She pulls away, smiling, although I can see there are tears in her eyes. She's trying to hold them back, to take this in stride, but like I said... goodbyes are hard.
"And I want to hear all about that baby," she says. "I want to be there, I want to know him… or her… Oh God, especially if it's a her. She's going to need Auntie Mel to teach her all about patterns, about fabrics, and how to coordinate without being matchy-matchy. She's going to need me to teach her all about fashion because God knows you can't do it. You'll have the poor girl wearing socks with sandals."
"Okay, I'm not that bad."
"Come on, your husband owns a turtleneck sweater. You need me, Karissa."
"Don't worry. You'll know her… or him."
"I hope it's a her."
Me? I don't care. I just hope the baby is okay, whichever it is, boy or girl.
"So yeah," I say quietly, motioning toward the car. "I should go now."
She nods, pulling me into another hug. "Take care of yourself."
"You, too."
"I'm going to miss you."
"I'll miss you, too, but it'll be okay." I take a step back, and then another, pausing as I smile. "Through every dark night, there's a brighter day."
Her expression lights up. "Just me against the world."
Who needs 'goodbye' when you've got Tupac Shakur?
Turning, I walk away, shuffling back to the car. I climb in the passenger seat, clipping my seatbelt on. "Thank you for that. I didn't realize how much I needed it."
"You don't have to thank me," Naz says. "Besides, you should always say goodbye to your friends."
I stare out the window, stare at Melody, as she leans back against the building again, continuing to wait. It's less than a minute later when Leo shows up. The second Melody sees him, she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she buries her head in his shoulder.
She's crying.
I can tell it, with the way her body's shaking, the way she's clinging to him like he's her plank. Tears burn my eyes at the sight of it, my chest aching.
Leo just holds her.
I don't think he even questions it.
I want to think he's a good guy. I want to believe he'll never get her hurt. But it feels like I'm leaving her in the hands of monsters, like I'm walking away as my friend unknowingly plays with wolves.
"I can't tell her, can I?" My voice shakes as I ask that. "I can't tell her where we're going."
"No," Naz says. "You shouldn't."
I knew that, deep down, but it still hurts to hear it confirmed. I spent my entire life running. Hiding. I know the rules. I've lived the rules. Any threads left intact connected to your past can be followed straight through to your future.
What's the sense in leaving if you just let them all follow?
"Do you think she'll be okay?" I ask quietly as a tear slips down my cheek. I just want her to be happy, to live the life she deserves. "With him... Leo. Will she be okay?"
"I'm sure she'll be fine."
"But maybe I should've told her. Maybe I should've warned her. He's… I mean, his brother… she should know how dangerous that world is."
"It wouldn't make a difference," Naz says.
"How do you know?"
"Because you had all the warnings in the world, Karissa, and it didn't make a difference to you."
Naz pulls the car out of the garage then and drives away. I watch them, as we drive past, then stare at them in the side mirror until they disappear.
Goodbye, my friend.
I won't ever forget you, that's for sure.
* * *
I expect us to get on the road to go pick up my dog, but instead, a little while later, we end up in Hell's Kitchen.
The deli is busy in the middle of the afternoon. I can see a crowd inside, enjoying lunch, as others filter through the door. Business seems better than ever, and something feels different about it all. It feels strange. It takes a moment for it to strike me what's changed.
There's a new sign above the green awning, replacing the generic words 'Italian Delicatessen'.
Vitale's
It's simple, just the letters, nothing except for the name, but it's more than I've seen before. Holy shit.
Naz isn't looking at it, but I don't doubt that he noticed the second we pulled up. The man notices everything. His hands are still clutching the steering wheel, the engine still running. He looks conflicted, like he's locked in a silent debate.
To say goodbye to his father or not...
"You should go in," he says after a moment. "I'm sure he'd like to see you."
I frown. "Why don't you come with me?"
He glances past me, at the deli, his eyes fixing on the new sign. "I have something I need to take care of, the last loose end I need to tie up."
I get it then, why the engine is still running.
He's just dropping me off.
"It shouldn't take me long," he continues. "There's nobody else I'd trust to leave you with. My father… he doesn't take anything from anyone. You'll be fine here while I'm gone."
That's not what worries me.
I'm not worried about my safety.
I know I'm going to be fine.
But I don't know what he has planned, what this loose end is, and knowing Naz?
It can't be good.
"You'll come back?"
His eyes shift to me when I ask that, his expression serious. "You know I will."
I don't want to let him go but I know he wouldn't leave me, not right now, unless he thought it was unavoidable. So wordlessly, I nod and get out of the car, making my way to the door of the deli, pausing there, but I know he won't leave until I go inside.
Hobbling in, I pause, hearing the friendly chatter, listening to the cheerful whistling. I don't know what the tune is, but it's the same one every time.
Giuseppe is wandering around, cleaning off tables, smiling at people, obviously in a good mood this afternoon. He turns my direction, grinning, but his expression quickly falls.
