"Seriously?"
"Sure."
Shaking my head, I mutter, "I don't even know who you are anymore."
"I'm the same man I always was," he says, standing up. "Just a little less preoccupied with murder."
I scowl.
Again.
Naz starts to walk out but pauses in the doorway of the den. "A word of advice?"
"Uh, sure."
"Judge him by his actions and not your suspicions," he says. "Because if the only measure of a man's worth is what he does to make money, a lot of good men would be judged unfairly."
"Like you?"
"Not like me," he says. "Not sure how many times I have to tell you... I'm not a good man, Karissa, and try as I might, I probably never will be."
The deli is once again open.
In fact, it only really closed for one day.
Repairs are underway, what looks like a decent remodel, but that's as far as it has gotten. The glass has been replaced, new locks and bars installed. There's no florescent neon sign out front, beckoning people in, but lights shine from back in the kitchen, so I know my father's here.
He probably never left, frankly.
Ever since my mother died a few months ago, her heart stopping in her sleep, he's stayed away from the home they shared as much as possible.
I have no idea where the man sleeps, if he even does.
He always said he'd sleep when he was dead.
The way he's going, I can see that happening.
I linger in front of the place for a moment, checking out the repairs, before heading for the alley that leads behind the building.
I shouldn't bother him.
I know I shouldn't.
He doesn't want to see my face anymore.
Can't say I blame him.
But something drew me here, early this morning, the sun barely starting to rise. Maybe it's some form of masochism where I get off on my father berating me on sight. It's probably sick, but I almost find it refreshing these days, someone not afraid to tell me what they truly think about me. Especially when Karissa is always in my ear, trying to convince me I'm a better man than I believe.
My father? He certainly doesn't think so.
He thinks I'm a callous, menial piece of shit.
He sees the ugly that still bleeds from me.
The ugly that Karissa just doesn't see.
He makes me feel like me.
"I thought I told you to leave."
His voice is flat, emotionless. He's leaning against the graffiti-riddled brick wall beside the propped open back door, a dirty white apron tied around his waist. Cigarette smoke surrounds him like fog as he breathes it in before letting it back out. Not sure when he traded the cinnamon toothpicks back in for the Marlboros... same kind he smoked when I was a kid. Maybe it was when he lost the love of his life.
Maybe it was when I started coming back around here.
"You did," I say, stalling in the alley near him. "I'm not very good at listening."
He lets out a bitter laugh. "You never were."
"Yeah, my mother used to say I inherited that from my father."
"You got a lot from me," he agrees. "Shame it was all of the bad and none of the good."
I nod, not disagreeing with that, and watch him as he continues to smoke. He draws the smoke in deep, holding it in his lungs before letting go of it, savoring every breath, cherishing the nicotine. I never understood it… picking up a habit that would kill you so easily.
But hey, what do I know?
I killed people for a living.
There's no quicker way to get you on Death's guest list than by meddling in his affairs and taking part in his game.
"So, when did you start smoking again?" I ask curiously.
"When someone tried to destroy my life's work," he says, motioning beside him, toward the back of the deli. "You figure out who that was?"
I'm surprised he's asking me that.
"I've got an idea."
He takes another drag of his cigarette before tossing it down and stamping it out. "Yeah, well, when you catch up to them, tell them they owe me ten grand. Had to wipe out my savings to get everything fixed."
"I—"
I would've paid for it.
Those words stall on my lips.
I know better than to offer.
He doesn't want my money.
He'd be offended by the offer, and I've offended the man enough as it is.
"I'll be sure to tell them."
He nods before turning, yanking open the deli door to go inside. It bangs against the cement block propping it open when it closes again. He didn't offer an invitation to join him. I didn't expect one. But that doesn't stop me from doing it anyway, from grabbing the door and stepping inside the kitchen where he is.
He's gotten straight to work, slicing tomatoes. I'm quiet, as I join him, but he hears me.
Senses me.
Knows me.
"Something you need from me, Ignazio?" he asks, frustration tingeing his voice. "Because I don't remember inviting you to come hang out this morning."
Or any morning.
"I just wanted to check to see how you were."
He laughs at that.
Laughs.
"You didn't come around here for years. Years. You didn't care how I was doing when you were out running these streets, causing problems. Didn't care how it affected anyone else when you were making these enemies. Why should I believe you suddenly care now?"
"I've always cared."
He turns around, using the knife to point at me. "Bullshit. The only people you ever cared about were the people who could do things for you, so tell me, Ignazio… what do you need from me?"
My skin prickles at that accusation.
I don't like it.
It might be the truth, I don't know, but it feels like a lie.
I certainly care about Karissa. Maybe, at the start, it had been about what she could do for me, but it's more than that now. A lot more. Even when she wasn't giving me the time of day, when she wanted nothing to do with me, I cared about what happened to her. I worried about her. And not because I knew it would destroy me to lose her… because it would. There would be no coming back from that. But when it came down to it, I worried for her, because of her. I didn't want her to get hurt. I would've sacrificed myself to make sure she walked away unscathed.
