"But something changed. I don't know when, or why, but we lost it. Respect turned to suspicion, and eventually, we cared about territory more than anything. So your father attacked, and I retaliated. Figured that would be the end of that, but Primo, ah… he doesn't know when to let things go."
"You killed his son."
"And you killed mine," Barsanti said, a hard edge to his voice, as he pointed at Dante with his glass. "You can be angry, and you can hate me, but don't be a hypocrite."
"What happened to Enzo wasn't intentional."
"You aimed your gun at him and pulled the trigger. It doesn't get much more deliberate."
"Then why let me live?"
Barsanti swallowed his Scotch before setting the glass down. "Because I stood along that street in Little Italy as my son's car burned, and I realized that nothing I could do to your family would ever be as bad as what Primo did. We want revenge for losing our children. Believe me, I'd love nothing more than to see you dead for what you've done. But Primo's got no one to blame for his loss now except himself."
Barsanti let out a sharp laugh, a bitter edge to it. "You Galantes and your unintentional excuses. Your father used a bomb. A bomb. He had every intention of letting that bomb go off, regardless of who got caught in the blast."
"He wouldn't have—"
"Your sister had enough time to get there," Barsanti said, cutting him off. "Your father knew where she was going, so why did it still happen? Why didn't he stop it?"
"Why didn't you?" Dante asked. "I remember the night my brother died. Your people were lurking. They knew kids were there. So why'd you still let that bomb go off? Didn't you care who got caught in the blast?"
Barsanti was quiet for a moment before saying, "No."
"No?"
"No, I didn't care."
"You're sick."
"Maybe I am," he said, "but at least I'm honest about it."
Rage simmered in Dante's bloodstream. He felt himself shaking. Despicable son of a bitch. Clenching his hands into fists, he turned away, knowing if he didn't get out of there, he'd likely do something that would get him killed.
"To answer your question," Barsanti called after him. "I let you live—not for him, not even for you—I did it for myself. I've lost my children, and I could blame your father, I could blame you, but the fact is, I brought this on them. I did. It was my job to protect them, and I failed. So I let you live, because I'd murdered a son once and look what that got me. I didn't want to murder another. It wasn't worth it."
Dante walked through the bar, heading for the exit. He'd damn near made it when someone stepped right into his path, blocking him. Dante's muscles coiled at the familiar faces.
The Civello brothers.
Spineless motherfuckers.
That rage he'd tried to quell boiled over, flowing out of him, prickling his skin. He stepped forward, not stopping, bumping right into one of them. Dante looked the guy dead in the eyes. If they expected him to cower, they'd be disappointed.
"Move," Dante said, "or I'll move you myself."
"I'd like to see you try."
Dante shoved against him, knocking him back a few steps, right into his brother. Before the guy could try to come at him, Dante took another step forward, toe-to-toe again. "If you think I'm afraid of you, you're wrong. You're nobody. You're nothing. You might've got one over on me before but never again. Next time you get in my way, you'll be cut down. Permanently."
"Ohh, strong words from such a weak little boy that couldn't even protect his baby sister."
Dante didn't think. He didn't care. Those words hit him and he swung. His fist collided with a jaw, knocking the guy back, making him lose his footing.
At once, people swarmed them.
Hands grabbed Dante, yanking him back as others threw punches. Pain tore through him, rippling down his spine when he was thrown into a nearby wall. He gasped as the air was forced from his lungs, a fist slamming into his gut, over and over. Dante fought back, blindly swinging, a blur of bodies surrounding him, attacking.
The Civello boy got up from the ground, reaching into his pocket. Dante spotted the knife in his hand as he flipped it open, coming at him. Before he could defend himself, the door to the