Watching the door to my father's office from my place in front of the wet bar, I wonder what my father has to talk to Leo about that is so important they had to have a meeting in the middle of Sal's wake. Business is never to be discussed during a wake, but that kind of respect is rarely reserved for rats like Sal. Nobody talks about it because Sal was a Capo and that would be disrespectful to him and his widow, Caterina, but the bullet-hole in the center of his throat tells everybody the truth: Sal talked.
The only access on the first floor to my father's office is through the game room, which is off the center hall and has limited visibility from the other rooms in the house. When my grandfather ran things, years back, he'd sealed off the entrance from the main hallway at the front of the house after some crazy teppista barged in on him. As my father tells the story, my grandfather had seen the guy coming from the bay window. Had the guy been a moment faster, it might have been grandfather with the bullet hole between the eyes. To this day, we don't know what the guy came here for. Now, my father likes a little more time to be able to react and has since sealed off that door.
Curiosity gets the best of me, so I set the cognac snifter down on the wet bar as quietly as possible and tip-toe toward the office door. Unlike some of the bosses whose homes I've been in over the years, my father doesn't have a camera on his office door. He refuses to be a prisoner in his own home, he's said. And thank God for it, too. I've spent hours of my life in front of that door, listening to conversations I never should have heard. I can't help myself; I just want to know what it was they all keep so secret.
I crouch down in the doorway to steady myself and press my torso as close to the locked door as I can without touching it.
"Such a pity, the thing about Sal," my father says casually. Leo agrees stiffly after a moment. "Relax, Leonardo. My house is your house, or at least, it might be one day." As I hear the words from my father's mouth, my stomach sinks. This is exactly what I’ve been afraid of. It’s not that my father hadn't chosen well, it’s that he’s chosen at all. Despite having known for years that my father would play a big part in my betrothal, I didn't realize that he would actually be the one making the choice until recently.
Headstrong and in denial, I always thought I had a say in the matter. I was so very wrong. I wipe the tears from my eyes and take in a shaky breath. Neither one of them has bothered to consult me in this little arrangement. This is obviously the only way I’ll find anything out about what they’ve planned for me.
"A man in my position, he looks for certain things in a family member. Do you know what I mean, Leo?" my father sounds like he’s smiling, something he doesn't do a lot of these days. I miss the sound of his voice when he’s smiling.
"Yes, Padrone," Leo says.
"Oh no," my father laughs lightly, "don't call me that. That's my father." Leo gives a choked laugh. "Are you nervous, Leo, because there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just Carlo and Leo, that's all." Leo laughs again, this time more relaxed.
"I'm just grateful for your consideration, sir."
"I see the way you look at Alex. That's what we're here to talk about, Leo. Today is not about business, it's about pleasure. I want my daughter taken care of, and I know you can do that. Especially with your own crew—" my father is cut off by Leo's stuttering.
"My own crew?" he asks. Carlo chuckles.
"Not today, son, but do you really think I'm going to let my little girl marry a Soldato?" They keep talking, but I can't hear any of it. The pounding in my heart drowns everything else out. The rhythmic thumping gets louder and louder until it makes my head swim. I blink, my vision blurry from the tears that come, forcibly streaming down my face and neck, wetting the collar of my cardigan. The game room feels like it’s getting smaller with every breath I take as a thick humidity settles in, making the tips of my ears and fingers red and hot to the touch. I realize after a moment that I’m sweating. I have to get out of there.
On shaky legs, I stand and tip-toe away from the door and out of the game room as silently as I came in. I round the corner down the center hallway and race for the stairs. At the top of the staircase on the second floor, I slam into something. For the first time since leaving the game room, I look up, and nearly fall backwards at what I see. It’s Caterina, Sal's wife.
"Alex," she says gently, reaching out a wrinkled hand and touching my cheek, wiping my tears away. "What's wrong, Miele?" I shake my head, not wanting to tell her. After everything, she’s still calling me ‘honey’. She’s mourning her husband—like I should be. Sal had been in the family since before I was born. Before everything went south, my father had me calling him Uncle Sal. The moment my father instructed me to just call him Sal I knew what was coming. We all did, but there was nothing we could do about it.