Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Maybe one day there’ll be peace with the Camorra.”
Samuel shoved to his feet. “There won’t be peace unless Dante wants a mutiny at his hands. Danilo, Dad, and I would never agree, and knowing many of the future
Underbosses, I doubt they want peace. We don’t need it.”
When I stood, Samuel touched my shoulder. “Don’t worry about the war. Just try to be happy and be a kid, Sofia.”
I forced a smile. “Our family needs me to be a grownup, and now that I’m promised to Danilo, I can’t be a kid.”
“You can put Danilo out of your mind for the next six years, ladybug. Our family will heal on its own. You can’t mend what Remo and Serafina have broken.”
He squeezed my shoulder before he left.
Maybe he was right, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to put my mind to rest. I wanted to mend our family and show Danilo that he made the right choice.
My headache still thrummed against my temples as I steered my car toward my parents’ home. After my short night at the Mione’s mansion, I’d retrieved my car and driven to the hotel to change my clothes and pick up my bag. I’d been on the road back to Indianapolis ever since. My body screamed to lie down, but a message from Mother had me driving to them instead.
When I let myself in with my keys, Emma wheeled herself into the foyer. “I heard your car,” she said softly. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Despite her obvious distress, she scanned my face and said, “You don’t look good. Is everything all right?”
Word about Serafina helping Remo escape hadn’t reached my parents’ home yet. I doubted that it wasn’t making the rounds among my men, though.
I kissed her cheek with a strained smile. “Things have been strenuous in Minneapolis, but let’s not worry about it now.” That was putting it mildly. Shit would hit the fan very soon, and my men’s frustration and anger over the enemy’s coup would hit me even if Dante had made the decision. A few would test my authority, and I’d have to show strength. More energy wasted in the wrong direction.
“Mom and Dad are upstairs,” Emma said, then whispered, “Dad’s been really bad these last few days. I think . . . I don’t think he’ll make it to Christmas.” Her voice hitched and she covered her face with her hands.
I squeezed her shoulder. “He’s recovered before.” He’d had a few bad episodes that had been followed by weeks of better health, but overall, his body had deteriorated. I went upstairs. The door to my parents’ bedroom was open and I stepped in without knocking. Dad lay in the center of the massive king bed, looking like a skeleton—a broken, wilted body only anchored in this world by his sheer force of will.
Mom stepped out of the bathroom, wiping at blood splatters on her white silk blouse. Her skin was pale, her brown eyes red. She jumped when she spotted me and slowly let the hand clutching the washcloth sink to her side. Her brown hair was a mess, her usually elegant chignon tousled, with strands falling out of it.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your father had a coughing fit,” she said tonelessly, then with a strange smile. “I think my blouse is ruined.”
I went over to her and set a comforting had on her shoulder. “When was the last time you slept?”
She shook her head as if the question was irrelevant. “Your dad needs me. He needs my full attention to get better.”
I looked back at the bed. I had little hope that Dad would get better. Maybe he’d cling to life—whatever was left of it—for a few more weeks, but his death wasn’t far off. Emma’s words could prove right. The weeks until Christmas seemed an insurmountable distance for the man lying in the bed.
Thinking of the weeks ahead, a sense of bone-deep exhaustion overcame me. My father’s death and the inevitable upcoming uproar in the Outfit would require all my energy.
“How . . .” The broken word from Father’s cracked lips made us jump. She rushed over to him and dabbed his mouth with a wet cloth. His glassy eyes focused on me. I sank down on a chair beside the bed and leaned forward to understand him.
“How did it go?” Every word tore from his body in a painful rattle, and my own chest ached just imagining his struggle.
I had a millisecond to decide what to say. “It went well,” I said, choosing the lie. Father didn’t talk to anyone outside of the family because he didn’t want to show weakness in front of others. He wanted them to remember him as the strong leader he used to be. That meant the truth about the Remo Falcone debacle wouldn’t reach his ears if I talked to a few key people and made sure they kept their mouths shut.