dozen men sitting inside, drinking Scotch as they discussed business. Typical Saturday.
Strolling to the office, Dante paused in the doorway, scanning the men inside. The usual suspects: underboss, consigliere, along with a couple capos… the administration and a few of the supervisors, so to speak. They set the rules the rest of the family had to follow.
It only took them a few seconds to notice him, based on the shift in their demeanor, conversation dwindling, but it took a lot longer for any of them to acknowledge his presence. Primo regarded him with a cautious eye. "Son."
"Sir."
"You heading out tonight?"
"That's the plan."
"Where are you off to?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"On whether you've got any work you need me to do."
His father stared at him when he said that, stared at him as if he'd spoken in another language, like he just couldn't comprehend those words. Lifting a hand, he motioned toward the other men. "My son and I need a moment alone."
The others vacated, not a single one greeting Dante as they passed him. Suspicion clogged the air like smoke. Dante felt it in every breath, infecting his lungs and tightening his chest. They didn't know what to make of the kid who came back from the dead. They looked at him like they'd once looked at Matteo Barsanti—like he was a ghost.
"Shut the door," his father said after everyone cleared out. "Take a seat."
Dante shut the door behind him but made no move to sit down.
The man swirled his glass around, waiting, before he said it again. "Take a seat."
It was an order. He wouldn't tell him again. The man rarely repeated himself. Getting a third chance was unheard of, even for his own kid.
Dante's steps were slow as he approached, sitting in the first chair he came to, perching on the edge of it, not letting himself get comfortable.
"Heard about your incident the other night," Primo said.
"I'm sure you did."
"I want to know what you were thinking," he continued, "why you thought going there was a good idea. I want to know what you expected to happen when they saw you. You just got out of the hospital! You almost died. I thought I lost you! Do you know what that did to me? Losing you to them after I'd already lost Joey? And you just… go there again. Willingly. For no reason."
Dante listened to his father's rant, the words going right through him, not stirring up the remorse Primo sought. If anything, it touched a nerve. A bad one.
"I need you to use your head. I need you to start thinking again. I can't lose you when I just got you back. Do you know what that would do to me? It would kill me!"
I… I… I…
Me… Me…
Why did he always make it about him?
Dante almost asked that, but instead he merely said, "Yes, sir."
Primo regarded him, that suspicion still weighing down the air. He knew something was off about Dante, that much was clear. Dante expected him to press for some sort of explanation, but he merely sighed, drinking his Scotch.
Nobody said anything else.
Eventually, Dante stood and headed for the door. His father wasn't treating him like he treated the Galante soldiers. They'd sit there all night in strained silence if he waited for a dismissal, because it wasn't business at that moment. It felt personal.
Was that how Genna had felt? Always on the outskirts, never allowed inside.
It was a helpless feeling.
Dante didn't do helpless.
He pulled the door open to leave when Primo's voice cut through the room. "I've got some guys down in Little Italy that owe money, if you're up for it."
Dante nodded. "I can take care of that."
"Good." Primo waved him away. "Take Umberto with you. He knows who they are."
Dante stepped out into the foyer, where Umberto lurked. He grinned at Dante, like a kid on restriction that finally had permission to play again. "So, where are we going?"
"To Hell," Dante muttered, pulling his keys from his pocket. "Otherwise known as ground zero."
"Little Italy," Umberto said. "Got it."
The drive took over an hour. Umberto yammered on and on, filling Dante in on every excruciating detail of what had gone down in his absence, noticeably skipping over anything having to do with Genna.
It was like she'd never existed.
Strange, Dante thought, since Umberto used to have a problem keeping Genna's name out of his mouth. All day, every day: Genevieve this, Genevieve that. His crush on her had been damn near intolerable.