Page 17 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)
She gave a little huff, something between disappointment and disapproval. But the corner of her mouth twitched up—just barely. I saw past the gesture. She wasn’t afraid of me. She was afraid for me.
They were both right when they said Simi had been raised for me. Camilla was not.
“How is Sarah.”
“She sends her love.”
My mother smiled.
My sister’s voice cut into the moment before I could take another breath.
“Well, well,” she said, her tone sweet and barbed, “so, where is my new sister-in-law, brother?”
I turned slowly to face her. Great.
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, tired already. “Say what you want and let’s be done.”
She lifted her hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on her lips didn’t waver.
My sister had a way with men. Some called her a viper, others a black widow.
Dark curls framed her face, falling behind her back in layered waves.
Her green eyes gleamed with mischief. That mouth of hers could talk a man into, or out of, anything.
She looked too much like Lori. That alone made me uneasy.
“It’s only you that gets away with this kind of shit,” she said, her voice low. “If it were me, Father would’ve had me sliced open and fed to the Adriatic.”
She turned on her heel, walking away like nothing touched her, but I knew better. She hated that I hadn’t married Simi. That I’d chosen someone else.
They were best friends once.
I didn’t care.
The air seemed colder as she left. The tension wasn’t just in my chest now, it was everywhere, settling into the walls, the silence, the very bones of the house.
This meeting had already put me on high alert. I could feel it building. Every step, every glance, carried weight. I just wanted it over. I just wanted to get back to Camilla.
Where the world made sense.
* * *
The doors to the Oval Room creaked open, just enough for me to step through. No fanfare. No acknowledgment. The meeting had already begun, Voices were low, eyes were sharp, and loyalties in place. As always, no one waited for me.
The air inside was stifling, thick with the scent of cigars, aged leather, and old blood.
Generations of decisions had been made here, some written in ink, most sealed in silence.
The walls were lined with dark walnut paneling, polished to a dull sheen, heavy with the weight of men who thought themselves gods.
Above us, a carved ceiling loomed with frescoes of Roman triumphs, ironic, considering how much failure festered beneath all this tradition.
At the far end of the room, my father sat in his usual seat, elevated, centered, unforgiving.
Behind him, where we always stood, were my two brothers, Roberto and the youngest, Luca.
Their expressions were stone, unreadable, as they flanked the chair like sentinels.
I moved toward them, my footsteps swallowed by the thick Persian rug stretching beneath the massive oval table that filled the room like a scar.
On either side, the next generation waited behind their fathers, silent heirs to old rules. Some watched me. Most didn’t. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to be liked. I was here to be obeyed.
Jason was seated directly opposite me. His posture was perfect, too perfect, spine straight, shoulders back, the polished mask of a man who had something to hide.
He froze the moment I entered, pen hovering mid-signature above a fresh document.
His eyes flicked up, meeting mine across the expanse of mahogany. I didn’t blink.
No one said a word. Not even my brothers. Their silence was louder than a gunshot.
Father kept his voice low, even. “So I guess that’s it then, Jason.”
He cleaned his throat, trying to find a foothold. “Thank you for your understanding,” he said, with the same syrupy diplomacy he always used when cornered. “And I apologize again for my daughter’s behavior. I will handle it.”
A slap on the wrist, just as I thought.
My father was so weak. Predictable. The man had no spine.
They shouldn’t exist. And if my Nonno were still sitting in his chair, they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t have seen this new year.
Then came the ask.
“I do, however,” Jason continued, “wish to speak with Alfonso. Privately.”
The room shifted subtly. A few glances exchanged. No one else moved.
Before I could open my mouth to shut it down, my father gave a single nod.
Of course he did.
He didn’t even look at me. Just nodded like my opinion didn’t matter. Like he was still the only voice in this room that counted. If he knew what was good for this family, he would’ve let me speak first.
But he didn’t.
Chairs pushed back in unison as the Elders rose, each one placing a closed fist to their chest with the weight of tradition behind the gesture. In deep, solemn voices they spoke the words that had bound this family for generations:
"Con il sangue e la volontà, scolpiamo il futuro nella pietra."
(By blood and will, we carve the future into stone.)
The mantra echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a judgment.
Then they turned and filed out, coats sweeping behind them, leaving the scent of old cologne and unspoken truths in their wake. All but one.
Jason remained seated, the ever-patient vulture.
Once the last Elder crossed the threshold, the heavy doors shut with a resonant thud. The only people left were from our parties.
Father stayed seated in his chair at the head of the room, back straight as ever, spine like carved granite. Without looking at me, he gave a sharp nod to my brothers. They didn’t question it. They turned and walked out, leaving only me behind.
I stayed where I was, my eyes on the back of Father’s head. When he finally turned, he met my gaze and gave me the smallest nod, permission.
I stepped forward, pulled out the chair beside him, and lowered myself into the cool leather. The seat was familiar, too comfortable for the conversations that usually took place here.
The side door creaked open.
Theo entered first, silent as a shadow, his presence like steel drawn slowly from a sheath. My father’s head of security didn’t need to speak. He never did.
Behind him came Celeste, draped in a black shawl that looked more ceremonial than necessary. Her eyes, as always, were unreadable. And trailing them, red-eyed and trembling, was Simi.
She looked like a fallen icon, makeup streaked, lips trembling, voice caught somewhere between apology and performance. I didn’t bother to stand. I didn’t even acknowledge her.
The sound of her sobbing immediately clawed at my nerves, nails on glass. I fought the urge to roll my eyes and instead looked straight ahead. I thanked whatever higher force might exist that I’d found a way out of this mess. A clean break. Or at least something that looked like one.
She sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief like she was in some tragic opera. The silence stretched long and heavy until her voice finally broke it.
“I’m so sorry, Alfonso,” she whispered, barely louder than the rustle of fabric. “I didn’t know what came over me, and to be honest, I didn’t think, I didn’t think any of this would happen. If I knew…”
She collapsed into another wave of sobs.
It hit me sideways.
Laughter, dry and sudden, escaped my lips like a knife being drawn. I didn’t try to stop it.
“Alfonso,” my father said sharply, his voice like gravel under pressure.
I snapped my mouth shut, but the smile stayed, bitter and unmoved.
Simi quieted instantly. Just like that. Crocodile tears packed away. Performance paused.
I wasn’t an idiot. She’d been my betrothed for nearly thirty years, I knew her better than her own parents ever did. She was clever, calculating, and manipulative. Qualities that, in the right hands, could be powerful. But Simi? She didn’t wield them, she abused them.
Little manipulative fucking slut.
“I know I got what I deserved,” she said finally, lifting her chin with mock grace. “Good luck with your marriage.”
She said it with that tone , the kind that dressed itself as a blessing but crawled with venom underneath.
She knew exactly what it cost me to keep the storm inside from spilling out.
She wanted to see it all unravel. To watch me lose control, piece by piece, until I became everything I swore I wouldn’t.
And the worst part? It would probably happen.