Page 3 of Chicago Sin

I stare down at the cross around her neck and wonder what she must think of me. It’s not often that the son of a devout Catholic ends up in prison. I know I’ve disappointed her in a way that can never be made right again.

The cross around her neck only serves as a further reminder of how far I have fallen from the altar boy with dreams of one day becoming a priest like my childhood hero, Father Fantoni. The faith he had always preached to me about seemed to have no power in saving me from my own demons and family ties.

My mother stares at me with a mix of love and uncertainty. I can see the fear in her eyes that I could end up back where I just came from, but still she welcomes me with open arms. She loves me despite what I do and who I surround myself with, and for that I am grateful. She’s a mother in the mafia, and that comes with a certain amount of baggage but also understanding. But no mother wants to see her son go to prison. I’m supposed to keep what I do secret from her church and the ladies she does lunch with. I’m not supposed to mess up.

I do want to tell her that I’m sorry for letting her down and that I will try to do better, but it’s hard to find the words.

I don’t know why stepping into the old place feels like a punch in the gut. This party is for me. I should be celebrating. But I don’t remember what joy feels like.

I don’t even remember what it means to feel.

Father Fantoni approaches, and though I’m surprised to see him at the party, I know he’s no stranger to the Outfit. He’s seen us all grow from children and is just as much family as anyone else in this room.

“I hope to see you at Sunday Service now,” he says as he places a welcoming hand on my shoulder. “Welcome home.”

There is no judgment in his eyes. No condemnation.

“Yes, Father. As soon as I get… settled.”

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, he nods and continues making his rounds in the room.

“Good to see you, Mando.” A sweet feminine voice murmurs at my shoulder.

I turn to take in the practiced beauty of my ex. Her perfect makeup, straightened hair. Big green doe-eyes.

Fucking Grace.

Oddly, I feel nothing. Not rage. Not pain. Not betrayal.

I flatline on any response, so I turn and hit her with full eye contact. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Course I did.” Her fingers tangle and fight each other in front of her waist. She’s in high heels and a blue polka-dot wrap-around that shows off her perfect tits, with a diamond heart necklace dangling above them. A necklace I sure as hell didn’t give her. Ten feet behind her stands Emilio, her new conquest. Or maybe he conquered her—what do I know?

All I know is she didn’t even bother showing up in person to return my engagement ring.

“No. You really didn’t.” I say it pointed-like, and color leeches from her face.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” she whispers, lips trembling.

There was a time seeing those green eyes shining with tears would make me move mountains to comfort her. Now, I feel nothing at her distress. I just shrug. “I don’t give a shit either way, doll.”

I push past her and make my way to the don. His salt and pepper hair has also grown more salty, but he still looks every inch the reigning king. The godfather of the Outfit, if you will.

He’s the only one I have to respect here. The one I owe my loyalty to. The rest of these stronzos can fuck themselves.

Aside from my cousins, no one in this room bothered to visit me during my stay in the pen. Why are they acting like they care now?

“Mando. Sit.” Don Pachino pats the barstool beside him. I’m not sure if I should be offended that he didn’t stand up to embrace me. I drop into the seat and offer my hand. He tucks the cigar between his teeth and squeezes my palm too hard, like he used to when I was a teen. Showing me who’s boss.

Alex, his son-in-law, moves away to give us privacy.

“Care for one?” He slides the cigar box in my direction. I should take it. I should light up and smoke with the don. Show I’m still his trusted lieutenant. Prove my loyalties haven’t changed.

But the smell turns my stomach. “No thanks.” I rub my nose like that will clear the stench. “Too early.”

Marco presses a high-ball glass of Maker’s Mark into my hand and disappears again, slick-like, before I remember to thank him. I throw it back, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat.

“So, you’re out.”