And I did.
I let her go.
I told her to walk away.
But she came back.
"She says you're different, you know," he continues, turning back around to continue slicing his tomatoes. "I've been trying to see it… to see what she sees… but you don't seem any different to me."
I want to tell him it's because he's not looking hard enough, but that's a lie and I know it. The problem is, he's looking harder than Karissa is. She thinks I'm different because she wants me to be. And I'm trying to be. But I'm still me.
I can't be anybody but me.
At some point, every part of me became every part of that. The life isn't just something I lived… it was how I survived. It infused itself into every one of my cells, infecting every mitochondrion. It's in my blood and my bones, and unless you drain me dry and rip me to pieces, you'll never rid me of all of it.
It's like expecting a man to survive without a beating heart in his chest.
Expecting him to breathe without lungs.
Expecting him to fight when he has no reason to live.
It's like expecting a man to still be a man after taking away everything that makes him who he is.
I can be good to her.
I might even be good for her.
But that doesn't mean I'm good.
My father knows that.
"I love her."
"I know you do."
That wasn't the response I expected from him. Figured he'd fight me on that, say I wasn't capable of loving anybody.
"You do?"
He nods. "Figure you must, si
nce she's still alive."
Hearing him say that makes my chest tighten. "What makes you think I ever planned to kill her?"
He shoots a look over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. "I never said you did."
Huh. I suppose he didn't.
I can tell by the look of disgust that crosses his face that I just gave a key piece of information away. He thought I'd get her killed. Hell, he still thinks I'll get her killed. But until now, he never realized I'd sunk so low that I would've killed her myself.
"People started shooting and the first thing you did was throw her out of harms way," he continues, turning back away from me. "Then you stood there, where they could see you, because you knew who they were after. You knew you were the target."
"We were safe," I say. "I knew the glass was bulletproof."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "It was instinct, and it wasn't the first time that kicked in. You killed Angelo last year. You always said he was a father to you… more of a father than me. But you killed him, for her… you chose her over who you called family. You and me… we love differently. But that doesn't mean you don't love her, in your own twisted way."
That almost sounds like a compliment.
Almost.
"I got myself in something," I say, "something I can't get out of."
He's quiet for a moment, continuing what he's doing. I almost want to fill the silence, to try to explain, even know I know there's no point in elaborating. He knows what I mean. But something about the man makes me feel like a kid again, a kid trying to ward off a whipping by explaining it all away.
Never worked then.
Wouldn't work now.
I could try to make him feel sympathy for what I'm going through, but I'd never succeed. The only thing I might rouse is a tad bit of pity.
Pity that I'm pathetic, probably.
Pity that I can't save my own ass.
"Is that what you came here for, Ignazio? Some fatherly advice?"
"Maybe."
"Then I'll tell you the same thing I told Johnny all those years ago," he says. "Run."
Coldness rushes through my body at those words, starting at the top of my head and flowing straight toward the tip of my toes. My fingers tingle, my skin prickles, pins and needles all over my body. "You told him to run?"
"I did," he says calmly, matter of fact, like those words are no more potent than as if he were recounting yesterday's deli special. "He came to me, scared, said he was in too deep to ever get out, and he was worried… not for himself, but for her. The girl."
Carmela.
"Did you know?" My voice is low, so low I don't even know if those words even come out. The cold rage that flows through me makes my body shake. "Did you know what he'd done to me? To my wife? To my baby?"
"I had an idea," he admits. "You were still in the hospital. You weren't talking yet. I didn't think he'd pulled the trigger. I didn't think he could've. But I thought… I suspected maybe he knew. Maybe he knew too much. Maybe he was somehow involved."
"So you helped him?"
"No, I was trying to help you."
"How? How was telling him to run helping me?"
He turns around, his expression blank, like he's not at all affected by the anger in my voice, the anger I'm fighting really hard to contain. My mother, God rest her soul, would never forgive me if I stole that knife from his hand and jammed it through his throat. "Because I didn't want my son to become a murderer. It was bad enough, thinking maybe Johnny fell that far, but you? My kid? I still had hope for you then. I hoped you'd wake up, and you'd realize what that life did to you, what being Angelo's son got you, and you'd walk away before it was too late."
He turns back around, yet again, returning to his tomatoes, yet again. Like that's his biggest priority here. Tomatoes.
"Lot of good that did," he says. "Look at you now."
Bitter tension hangs in the air.
I have no idea what to say.
What to do.
Ray tried to induct me into his organization after what happened. He said I'd earned my place. He said I belonged with them. In another life, I probably wouldn't have hesitated, but in the world I woke up in after losing my family? None of that mattered. All I cared about was revenge.