Intuitive.
Like father, like son.
"Karissa," he says. "What's the matter, girl?"
I ponder that question for a moment before shaking my head. "Nothing."
His brow furrows. He doesn't believe it. "Nothing?"
"Absolutely nothing," I say again. "You see, I just found out I'm going to be having a baby, so even if I could complain, I'm not going to."
Those words, they hit him hard, just like I knew they would. They were the last words my mother ever said to him before she disappeared from his world. And he knows that, as he stares at me. He knows exactly what they mean. They run deeper than just on the surface.
They cut him deep.
His expression shifts, from shock to sadness to acceptance, as he puts a smile on his face again, sucking it up, forcing those emotions back. He reaches over, placing his hand on my arm, and nods his head toward a nearby table. "How about some cookies? I made them fresh this morning."
I take a seat, and he disappears to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a plate of Snickerdoodles. He's whistling again as he sets them on the table and slips into the chair across from me.
"What song is that?"
He hesitates for a second, like he's got to think about it. "Johnny Ray. Just Walkin' in the Rain."
"Never heard of it."
"Ah, it was well before your time. Hell, it was almost before mine. My wife… it was her favorite. First song we ever danced to."
I smile at that as I grab a cookie. He spends his days whistling the song he danced with his wife to for the first time. "That's sweet."
"Yeah, just reminds me of simpler times. Better times. When Ignazio was young, she used to sing it to him. I'd come home from a long day here at the deli, and they'd be dancing to it in the kitchen, and she'd be singing her heart out, and he'd be grinning like a fool." He pauses, laughing to himself. "He was a good kid… a happy kid. Wish I knew where we went wrong."
"Yo
u didn't go wrong with him," I say, taking a bite. They're perfection, as usual. I'm so hungry my stomach sounds like it's trying to pick a fight. "He's not a bad man, you know."
Giuseppe gives me a look like I've lost my fucking mind as he stands up. "You're starving. Let me make you a sandwich."
I don't have a chance to argue with that. He's gone, disappearing into the kitchen again. By the time he returns a few minutes later with an Italian special, the cookies are all gone.
"I'll get you some more," he says, reaching for the empty plate, but I snatch it up before he can.
I motion toward his chair. "Come on, relax... keep me company."
He plops back into the chair, relaxing back in it as I eat. He laces his hands together behind his head, watching me and whistling.
"Were you being serious?" he asks out of the blue.
"About Naz not being a bad man? Absolutely."
"No, I know you're full of shit about that. But earlier, when you showed up, you said you were having a baby."
"Oh. Uh… yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He stares at me some more, his expression blank. I'm not sure how he feels about what I'm telling him.
A baby.
His grandchild.
"You know yet what it is?"
I shake my head. "Still too early."
"You know what you want?"
"Doesn't matter as long as it's healthy."
He laughs, his expression softening. "That's what they all say, but me? I wanted a boy. No question about it. A son. Someone to carry on the Vitale name, to make us all proud."
"You got what you wanted."
"Yeah, well, the jury's still out about that."
"You should be proud of him," I say. "He's made some mistakes… okay, he's made a lot of them… but he's strong, you know... he's tenacious. He's a survivor. And one of the greatest things about him is he's a man of his word. If he says he's going to do something, he does it. He's never broken a promise to me."
"You just need to give him time."
"And you need to give him a chance," I counter. "You shouldn't hold his mistakes against him forever. It does neither of you any good."
"That's nice of you," he says, "standing up for him like that, but Ignazio would be the first one to say that he doesn't need you to stand up for him. He knows what kind of man he is."
"Yeah, a stubborn man, just like his father."
I don't think he finds that amusing, but he doesn't lash out. He rocks his chair back on its hind legs, regarding me peculiarly. "You remind me of someone."
"My mother."
"No, you look like your mother," he says, "but you remind me of my wife."
Whoa.
"She used to tell me that all the time," he continues. "She was optimistic, always saw the best in that boy. Didn't matter what he did, she never lost hope in him."
"Smart woman."
"So, where is he?" he asks. "Waiting out in the car?"
"He had something important to take care of."
"Of course he did."
"Don't worry, though," I say, "he'll come back. He always does."
Cars surround the brick mansion in Long Island, a sea of black sedans with darkly tinted windows. It's rare seeing so many together in one place at one time. Usually, when that happens, it means someone's in serious trouble.
Today's no exception.
There's going to be hell to pay.
"You sure you know what you're doing?"
Lorenzo stands behind me, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans with a plain white t-shirt. He asks that like he's curious about the answer, like he's actually worried about anybody but himself.
"Don't I always?"
"Not sure," Lorenzo says. "Heard your wife once poisoned you. That true?"
"Not at all."
"Really?"
"I was drugged, not poisoned," I tell him, "and besides, she wasn't my wife back then."
"Ah, that's just the fine print," he says. "Song remains the same, my friend."
My eyes scan the house for a moment before something strikes me. I turn around, looking at him. "How'd you know about that?"
