I told him I wanted Johnny.

He refused my request.

I realized, quickly, that there were no friends in this business.

So I killed Accardi for it… among other things.

A sense of betrayal carves into me as I stand there, stewing on the memory. It slices me apart like my father slices those damn tomatoes. "You should've convinced him to turn himself in."

"Like that would've ever worked."

"You never know."

He stops what he's doing. "Tell me something, Ignazio… are you going to turn yourself in? Johnny killed one person in his entire life. One."

"It was my wife! And our baby… he killed our child!"

He looks at me. "Two, then. And I get it. It wasn't right. But how many people have you killed? How many lives have you ruined? How many families have you torn apart? I'm venturing to guess it's a lot more than him."

"But this was my life he ruined. My life he tore apart!"

"He killed your family, and that's unforgivable, but your life, Ignazio? You ruined that yourself. You ruined it by doing exactly what I hoped you wouldn't do. I told him to run, and he listened, because it was the only way to save his family. So I'm telling you the same thing… you in something you can't get out of? Run."

My head hurts.

It really fucking hurts.

I don't even know what to say anymore.

"It didn't work for him. What makes you think it would work for me?"

"It probably won't," he says. "But it gave him quite a few years, didn't it?"

I shake my head—not that I'm disagreeing, because running did give him almost two decades, but because I can't believe what he's saying. I came here for… hell, I don't know, but it wasn't for this conversation.

"I'm not a coward," I say. "I don't run."

"Then walk."

I laugh, despite the seriousness of his voice. This conversation? It's not funny. It's downright ridiculous. But that? That was funny. "How is that any different?"

"It's not," he says, "but walking away doesn't make you a coward. It makes you smart. You keep it up, you're going to die, and she might die, too. You leave, you'll still die… someday. But it probably won't be as soon. That's reality… the reality you created."

I think I've had about enough of this back-and-forth.

"Well, it's nice to know where you stand," I say. "I should probably be going."

"You should," he agrees.

There are no goodbyes, no see you laters, nothing but the sound of his knife hitting the cutting board as I turn around and walk out. It's a cool morning, like fall might finally be upon us, although the sun is shining bright. Karissa's probably up by now, probably wondering where I ran off to while she was asleep.

Being lectured by my father is probably the last thing she'd suspect.

* * *

For the second time in such a short amount of time, I find myself at this place, this old brick mansion over in Long Island, once more uneasy about it. When did I become this person? What turned me into this kind of man?

The kind of man who is hesitant to knock on a door.

This isn't me.

I step up on the porch, giving a brief glance around the quiet neighborhood.

Steeling myself, I knock.

The door is opened almost at once, a young guy appearing. He's big, somewhat muscular, and ugly to boot. A street soldier, I'm guessing. I was that kid once. I remember hanging around Ray's house, running errands, answering doors.

"I need to talk to Genova."

The kid says nothing, merely nodding before shutting the door again. I stare at it, my eyes scanning the chipped white paint of the wood as I wait.

A minute later, the door opens again.

This time Genova himself greets me.

"Vitale," he says, his voice hesitant. It's still so early he's wearing what I suppose are his pajamas, but it looks more like something Hugh Hefner might lounge around in—white undershirt, silk pants, and matching robe. He's even barefoot. I caught him before he was ready for company. "Nice of you to drop by… unexpected, but still… nice. What can I do for you?"

His voice tells me my dropping by unannounced is anything but nice, but he's tolerating it, like I figured he would, because his curiosity is piqued. "I was hoping you could spare a few minutes to talk."

"About?"

"Things."

I don't have to elaborate.

Not right here, anyway.

He knows things are the kind of things we don't talk about in public, so he doesn't have much choice but to invite me in. Stepping aside, he wordlessly motions his head for me to come in. The sound of some type of Italian opera music wafts through the downstairs as I follow him not to the room we met in days ago, but instead to a small den on the same floor. It's the source of the music... it's much louder in here. Genova turns it down a bit before taking a seat in a black leather chair.

"Join me," he says, motioning to another chair a few feet across from him. Join. There's that word from him again. "Tell me what kind of things you want to talk about this morning."

"My father has a deli," I tell him. "It's over in Hell's Kitchen."

His expression lights up. "Oh, of course! I know all about Vitale's. Best mozzarella I've ever tasted. Great place."

"Yeah, well, the other day we had an incident there."

All at once, his expression shifts. "What kind of incident?"

"Somebody shot up the place."

"Ah."

Ah. That's all he says. That's his only reaction.

"I talked to some people who steered me in the direction of a guy they thought was capable of doing it, so I confronted him—"

"You confronted him."

He sounds almost alarmed by that word.

"He's still alive," I elaborate, not wanting him to think I'm in any way back in or wanting to play his game. "But after our little confrontation, I had another encounter... this time with the guy you call Scar."

I stare at him when I say that, hoping to riddle out his reaction, but his expression stays blank. No surprise. No fear. No intrigue. Nothing.

"What kind of encounter are we talking here?"

"Just more or less an introduction."

Or rather, a reintroduction, but I leave that part off.

I'm not ready to give away all of my cards.

"First impression?"

First impression? Same one I got so many years ago. "Curious."

"Curious," he echoes, reaching into a humidor on a table beside him, pulling out a cigar. It's long, deep tan in color, with a brown label. Cubans, I'm guessing. He wordlessly offers me one but I wave him off, declining. He lights his, taking a deep puff before continuing. "He's not going to be a problem, is he?"

Maybe.

"For me? Not at all."

"And for the rest of us?"

Knowing Lorenzo like I think I do? The rest of them are screwed. It all depends, though… depends on what I do about him. Depends on how hard he makes life for me.

"Hard to say," I reply. "He's determined; I'll give him that."