yeah..." She opened her purse and dug around inside of it, whipping out a yellow card. "Actually, I've got a MetroCard, if that'll help?"
He hesitated, not because it wouldn’t help—it would—but because his pride was strong. So, so fucking strong. Asking for help was hard enough. Accepting it, taking it, almost proved to be too much. She seemed to get that, because she rolled her eyes, stepping toward him and forcing the card in his hand.
“Go home,” she said, her small hand on top of his, squeezing, forcing him to grip the card. “Or go to a friend’s. Go somewhere, anywhere, but don’t just hang around here."
“Tired of looking at me?” he asked.
She shook her head, letting go. “I just think maybe other people might be missing you, instead."
She headed into the hospital then, disappearing through the front entrance. Glancing down at the MetroCard, he set off toward the subway. She was wrong. They didn’t miss him. They missed who they thought he was.
They missed who they expected to come back.
An hour and a few connections later, Dante ended up standing on the lawn in front of the house he grew up in, north of the city, in Westchester County. Sweat pooled along his brow, beads of it running down the side of his face. He felt woozy, more exhausted than he’d ever been before. His legs weren’t what they used to be. His knees shook, wanting to give out on him as he stood there, taking it all in.
The house looked like home. It looked like his home. But it didn’t quite feel like home anymore.
Right out front, prominently parked, were two familiar cars: his black Mercedes, and behind it, Genna’s BMW. That twinge of hope flared deep in his bones but he pushed it back, knowing if he gave in to the sensation, it would only hurt worse. If anything, her car was confirmation of the truth. Like his mother’s belongings tucked away in the attic, their cars would’ve sat there forever, rusting away, collecting dust, tangible keepsakes their father clung to like maybe, if he kept it around, he could say he had a piece of them left.
Carefully, Dante approached the house, reaching for the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. It turned smoothly, his grip slipping a bit because of his sweaty palms. He pushed it open, stepping in the doorway, just as someone walked by. The familiar form skidded to a stop in the foyer, swinging around, on defense, a hand going straight for a waistband where Dante knew they kept their gun. It didn’t faze him, though, not in the least—not even when they drew their weapon and aimed it at his head.
“You shoot me, Bert, and I won’t be the only one who winds up dead,” Dante said, stepping into the foyer and closing the front door.
Before him stood Umberto Ricci, arguably one of Dante's closest friends, although he doubted how far that sentiment went now. Weeks in the hospital and Umberto hadn’t stopped by at all.
Not a peep from the guy.
Umberto lowered his gun, pointing it at the floor near his feet. “Dante?"
“Last I checked." Dante eyed him peculiarly. “You did know I was alive, right?"
“Yeah, uh… I mean… of course, yeah.” Umberto nodded, seeming to shake off the surprise as he tucked his gun away. “I knew you were alive, that you’d survived, but knowing is one thing… seeing you is completely different. Just… wow. You’re here. You’re… alive."
“Again, last I checked. What are you doing here?"
“I’ve just been helping your father out, keeping him company and all that."
“Is he home?"
“Your father?"
Dante nodded.
Who the hell else would he be talking about?
“Oh, yeah… he’s in his office.” Umberto motioned toward the office, like Dante wouldn’t remember where it was located. “He’s asleep, though… was up all night. Hell, he's up most nights. Didn't expect you home for a few more days. I can wake him…"
“Don’t bother,” Dante said, shrugging it off as he set his sights on the stairs. “I could use some sleep myself."
“Of course,” Umberto mumbled. “You, uh… sure."
Dante shot him a peculiar look. Nervous, he realized. Umberto was nervous. Genna used to call the guy a bumbling idiot, and he was certainly acting like one now.
Dante didn’t have it in him to deal with that, though. Shaking his head, he walked up the stairs, leaving his old friend alone in the foyer. He went straight to his old bedroom, looking around when he opened the door. It was spotless,