A heavy sigh. “I warned her not to press you.”
“If only she’d listened.”
It isn’t far to my father’s home, a little less than two miles. I would prefer to walk or at the very least drive myself but safety first, always. The worst thing to get is complacent.
I unlock the door to Pop’s house. I had to sell the house I grew up in when Pop went to prison. The cash was needed to pay off lawyers and have something in the bank. Neither one of us were all that sad about it, it wasn’t the happiest of homes. Now Pop lives in the home he grew up in. This place, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to sell, as the memories were far better here. To me this was home, where I preferred to be when I was growing up. Closing the door, I make sure to lock it and reset the alarm before following the blues music into the kitchen.
Pop is casual already. His vest, tie, and jacket are off, which means he’s done with work for the day. He goes into his bookie business at eight to go over the previous night and coming day’s take. By ten he heads upstairs to his bookstore and opens it up for the day. By one he leaves his long-time assistant in charge while he comes home and we eat together. Usually Pop cooks for us, sometimes he orders in.
After we eat, sometimes he goes back to work. In the last five years two days out of the week he went and spent time with Alicia, my cousin Cesare’s wife in the suburbs. My cousins, Cesare, Enzo, and Dante, and their wives have taken on Pop as Nonno, grandfather, to their kids, filling the role their own father couldn’t on account of he killed their mother, then himself. I still remember the day Pop told me about Cesare teaching Matteo how to say Nonno when talking to Pop. He was on cloud nine for weeks.
“Too bad about Se
rena, I hear she was beautiful.” Pop greets me with a nod.
“I got people calling you now? She’s still packing up her shit.”
He laughs as he hands me a steaming hot espresso shot. He has to press it in my hand, I’m eyeing him warily. “You’re late. You’re never late unless it’s business or a woman. You would have called if it was business, and she’s running up on her expiration date.” Pop chuckles. “I made a frittata today, goat cheese, spinach, and pancetta.”
“Sounds good, I’m starving.” Sitting down at the table in the large eat-in kitchen, I study his notes on outstanding issues to discuss that could be a problem. We only discuss business here or in my office at home. Both mine and Pop’s place are swept every day to make sure there are no listening devices, and there’s a lovely little box from Diego Valdez that emits a high-pitched noise we don’t hear that renders any listening device crap.
There is only one thing on the list for today: Johnny Conti. Fuck. Johnny Conti heads our family here in Chicago, even though he’s been living in New York for the last two years due to going through lung cancer treatment and his mother living in Staten Island with his sister. Conti isn’t bad, there have been worse Dons, although he can be a pain in the ass.
A plate is set in front of me, a triangle of frittata, fresh sliced tomatoes and home-baked bread softer than the warm butter on the table. “Looks good, thanks. Johnny?”
Shaking his head, “Let’s eat first, enjoy your meal before the acid starts rolling in.”
Fuck, I don’t like the sound of that. I let it go, though—he won’t discuss it until he’s ready. “What are you doing today? Heading over to hang out with Alicia and the kids?”
“No, I’m going over to Enzo’s. Going to make some pasta for him so he can do the cooking for Allegra’s birthday tomorrow. You get the baby a gift like I told you?”
I give him a look. He knows me better. I don’t shop. I pull out some cash and hand it over.
“You’re getting her a baby doll for her to practice on before she gets a new little brother or sister. Enzo told me Chloe said no gifts because Allegra already has plenty. But I checked, she doesn’t have any baby dolls. Enzo said Chloe doesn’t want to shove dolls and girly stuff on Allegra. What the fuck with all this PC shit? You can’t give a kid a doll? What are they supposed to play with?”
“So you’re going to get her five?”
His blue eyes glitter with humor. “Just two, one from me and one from you. Bought them yesterday. Carmella wrapped them up already.”
“Where is Carmella?” Carmella is my father’s housekeeper, she’s usually here. By around now she’ll stop for her lunch and have coffee with us as she tells me everything I’m doing wrong. She’s worked for Pop for almost fifteen years now. I like her so I let her think I’m listening.
“Her granddaughter is sick so she’s home watching her today. You really never going to give me grandkids?”
“You got grandkids coming out your ears. I don’t need to give you any.” I also don’t say what I did more than a decade ago. There would be no kids for me. I want the Sabatini line in the Outfit to die with me. I don’t resent my life or the things I’ve done, none of it. At the same time, I don’t want my kids to be forced into this life. If they’re male, the expectation is they would become a member and if they didn’t, it would cause problems.
Another sigh. “I guess I’m okay with no grandkids. I do worry about you not finding someone. Don’t you want what your cousins have? Ever since they got married and settled down, they’re fucking glowing they’re so happy. You’re going to be forty in a few months. Johnny tells me I failed you as your father.”
Fuck that. “This has been settled. I made too many concessions to get approval on it. I’m not going to throw it away now.” It isn’t normal to be my age and as high as I am in the Outfit and not be married. Preferably to a woman from another member of the family. “Hell, no, I don’t want what my cousins have.” I shake my head, inside I shudder at the idea. “All that angst, no. I’ll pass.”
“It’s not all angst,” he argues.
“Like you and Mom?” It’s a low blow. Pop winces—their marriage was shit. Pop refuses to badmouth my mother, though. As a Sabatini, his vow of honoring her as his wife held even after her death. I respect him for it but she was a greedy, conniving bitch. I’m also tired of Pop bringing this up.
“Or you and what’s that chick’s name you’re still mooning over, Christy?” I know the chick took off because she didn’t want to be with a mob guy.
It’s been almost five years, and as far as I know there hasn’t been another woman since. Which isn’t Pop at all. Pop loves women. Not just loves to fuck—Pop adores women in a way I can’t comprehend. I blame it on his love of eighteenth-century writers and his mother as a cross between Joan of Arc and the Madonna. Ever since the woman walked out, he hasn’t been quite as lyrical.
“Pop, enough. It’s not happening.” I don’t want to argue with him, it’s not something we do often. “What about Johnny Conti?”