"Go upstairs and shower, change your clothes, pull yourself together," Primo ordered. "Come back down when you're ready to play your part."
Dante moved past him. "Yes, sir."
Eyes trailed him inside, following him as he made his way upstairs. He went straight to his room, seeing everything as he'd left it.
He took twenty minutes, showering and shaving, before dressing in the best suit in his closet. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection as he knotted the blue tie, straightening it. Noise filtered up the stairs from the floor below, rambunctious chatter and drunken laughter, music melding with it. Classical. It was a five-star black-tie event for the scum of the earth. Myself, included. He had more blood on his hands than some of those men.
Heading out, he paused in the dark hallway, curious when he noticed his sister's bedroom door cracked open. Stepping across the hall, he pushed on it, shock running through him.
Empty.
Everything was gone. Everything. No belongings. No furniture. Nothing. The room had been stripped, scrubbed and sanitized, like it wasn't enough that they'd erased her name from their vocabulary—they needed to wipe her DNA from inside the house, too.
Gone.
Dante made his way downstairs then, knowing the longer he lingered upstairs, the longer he dwelled, the worse the night would get. Eyes trailed him through the foyer as he headed to his father's office, where he knew the man would be.
Primo looked up, a smile lighting his face, like he appreciated the obedience, considering Dante had done what the man demanded. "Son, come in, have a seat! We were just talking about you."
Dante stepped into the room. "Oh?"
"I was telling them how you've been on a bit of a sabbatical," Primo said. "You've had a tough year."
"I have," Dante agreed.
"But it was a well-deserved break, I'd say. You earned it. You protected the family. You fought for us in the trenches. You even killed the Barsanti kid. That, alone, earned you one hell of a vacation."
Primo grinned, and others laughed, while Dante's stomach clenched. He felt sick. He looked away from his father, catching sight of Umberto standing off to the side. He wasn't laughing, his gaze on the floor. He'd been there that day, when Dante pulled the trigger. A knee-jerk reaction, a split second decision. Enzo had pointed a gun at him, and Dante panicked out of fear.
He'd fired once.
Just once.
He took a life with a single bullet.
"But it's good to have you back now," his father continued. "Good to have you all refreshed. You feeling better?"
"Of course." Dante turned back to him. "More than happy to be here."
The conversation shifted off of him then. Dante was grateful. He sat there as they chatted, gossiping, talking business and making plans. Card games. Strip clubs. Doubling up on bookies. They were pushing harder into Little Italy, most of the neighborhood under their thumb, the way they told it, although Dante doubted it. He'd seen Barsanti guys on those streets, watching them from the windows in Gabriella's apartment.
They stood on the corners.
They went inside the buildings.
They still considered it open territory.
Dante stood after a while to roam the room, pausing beside Umberto. He poured a bunch of whiskey in a glass before leaning back against the bar.
"You lie to him so easily," Umberto said.
"I'm not lying to him." Dante took a drink of the warm liquor and shuddered at the burn. "He knows the truth. I'm just saying what he wants me to say. He wants them all to believe everything is normal, so for tonight, I'm the perfect son."
"What happens after tonight? After the party's over?"
Dante gulped down the rest of the liquor before pouring more. "I guess he gets rid of all of my shit, too."
Dante walked away, leaving the office, strolling through the downstairs. Mingling. He fucking mingled. Smile plastered to his face, alcohol buzzing through his veins, he played the role he'd been dragged there to play, a role worthy of an Oscar. Yep, I survived. Nope, I don't blame my father. You're absolutely right; we can't grieve for a traitor. Hours passed in a haze, as he drank and mingled. He drank so much his vision grew blurry, and he mingled to the point that he was tired of hearing his own voice.
He returned to the office eventually, the room cleared out as people made their way through the house, a card game going on in the dining room, others in the den with cigars. It