Page 17 of Bitter Poetry

I head downstairs, reaching the bottom just as Ettore saunters out of my father’s study with an envelope in his hand. He’s a little younger than my father. I’d guess he’s in his early forties, always clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. He’s been married twice. The first one died due to an illness.There was some kind of scandal surrounding the second one. He was barely married and divorced again, and wife number two was packed off to another state. Divorce is frowned upon in our world. I can only imagine something exceptional led to the breakup.

He smiles, his gaze sweeping down my length before returning to meet my eyes. It makes me deeply uncomfortable in light of my sister’s recent comment.

“Your father asked me to bring this.” He indicates the envelope.

“Of course.” My smile is weak. “Thank you.” I wish my father would ask me to get things for him. I wouldn’t mind. But I suppose I wouldn’t even know what I was looking for. “We’re very grateful you came to collect us.”

“My pleasure,” he says just as Jessica comes clomping noisily down the stairs.

She slips her arm through mine, sending a scowl Ettore’s way.

His eyes flick toward her briefly before he turns away and checks his watch. “Time we were leaving.”

DANTE

Monica Accardi’s funeral is being held today, having been delayed until Cedro was well enough to attend. He’s only just been moved out of the hospital and into a convalescent care facility where they can provide for his needs. But he’s still got months of therapy and rehabilitation to look forward to.

He’s mentally defeated. Questions are being quietly raised about whether he’s fit to lead the family now or ever again. Inthe wake of the attack, there has been fallout. A Russian splinter group has claimed responsibility and has subsequently been denounced by the main Russian outfit here.

On the surface, the family continues to operate, albeit in a state of heightened risk.

Yet a different storm is brewing underneath as the major players vie for dominance.

Ettore Gallo, as underboss, has been manning the fort, including capturing the men responsible, who were summarily executed. All very neat and tidy, and all too reminiscent of my Uncle Stephano’s death. A cookie cutter play. Then, just like this time, Ettore stepped in and brought the culprits in for justice. It’s how he became the underboss, taking my late uncle’s place.

The possibility that Ettore played any role in killing my uncle to garner himself the position makes me deeply uneasy, and even more so in light of recent events.

Leon certainly suspects Ettore had a hand in it still.

I want to believe this is merely the random design of the universe. But I don’t. Looking back, I believe my father had suspicions about Ettore, although he never spoke openly about them to me.

The memory of losing my father is fresh in my mind today. My mother is doing as well as can be expected, but whenever I speak to her, I sense how fragile she is. Christian is coping in his unique way, which essentially involves violence. He frequents the clubs and indulges in all that entails more often than I think is healthy. I doubt he could pull back from the role our father slotted him into, even if I were to advise him to do so.

Me? I’m not the controlled put-together person I was although I still project that persona where anyone can see.

“Thank you for coming,” Cedro says. His eyes light up as he tracks my entry into the room.

It’s a well-appointed suite with a large bay window offering views of a manicured garden and a pond.“We like the residents to think of this as a home from home as they’re recovering,”the facility manager told me when I came to make the arrangements for Cedro to be moved here, falling over herself to meet our every need, and clearly aware of exactly who he is.

The light in his eyes fades as rapidly as it arrives. He’s dressed in a black suit, clean-shaven, with his hair freshly trimmed even if his face is sunken and gray.

His daughters need him.

But when I look at him, I see a man who is already broken—one who is unable to provide for and protect them.

The landscape before me is crumbling. No point in clinging to past plans. My mother accused me of being cold we spoke over video chat. I prefer to think of myself as focused and practical in the face of limited choices. There are games within games here. Survival is the only option sometimes.

At his indication, I take a seat at the table before the bay window. A faint buzzing sound accompanies him driving his electric wheelchair over to join me. I’ve been visiting Cedro regularly. This is the first time he has called for me in an official context. I know what’s coming, or suspect it, at least.

“Ettore came by earlier. The Russians have withdrawn from Cove district.”

While they may have moved out of the Cove district, my sources tell me they’re ramping up in the South Side after Ettore declared our businesses were losing money there and we pulled out.

“Yes, I heard.”

“I know what you’re going to tell me,” he says.

He’s going to bury his wife in a matter of hours, but he’s a man focused on the bigger picture. Cedro has limited options and he’s protecting the only thing he has left: his daughters.