The Italian

How in the hell do you tell someone that their husband of forty years has died?

They loved each other… so much.

And my beautiful baby sister—the apple of her father’s eye.

The tears well again as I imagine her heart when I tell her he’s gone.

“Mr. Ferrara,” the nurse says softly.

I turn to her, dazed.

“Your grandfather has a visitor. He said he needs to see him as a matter of life and death.”

I frown. “Who is it?”

“He said he is your father’s best friend. His name is Marcello. He happens to be in Rome by chance.”

I stand. “Yes, of course. Let him in.”

She goes outside and returns with the man following her, and my face falls.

“Hello, Enrico.”

I frown.

He bends, kisses my grandfather on each cheek, and he begins to cry.

“Stefano. Stefano, no, no. You fight, do you hear me? You fight. We need you,” he whispers. He drops to his knees and begins to pray.

I watch him as the tectonic plates in my entire existence begin to shift.

I know who he is.

Every policeman in Italy knows who he is.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Marcello Baroni is a hitman—the darkest of dark criminals.

“How do you know my grandfather?” I ask.

His eyes rise to meet mine. “He’s my boss, Enrico.” Our eyes are locked. “He’s the boss.”

“Liar,” I whisper. “Get out. Get out.” I walk to the door and open it in a rush to see the ICU waiting room full of men in suits. My eyes roam to them, every one a familiar face.

Criminals.

The worst kind.

The ones you read about in history books.

Some are on their knees praying, while some are gripping rosary beads… but they’re all crying.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I murmur.

Beeeeep.

I turn in a rush to see the heart rate monitor alarm going off. Nurses rush in from every direction.