Giovanni (Benedetti Brothers 4)

“What is it? Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know, baby. There were some men here today.”

“Who? Is dad—”

“He’s fine,” she stops, corrects herself. “Same.” Because he’s not fine. “I tried to call you.”

“I didn’t have my phone. I’m sorry. Was it Alessandro?” To say his name makes me shudder. To think of him finding our father in the state he’s in terrifies me. It terrifies me more than him coming for me does.

“No. I don’t know who they were, but they’re gone now.”

“Did they hurt him?”

“No. He’s the same, honey. They didn’t touch him. But they know it’s him. I’m sure.”

“Okay. I’m heading out there right now. Sit tight.”

“No, baby girl. Don’t come here. If it’s your brother—”

“I’m not leaving you alone there. If it is Alessandro’s men, then he’s on his way too. I’m not leaving you unprotected.”

“Who will protect you?” Her tone is sharp.

“I’ll see you soon.”

The taxi pulls up a few blocks away from the old house, and I pay the driver. This is a quiet part of town on the outskirts of the city. Not much foot traffic here and fewer yellow cabs. I look around cautiously as I exit and go around the block, breaking into a jog and having to work hard not to sprint. I don’t want to attract attention to myself, although I know my secret is no longer safe. Someone’s found me out. I just have to hope it’s not Alessandro.

Who else would it be though?

Nan is waiting for me at the door. The lights downstairs are out except for the kitchen, which is around back. We go directly there. I take off my cap and the armband that holds my phone and set them both on the table.

“I made us some tea.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right there.” I take a look around the house, although I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find. It doesn’t look like anyone turned the place upside down, but there’s no reason to be here but to find him. And he can’t hide. He can barely move on his own.

The door to my father’s room is open a crack. The window shades are drawn and the lights from the machines cast a dim, unnatural glow over him. I push the door open, listen to the familiar squeak of the hinges, the low hum of the machines. I step inside, smile a bittersweet smile when I look at him, even though he can’t see me. He’s sound asleep. He’s always sound asleep. I tuck the blanket up a little closer, ignoring the tubes, pretending they’re not there at all, and lean down to kiss his forehead, then brush a few wisps of white hair back from his face. He looks so much older than he is. We just celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday. But for anyone who doesn’t know him, to look at him now you’d think a man of eighty lay in the bed.

I feel Nan enter behind me. She rubs my back and gestures for me to go with her. I do, and she closes the door behind us.

“He’s okay. I don’t think they even touched him,” she says. We speak in English, we always have, the breaks in her words are familiar and comforting. Nan has been in my life for as long as I can remember. She was our surrogate mother. She raised Alessandro and I, traveling with us between Mexico and the states. Nan only left when we were in our late teens and didn’t need watching. By then her daughter had had her own baby, and she’d come to New York City to help her. I don’t think she ever expected things to end up like this. My father helpless and in her care. My brother the one responsible.

The night of the shooting, I’d been home. I wasn’t supposed to be, and I am sure that’s what saved us both. Masked men broke into our house, killing most of the staff before going after my father. I’d been in the attic, looking for old birthday decorations to surprise him the following morning. I wasn’t expected until two days later, but I’d finished my work early. I’d decided to surprise my dad.

I remember the sound of gunfire, automatic weapons mowing down every man, woman, and child in the house, on the property. They even killed the unarmed women and the smallest children. No one thought to check the attic where I hid. Where, I’m ashamed to say, I cowered. But I had no weapon, and I too would have been killed if I’d come out of hiding.

I still don’t know if it was Alessandro himself who shot my father. I don’t know if it was him or his men. And although I had no doubt that Alessandro was behind the assassination, him telling me what he did, admitting that it was him before he did what he did to me, it made me hate him. I don’t think I did hate him until then.