, still lucid enough to be dangerous. Whether the prospect of finding a traitor or planning a murder gave him this burst of energy, I couldn't say.
I crossed to him, my smile automatic, my heart heavy.
"Nonno, you look strong."
"Don't lie to an old man." He reached with both arms like a child wanting to be lifted, grinning through yellowed teeth. "I'm old and feeble. Any night might be my last."
The words should have been melodramatic. Instead, they hit like truth.
"Don't say that." I bent to hug him, his frame so frail beneath my hands I was afraid I'd break him. Quick air kisses, left and right. "You'll make it to a hundred and ten easily."
"Hell, girl, I'm ninety-one years old. Can't say I've got a right to any more after what I've done to my lungs and liver."
"Modern medicine is amazing, Nonno." I forced brightness into my voice, into my smile.
Fake. It's all fake. But he can't know. Can never know.
He was ninety-one and losing his mind to dementia and rage, but he was still family. Still the patriarch. Still someone whose opinion could get me killed.
"In my day, drinking and smoking weren't considered unhealthy. Started smoking at fourteen, I did."
"And drinking? Fifteen?" I played along, like I always did, pretending this was normal conversation.
He laughed—a horrible, phlegm-thick sound that dissolved into choking. I waited, hand hovering uselessly, while he hacked and gasped.
When he recovered, his watery gaze locked on me.
And for just a second, I saw something there that made my blood run cold. Not my grandfather. Not the man who'd bounced me on his knee and taught me to play poker when I was six.
Death. I was looking at death wearing my grandfather's face.
"Girl," he rasped, "no respectable boy worth a damn wasn't stealing booze at eleven or twelve. I was an altar boy at seven years old.Seven. Stealing communion wine for the older boys. Didn't take my first drink till I was eleven—though I was sampling at nine."
"You grew up fast back then." My throat tightened.
"Back then, men weremen." His voice dripped with venom and phlegm. He looked at me with disgust—whether aimed at me or the world, I couldn't tell. "Not like that rat bastard, Quentin Vanetti."
My heart stopped.
"If he's not dead before me—" Nonno's gnarled finger jabbed the air. "I swear on your Nonna’s grave, I'm coming back to curse the lot of you. Family or not."
The words landed like physical blows.
Quentin. He's talking about Quentin.
I kept my face neutral, my smile fixed, even as something inside me shattered.
"This generation?" He was building momentum now, rage giving him strength. "Rotten. Spoiled. Soft. No backbone. No honor—"
The tirade dissolved into violent coughing.
I stood there, frozen, watching the man who'd taught me to ride a bike curse the man I loved. Demand his death. Promise to haunt us all if we failed to kill him.
And I had to stand here. Smile. Nod. Agree.
I'm sorry, Nonno. I'm so sorry you'll never understand.