He raises his eyebrows, surprised by my question. "What?"
"I never told anybody she drugged me," I say. "How'd you know?"
He stares at me.
He's thinking about how to answer.
That tells me I'm not going to like whatever he has to say.
There are only so many people who were aware of what happened, and I'm not sure any of them would run their mouths to him.
Hell, most of them haven't lived long enough to get the chance to do it.
"My brother heard it from his girlfriend. Guess your wife told her about it."
"I don't believe you."
Karissa told nobody about drugging me.
Nobody except for her parents…
He tries to keep a straight face but it doesn't happen. Cracking a smile, he shakes his head. "Yeah, you probably shouldn't. Truthfully, Ignazio? I heard it from Carmela."
That answer surprises me, although I refuse to let it show. "Carmela."
"Yeah, seems she got desperate. This was back before you killed her, of course."
"Of course."
"Guess she didn't get the memo all those years ago about what happened… guess she didn't know you killed my stepfather because of what he did to me."
I cut in. "I killed him because he crossed me."
"You can say that all you want, Ignazio," he says, "but you'll never convince me it wasn't because of what he did to my face."
I say nothing.
He's partially right.
The man would've eventually killed Lorenzo if he hadn't died himself. To spare his little brother, Lorenzo willingly took the brunt of the abuse. He'd put herself right in harm's way, no matter the consequences. I respected that about Lorenzo.
"Anyway, so Carmela sought my stepfather out, looking for help. She found me, though, told me all about everything. Told me you were still at it, hunting them. Told me you'd killed Johnny and that she was next. That's when I decided it was time to finally make my way to New York."
I do the math in my head. "You've been in New York that long?"
"On and off," he says. "Wasn't until after you decided to take Ray out that I saw my opening."
"I didn't decide anything. It was self-defense."
"Isn't it always? When it comes down to it, it's always either you or them."
He's got a point there, although I'm not going to admit that. I'm not giving him any more credit than I have to. If any more ego squeezes into the narcissistic brain of his, nobody will be safe.
"Almost two years," I say, "and you wait until now to say hello?"
"Eh, what can I say? I wasn't sure what to make of you. The man Carmela spoke of sounded a hell of a lot like the friend I remembered, the one who saved my ass, but the guy I saw when I got here? He was different. So I kept my distance, because quite frankly, I was trying to decide what to do about it."
"I'm assuming you've decided."
"We're here right now, aren't we? Besides, it would've been a pity to have to kill you."
"You really think you could've?"
"Maybe," he says, casually shrugging a shoulder. "Glad we didn't have to find out."
The conversation is over at that.
I glance at my watch. A few minutes before noon. I'm standing here in broad day, wearing my favorite suit. The sun is shining, but it's doing nothing to provide warmth. It won't be long now until winter is upon us, blanketing New York with snow.
I'll be long gone before that happens, though.
Long gone.
Although, a small traitorous part of me is worried this is a mistake.
I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't do this.
I should just go.
Run.
But I don't have it in me.
People who run are being chased.
I'm no
t going to let that happen.
Not now, not ever.
So maybe, this time, I don't know what I'm doing, but I do know I have to do it.
There's just no other way.
I fix my tie and smooth my jacket before setting my focus on the house. It looks quiet, still, but looks are deceiving. There's nothing benevolent about this place today.
At exactly twelve o'clock, the front door cracks open. They're watching, waiting...
I don't expect it any other way.
"Go time," Lorenzo says, waltzing right past me, practically glowing with excitement as he heads toward the porch. He's going to enjoy every second of this. I know he is. There's a bulge at his hip, his oversize shirt mostly concealing it. I only know it's there because, well, it always is.
Some things just never change.
Go time.
I follow Lorenzo right up to the house. A man stands there, wearing all black, guarding the door. He lets us in without a word. A few men are gathered around, coming together to lead us down the hallway, toward the thick set of doors. They stop there, but Lorenzo keeps going, shoving the double doors open and strolling right in.
Four men sit inside, at the long wooden table, each of them dressed in their best suits. The heads of the four remaining crime families in the city have gathered together yet again for little ol' me.
A fifth chair is still empty.
Guess that one now belongs to Lorenzo.
They don't seem happy about it as he plops down in it, not awaiting an invitation, not offering any sort of greeting, like there's no question about his importance. Official or not, he's one of them. He's earned that spot. He leans back, kicking his feet up on the corner of the table, crossing his legs at the ankles.
Genova looks like he wants to shoot him right in the face.
I've been acquainted with the man for about two decades. He's hostile, and bitter, and about as selfish as you'd expect him to be. He doesn't do dirty work, though. No, that's what his men are for. His own little bloodthirsty army. He's a ruthless general.
He doesn't like it when others try to invade his space.
Stepping into the room, I close the doors behind me, reaching over and locking them. Always lock the doors. The men are too preoccupied by Lorenzo's antics to even notice what I'm doing.