I tracked Johnny to Florida eventually, found him and Carmela staying at an orange grove. I knew the place. Knew it, because we'd gone there before. The two of them looked happy, planning their lives together, settling in with the help of a family friend. Edoardo Accardi, former enforcer for the Genova crime family. He'd moved on to bigger things: the black market. If you wanted something, you went to Accardi.
I told him I wanted Johnny.
He refused my request.
I realized, quickly, that there were no friends in this business.
So I killed Accardi for it… among other things.
A sense of betrayal carves into me as I stand there, stewing on the memory. It slices me apart like my father slices those damn tomatoes. "You should've convinced him to turn himself in."
"Like that would've ever worked."
"You never know."
He stops what he's doing. "Tell me something, Ignazio… are you going to turn yourself in? Johnny killed one person in his entire life. One."
"It was my wife! And our baby… he killed our child!"
He looks at me. "Two, then. And I get it. It wasn't right. But how many people have you killed? How many lives have you ruined? How many families have you torn apart? I'm venturing to guess it's a lot more than him."
"But this was my life he ruined. My life he tore apart!"
"He killed your family, and that's unforgivable, but your life, Ignazio? You ruined that yourself. You ruined it by doing exactly what I hoped you wouldn't do. I told him to run, and he listened, because it was the only way to save his family. So I'm telling you the same thing… you in something you can't get out of? Run."
My head hurts.
It really fucking hurts.
I don't even know what to say anymore.
"It didn't work for him. What makes you think it would work for me?"
"It probably won't," he says. "But it gave him quite a few years, didn't it?"
I shake my head—not that I'm disagreeing, because running did give him almost two decades, but because I can't believe what he's saying. I came here for… hell, I don't know, but it wasn't for this conversation.
"I'm not a coward," I say. "I don't run."
"Then walk."
I laugh, despite the seriousness of his voice. This conversation? It's not funny. It's downright ridiculous. But that? That was funny. "How is that any different?"
"It's not," he says, "but walking away doesn't make you a coward. It makes you smart. You keep it up, you're going to die, and she might die, too. You leave, you'll still die… someday. But it probably won't be as soon. That's reality… the reality you created."
I think I've had about enough of this back-and-forth.
"Well, it's nice to know where you stand," I say. "I should probably be going."
"You should," he agrees.
There are no goodbyes, no see you laters, nothing but the sound of his knife hitting the cutting board as I turn around and walk out. It's a cool morning, like fall might finally be upon us, although the sun is shining bright. Karissa's probably up by now, probably wondering where I ran off to while she was asleep.
Being lectured by my father is probably the last thing she'd suspect.
* * *
For the second time in such a short amount of time, I find myself at this place, this old brick mansion over in Long Island, once more uneasy about it. When did I become this person? What turned me into this kind of man?
The kind of man who is hesitant to knock on a door.
This isn't me.
I step up on the porch, giving a brief glance around the quiet neighborhood.
Steeling myself, I knock.
The door is opened almost at once, a young guy appearing. He's big, somew
hat muscular, and ugly to boot. A street soldier, I'm guessing. I was that kid once. I remember hanging around Ray's house, running errands, answering doors.
"I need to talk to Genova."
The kid says nothing, merely nodding before shutting the door again. I stare at it, my eyes scanning the chipped white paint of the wood as I wait.
A minute later, the door opens again.
This time Genova himself greets me.
"Vitale," he says, his voice hesitant. It's still so early he's wearing what I suppose are his pajamas, but it looks more like something Hugh Hefner might lounge around in—white undershirt, silk pants, and matching robe. He's even barefoot. I caught him before he was ready for company. "Nice of you to drop by… unexpected, but still… nice. What can I do for you?"
His voice tells me my dropping by unannounced is anything but nice, but he's tolerating it, like I figured he would, because his curiosity is piqued. "I was hoping you could spare a few minutes to talk."
"About?"
"Things."
I don't have to elaborate.
Not right here, anyway.
He knows things are the kind of things we don't talk about in public, so he doesn't have much choice but to invite me in. Stepping aside, he wordlessly motions his head for me to come in. The sound of some type of Italian opera music wafts through the downstairs as I follow him not to the room we met in days ago, but instead to a small den on the same floor. It's the source of the music... it's much louder in here. Genova turns it down a bit before taking a seat in a black leather chair.
"Join me," he says, motioning to another chair a few feet across from him. Join. There's that word from him again. "Tell me what kind of things you want to talk about this morning."
"My father has a deli," I tell him. "It's over in Hell's Kitchen."
His expression lights up. "Oh, of course! I know all about Vitale's. Best mozzarella I've ever tasted. Great place."
"Yeah, well, the other day we had an incident there."
All at once, his expression shifts. "What kind of incident?"
"Somebody shot up the place."
"Ah."
Ah. That's all he says. That's his only reaction.
"I talked to some people who steered me in the direction of a guy they thought was capable of doing it, so I confronted him—"