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“Are you expecting more people?” I ask, though the answer doesn’t matter. There’s enough to feed his entire mafia empire.
He gestures toward a chair, pulling it out with unexpected grace. Once I’m seated, he takes his place at the head of the table, the position of power. Always.
“Not really. Luca usually comes around brunch. Gabriella too.”
I nod, pretending to care about anything but silencing the pang of hunger in my belly. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for bacon and fruit. Dominic helps himself to a waffle, cutting into it with precise movements. Everything he does carries that same controlled power—even something as simple as eating breakfast.
The first bite hits my tongue, and I nearly groan. My previous objections to sharing his table seem ridiculous now. Survival comes first. Food means strength. Strength means a fighting chance.
“So,” Dominic begins, cutlery tapping gently against fine china. “Tell me what else you remember about that night, Alessa.”
My stomach tightens. “Nothing you don’t already know. I was in the backseat, the car was speeding, then I woke up in surgery.” I spear a piece of honeydew. “Look, I really don’t want to—“
“The only damage to your car that night was on the passenger side.” He sips his coffee, unflinching at the heat that would scald normal men.
The food turns to ash in my mouth. My stomach plummets as his words hang between us, sharp and accusing. Shame and rage battle for dominance. But worse than both is the helplessness—the damning fact that I don’t remember. I can’t recall which way the car turned, if my mother screamed, if death came instantly or slowly. The gaps feel like failure, like I’ve betrayed her memory.
“Of course, because we hit a building,” I say, as if his words haven’t shattered something fundamental inside me.
“Your father claimed another car hit you from the driver’s side, sending you into the building that killed your mother.” Dominic’s voice remains measured, but his eyes narrow, watching me too closely. Looking for cracks.
I hate that expression—worse than his anger or violence. This... pity. It crawls over my skin like insects. Does he pity me because I can’t remember my mother’s final moments? Or because the daughter of La Falciante is reduced to this—captive, confused, clinging to stories that might be lies?
Either way, the weight of his gaze makes me want to carve it from his face.
“Yes. And?” My voice comes out brittle.
“But the wreckage photos show no impact on the driver’s side—no dents, no scratches. No evidence of another car.”
Deny. Deny. Deny.I repeat it silently, a desperate litany. Because if not the Commission, then who? Questions multiplyfaster than I can process them, each heavier than the last. Questions only my father can answer.
If I find him before they do. If he’s even alive.
“Three of four witnesses told NYPD there was no other car,” he continues, relentless. “The event data recorder showed sudden, inexplicable acceleration just before the impact.”
“You have no proof.” My voice shakes despite my best efforts. “My father still hasn’t stopped looking for the person responsible.”
“There was no other driver, Alessa.” Frustration edges his words. “Marco is NYPD Chief—strings to pull, tracks to cover. Photos, witnesses, footage. The file I have matches NYPD archives. The investigator, Cedrick Knightly? Removed from service two weeks later. Case inactive after a month.” He leans forward. “What does that tell you?”
“They haven’t found who’s responsible yet.”
“It’s been fourteen years. How hard could it be to find one normal person?”
“Because the Commission isn’t someone you can arrest on the street like some thug!” The words erupt from me, violent and raw. My hand slams down, cutlery clattering against porcelain. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t cry in front of him—I won’t give him that satisfaction. “And if they didn’t do it, why didn’t they investigate themselves? If my mother was so important, why didn’t they care?”
“Isabella was less active by then. Paolo represented the Russos. When her death was ruled an accident, there was no benefit in digging deeper.”
“So, all that bullshit about respecting her was lies? When it came down to it, nobody cared? My mother gave her entire life to people who didn’t give a fuck?”
“The Commission is loyal, but they’re not nice. They worshipped her alive, mourned her dead. She was a powerhouse among many. There were others before her, others after. It’s a cycle.”
His words hit like a physical blow. I freeze, breath catching as his implication sinks in. Not just the casual dismissal of my mother’s death—but the reduction of her entire existence to a replaceable cog in their machine. My chest constricts painfully.
“Are you really saying that to my face?” Each word feels torn from me. “That my mother was just a number, a cadaver to bury, a cautionary tale for the Cosa Nostra?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want to know what you think.” I force casualness I don’t feel. “You disproved the Commission’s involvement—fine. Tell me your theory.”