Dante pulled out the chair, the same one he'd sat in every night for over two decades, and sat down, staring at the empty plates, ones his father set out every night.
Just in case.
The man said nothing for a few minutes, eating in silence, meticulously cutting his steak into bite-size pieces and drinking copious amounts of red wine before he acknowledged Dante's presence again. "Are you happy?"
Dante wasn't sure how to answer that so he didn't, instead tossing it back at him. "Are you?"
"I will be," Primo said, "once I get what I want."
"What do you want? What are you looking for?"
"What belongs to me."
"And what's that?"
Primo turned his head, regarding Dante, scrutinizing him. After a moment, he turned away again, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip. "You always had too much heart, even as a little boy. Softhearted. I tried to pull that out of you. I tried to toughen you up. I thought I succeeded. Some days, I would look at you and see me, and I would be proud. But even now, looking at you, I still see those pieces of her that I failed to erase."
Dante's gaze shifted to the empty plate diagonal from him, where his mother used to sit. "Why?"
"She betrayed me," Primo said. "The GWB only leads one place."
New Jersey.
"She was acting strange, so I had her followed. I loved your mother, but I questioned if I could trust her. I found out she'd gone to Brazzi territory. I found out she was visiting Savina Barsanti behind my back. She thought crossing state lines would keep me from finding out. I confronted her, told her if she did it again, I wouldn't allow her to come back, and she had the audacity to tell me it didn't matter, that she was done being a Galante because she wasn't happy." He shook his head, looking at his son again. "So tell me, Dante, are you happy?"
He stared his father right in the eyes and said, "No."
Primo looked away, sipping his wine. "Guess it's true what they say… you can't fight your DNA."
Nine o'clock Sunday morning. A twelve-hour shift had turned into more like thirteen and a half.
To call Gabriella exhausted would've been offensively understating the fatigue she felt. Every inch of her, from the top of her frizzy head to the tip of her unpainted toes, was beat. Her eyes burned, her muscles ached, and her brain was seconds away from calling for a mental break. She wanted to soak in a hot bathtub, to soothe her body and unwind, but she was pretty sure if she tried she'd just fall asleep in the water and drown.
Sighing, she approached her apartment door, cursing the fact that she'd moved into a walk-up. Elevators are the true unsung heroes. Sticking her key in the lock, she twisted it, the knob turning smoothly. Unlocked.
Uh…
Pushing open the door, she stepped inside, so dead tired that self-preservation had vacated premises. If it was a home invader, she was screwed, because running down those stairs was out of the question.
The television in the living room played, some middle-aged blonde reporter on the screen.
"...that masked gunmen, one reportedly armed with a semi-automatic rifle, barged into the small neighborhood bar at around eight o'clock Saturday evening and opened fire on patrons inside..."
Gabriella's gaze shifted to her couch. Dante sat there, staring at the news, so still she'd think he were asleep if his eyes weren't open. Uh, catatonic, much?
"Did you break into the apartment? Again?"
Dante turned her way, looking about as fresh-faced as she felt. He obviously hadn't slept any of those hours she'd been gone. "I waited around, but you were late, and I kind of just wanted to sit down."
"It's okay," she said, shutting the door behind her. "Well, I mean, it's not really okay. It's kind of scary how easily you get in here. I'm seriously questioning the point of locks."
"They keep most people out," he said. "The ones who can get in, well, nothing short of pulling the trigger on your .22 will stop them."
"Good thing I know how to do that," she said, plopping down beside him on the couch. Kicking her shoes off, she lay back, throwing her legs across him, her feet in his lap.
He didn't flinch at all, yanking off her socks and tossing them aside, his nose twitching. "Your feet stink."