the house. “It was a long-standing tradition when my mom was alive—she was the culinary master in our family—and I think we all want to see it continue… you know, to honor her.”
We sit and stare ahead like we’re waiting at a red light.
“Part of me wants to kill your father,” she says, “and the other part wants his acceptance.” I break my lock on the house and turn to Melody. She continues, “This whole thing is a ridiculous long shot, and were I not at the end of the line with this life and the way I have to live it, I’d have never taken the risk. It wasn’t that big of a deal a few days ago, when I had nothing left inside of me. Problem is, now I want to survive—to be with you longer.” She drops her head, looks at her lap. “I’m resting my hopes on two things, the first being that you’ve really thought this out and that you understand your family better than I ever could.”
I wait, but no part two. “The other?”
“I’m assuming somewhere inside your dad is a good and decent man, like you suggested.” She looks at me again. “He raised you, after all.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. I respond with a smile. “I’m sure he would’ve done anything to protect you over the years.”
My smile vanishes; my father may have helped raise me, but he also raised Peter. And the good and decent man hasn’t come around in a while, been kept under submission by a life no longer tempered by the warmth of a woman.
Then Melody adds this: “I’m sure your father would have left the world of crime if he’d needed to for one of his sons, right?”
My eyes fall and land on the dashboard, though I’m seeing nothing but memories of my mother begging him to break free in the desperate and broken days after her attack by Morrison. I was there when she said it, pleaded for it. I was there when my father said, “Anything for you,” and I was there a week later when he told Tommy Fingers, “You put two in Agata’s head, and I mean today,” and then a month later when he told my brother Gino that “the hole left by the Cuccis means we’ll be picking up a big chunk of business.” (My father became obsessed with taking over the Cucci turf and eventually won the Cucci Coup). Soon after, I witnessed my mother’s reluctant acceptance of my father’s offerings—jewelry, expensive clothing, and cars—to appease her, offset the crimes set against her. The more she longed for him to abandon this life that was riddled with risk, where no one was safe, the more money he dropped on her. And now I realize why my throwing bills around with Melody bothered me so. What was it I was offsetting? Was I merely paying in advance for an upcoming crime? Who exactly had I become?
I can’t lift my eyes, neither to her face nor the house. “My family has never been very comfortable with the notion of sacrifice,” I say. Then, all at once: I see our odds dwindle, our horse fade as it rounds the last turn. But I’m not giving up, not letting Melody down. I’m not tearing up that ticket yet. I turn off the ignition and grab the keys and pop my door open. “Let’s do this.”
Just before my door closes, I hear Melody say, “Wait, I—” As I walk around to her side of the car, she flips down the visor and checks her lips and face and hair, spits out her gum into a wrapper, takes a deep breath and forces it out in a blast.
Melody takes my hand as soon as she gets out. Her hand is cold and wet, trembles a little. I hold it firmly as I take broad steps to the front of our house. She walks behind me but speeds up to get to my side. We walk the long brick path covered in debris from months past, each step a crunch of leaves and twigs.
Melody whispers so softly I’m not certain the words are for me: “Are you sure?”
I just keep walking, hold her hand like a child’s while crossing through a bad part of town, my eyes leveled at the front door like I’m looking down the barrel of a gun.
“Are you sure?”
We’re within a few steps of the entrance, greeted by the enormous