Page 39

"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.