"I'll get you some more," he says, reaching for the empty plate, but I snatch it up before he can.

I motion toward his chair. "Come on, relax... keep me company."

He plops back into the chair, relaxing back in it as I eat. He laces his hands together behind his head, watching me and whistling.

"Were you being serious?" he asks out of the blue.

"About Naz not being a bad man? Absolutely."

"No, I know you're full of shit about that. But earlier, when you showed up, you said you were having a baby."

"Oh. Uh… yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He stares at me some more, his expression blank. I'm not sure how he feels about what I'm telling him.

A baby.

His grandchild.

"You know yet what it is?"

I shake my head. "Still too early."

"You know what you want?"

"Doesn't matter as long as it's healthy."

He laughs, his expression softening. "That's what they all say, but me? I wanted a boy. No question about it. A son. Someone to carry on the Vitale name, to make us all proud."

"You got what you wanted."

"Yeah, well, the jury's still out about that."

"You should be proud of him," I say. "He's made some mistakes… okay, he's made a lot of them… but he's strong, you know... he's tenacious. He's a survivor. And one of the greatest things about him is he's a man of his word. If he says he's going to do something, he does it. He's never broken a promise to me."

"You just need to give him time."

"And you need to give him a chance," I counter. "You shouldn't hold his mistakes against him forever. It does neither of you any good."

"That's nice of you," he says, "standing up for him like that, but Ignazio would be the first one to say that he doesn't need you to stand up for him. He knows what kind of man he is."

"Yeah, a stubborn man, just like his father."

I don't think he finds that amusing, but he doesn't lash out. He rocks his chair back on its hind legs, regarding me peculiarly. "You remind me of someone."

"My mother."

"No, you look like your mother," he says, "but you remind me of my wife."

Whoa.

"She used to tell me that all the time," he continues. "She was optimistic, always saw the best in that boy. Didn't matter what he did, she never lost hope in him."

"Smart woman."

"So, where is he?" he asks. "Waiting out in the car?"

"He had something important to take care of."

"Of course he did."

"Don't worry, though," I say, "he'll come back. He always does."

C ars surround the brick mansion in Long Island, a sea of black sedans with darkly tinted windows. It's rare seeing so many together in one place at one time. Usually, when that happens, it means someone's in serious trouble.

Today's no exception.

There's going to be hell to pay.

"You sure you know what you're doing?"

Lorenzo stands behind me, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans with a plain white t-shirt. He asks that like he's curious about the answer, like he's actually worried about anybody but himself.

"Don't I always?"

"Not sure," Lorenzo says. "Heard your wife once poisoned you. That true?"

"Not at all."

"Really?"

"I was drugged, not poisoned," I tell him, "and besides, she wasn't my wife back then."

"Ah, that's just the fine print," he says. "Song remains the same, my friend."

My eyes scan the house for a moment before something strikes me. I turn around, looking at him. "How'd you know about that?"

He raises his eyebrows, surprised by my question. "What?"

"I never told anybody she drugged me," I say. "How'd you know?"

He stares at me.

He's thinking about how to answer.

That tells me I'm not going to like whatever he has to say.

There are only so many people who were aware of what happened, and I'm not sure any of them would run their mouths to him.

Hell, most of them haven't lived long enough to get the chance to do it.

"My brother heard it from his girlfriend. Guess your wife told her about it."

"I don't believe you."

Karissa told nobody about drugging me.

Nobody except for her parents…

He tries to keep a straight face but it doesn't happen. Cracking a smile, he shakes his head. "Yeah, you probably shouldn't. Truthfully, Ignazio? I heard it from Carmela."

That answer surprises me, although I refuse to let it show. "Carmela."

"Yeah, seems she got desperate. This was back before you killed her, of course."

"Of course."

"Guess she didn't get the memo all those years ago about what happened… guess she didn't know you killed my stepfather because of what he did to me."

I cut in. "I killed him because he crossed me."

"You can say that all you want, Ignazio," he says, "but you'll never convince me it wasn't because of what he did to my face."

I say nothing.

He's partially right.

The man would've eventually killed Lorenzo if he hadn't died himself. To spare his little brother, Lorenzo willingly took the brunt of the abuse. He'd put herself right in harm's way, no matter the consequences. I respected that about Lorenzo.

"Anyway, so Carmela sought my stepfather out, looking for help. She found me, though, told me all about everything. Told me you were still at it, hunting them. Told me you'd killed Johnny and that she was next. That's when I decided it was time to finally make my way to New York."

I do the math in my head. "You've been in New York that long?"

"On and off," he says. "Wasn't until after you decided to take Ray out that I saw my opening."

"I didn't decide anything. It was self-defense."

"Isn't it always? When it comes down to it, it's always either you or them."

He's got a point there, although I'm not going to admit that. I'm not giving him any more credit than I have to. If any more ego squeezes into the narcissistic brain of his, nobody will be safe.

"Almost two years," I say, "and you wait until now to say hello?"

"Eh, what can I say? I wasn't sure what to make of you. The man Carmela spoke of sounded a hell of a lot like the friend I remembered, the one who saved my ass, but the guy I saw when I got here? He was different. So I kept my distance, because quite frankly, I was trying to decide what to do about it."

"I'm assuming you've decided."

"We're here right now, aren't we? Besides, it would've been a pity to have to kill you."

"You really think you could've?"

"Maybe," he says, casually shrugging a shoulder. "Glad we didn't have to find out."

The conversation is over at that.

I glance at my watch. A few minutes before noon. I'm standing here in broad day, wearing my favorite suit. The sun is shining, but it's doing nothing to provide warmth. It won't be long now until winter is upon us, blanketing New York with snow.