Chapter 5 - The Dinner Table
The apartment was tiny, but it was spotless. In the center of the kitchen sat a small laminate table with four mismatched chairs. On the counter sat a pot of cheap macaroni and cheese and four plastic cups filled with tap water.
On the refrigerator were dozens of drawings held up by magnets: crayon sketches of four little boys holding hands with a stick-figure woman. There was no father in any of the pictures. Just an empty space beside Clara.
"Sit," she said, crossing her arms, leaning against the counter. She kept the knife within arm’s reach.
I pulled out one of the flimsy chairs. It creaked beneath my broad frame. I felt colossal, grotesque, like an armored tank parked in a flower garden.
"Tell me about them," I asked, staring at the pot on the stove.
"Why?" she challenged, her voice defensive. "So you can measure them? Decide which one inherits your empire of blood and extortion?"
"Clara—"
"Mateo is the oldest by three minutes," she cut in, her maternal pride overriding her anger. "He thinks he’s the man of the house. He hides his bruises when he falls because he doesn't want me to worry. Luca is the quiet one. He reads everything he can find. Nico has your temper—he broke a boy’s nose in kindergarten last month because the kid took his brother's milk."
A ghost of a smile touched my lips despite myself. "And Leo?"
"Leo has your eyes," she whispered, her voice dropping. "He wakes up from nightmares and asks me if his daddy is an angel. I tell him... I tell him his daddy died a long time ago."
The silence in the room became unbearable.
Suddenly, the bedroom door clicked open. Four small heads peeked out from behind the frame, their eyes wide as saucers. They saw me sitting at their kitchen table.
"He's still here," Nico whispered loudly.
"Is he a giant?" Leo asked, clinging to Mateo's sweater.
"Hush!" Mateo scolded, stepping out into the hallway. He puffed out his small chest, marching toward the kitchen with an expression so fiercely protective it nearly brought me to my knees. He stood between me and his mother.
"Mister, why are you making my mom cry?" Mateo demanded.
He tilted his head. He reached his left hand behind his neck.
I slowly slid out of the chair, sinking down onto both knees on the linoleum floor. I brought myself down to his eye level. Up close, his resemblance to me was terrifying. The same steel-gray irises, the slight crook in the bridge of the nose, the stubborn set of his chin.
"I’m not trying to make her cry, Mateo," I said, keeping my voice gentle, lower than I ever used with anyone. "I made a very big mistake a long time ago. And I came here to tell her I’m sorry."
Mateo eyed me suspiciously. "Did you bring the rent money?"
Clara gasped. "Mateo! Inside, now!"
"It's okay," I said, holding up a palm toward Clara. I looked back at the boy. "No. I didn't bring rent money. But you will never, ever have to worry about rent again. Any of you."
The other three boys crept closer, drawn by curiosity. Luca stared at my wrists. "You have shiny buttons on your shirt."
"They're cuff links," I said, unfastening one of the solid gold crests bearing the Moretti falcon. I placed it in Luca’s small palm. His eyes went wide as he felt the weight of it. "A gift. For the smartest boy in the room."
"Hey!" Nico complained, stepping forward. "What about me?"
"Nico, give that back!" Clara cried, rushing over, trying to pull the boys away. But they were swarming me now, fascinated by the dark wool of my suit, my polished watch, the sheer novelty of a man sitting in their living room.
Then my phone buzzed violently in my pocket. The custom ringtone cut through the laughter like a siren.
Salvatore Moretti. My uncle. The underboss.
I answered, pressing the phone to my ear without taking my eyes off the boys.
"Dominic," Salvatore’s venomous voice snarled through the receiver. "Harrington just called an emergency meeting of the council. He knows you blew off Sloane. The streets are whispering that you've lost your mind over some whore in Dorchester. If you aren't at the harbor house in ten minutes, we are declaring you unfit to lead."
I stood up slowly. The warmth in my eyes vanished, replaced by the merciless void of the Don.
May you like
"Salvatore," I said into the phone, every syllable dripping with cold fury. "Tell Harrington that if he sets foot near my city, I'll feed him to the harbor eels. And as for you... prepare the grand estate in Manchester-by-the-Sea. I'm bringing my family home."
***
