Page 15 of Veil of Obsession

Or is it pity? I should be the one comforting him, not the other way around.

But I can’t help asking,“How long?”

He frowns, confused. “Darling, I’ve already told you?—”

I cut him off, shaking my head. “No, as in how long you have known you have MND?”

Dad slowly sits back down, running his hands over his face before replying, “Three months.”

I can feel the pressure build up and the familiar sting of tears, and it feels like everything is closing in on me.

Dad seems to realize that I’m feeling some sort of way because he rushes to add, “I wanted to exhaust every other option before telling you and your brothers. I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

“Dad, please tell me that the other doctor’s diagnosis contradicted the ones that told you that you have a year or two max left.” I clench his warm hands, trying, hoping it will ground me and stop this helplessness that seems to be overtaking all my senses.

He gives me a defeated smile, and I feel myself spiraling again.

“No, mia amore. Unfortunately, most of them agreed that I have a year, or two at best. I do wish it was a different case, but that’s the reality of this disease. They’ve all recommended I look at options of hospice as soon as possible.”

I try to breathe in, but it feels more like a chore than a need. “Does…does everyone know?”

Dad pauses, studying my face as if unsure how to answer my question. “Mostly. Your Uncle Stefano, mom, and brothers all know. However, we’re planning on keeping it hidden from the public…” He pauses, swallowing down whatever words he was going to say, then smooths his hand over my hair. “I should let you finish eating. Don’t stay up too late.”

He presses a kiss on my forehead, just like he used to when I was younger.

He goes to stand up, but I hug him before whispering, “I love you, Dad.”

He taps his warm hand on my back, a soothing gesture if it wasn’t for the gaping hole where my heart should be.

“I love you too, mia amore,” he whispers back.

The doors shut with a low thud, and the reality of his words sink their talons into my flesh.

Dad’s going to die.

He has a couple of months, maybe two years if we’re pushing it. I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this.

But are we everreadyfor death?

5

Lucio

It’s been a couple of days since I received the first text from whoever has been piling up dead bodies of the young women of New York’s elite, and my little stalker has gone silent.

There are five of us at the poker table. My Uncle Rodolfo, underboss of Maine. Vincent Junior, who was promoted to the new underboss of Baltimore after his traitor father was…disposed of. And two other Camorra soldiers.

Rodolfo leans over to me and says, “There are whispers within the Camorra.”

I keep my eyes on my cards, “How about everyone stops whispering and just speaks outright with their bullshit instead of this stupid dance of back and forth? What do you say, Uncle?”

Turning to look at him, I find him shaking his head at me.

“You don’t understand. There are rules for how things are done. Just because the world around us is changing, adapting doesn’t mean we follow suit.”

I roll my eyes at his bullshit. “If everyone thought the way you ancient dinosaurs think, then we’ll all still be using fucking stone tools.”

One of the soldiers snickers before he says, “Stop being so uptight. This is a poker game, not a political rally.”