Page 35 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

As I make my way to Dad’s office, I find myself smiling despite the tension of the day. Her ideas about Dad’s worry linger in my mind, painting a picture of a man anxiously pacing, sleepless with concern. It’s a comforting image, one that Ida has always been skilled at creating.

As I walk through the familiar hallway, memories flood back: Running through these corridors as a child. The soothing sound of Dad’s voice echoing off the walls as he carried on endless meetings with clients. The smell of his cigars always lingering in the background, even though he knew I hated it.

I remember how he would drop in unannounced during painful physiotherapy sessions, through my tough and dreaded Taekwondo lessons, and as I fumbled through violin class. He’d show up every time I felt like quitting, and suddenly, I’d want to try a little harder and be a little better for him.

I pass by the library, my only sanctuary, where I spent countless hours lost in books, escaping into worlds that both mirrored and were far removed from my own pain and isolation. The musty smell of old books wafts out as I pass, comforting and familiar.

When I reach his office, I pause, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open. Dad looks up from his desk. His receding hair, mostly faded with age to a cross between ginger and mousy brown, catches the light from the window. His hazel eyes light up as they take me in and the corner of his lips quirk up in a ghost of a smile as his gaze rakes over me.

Dad has never had an issue with my choice of baggy clothes. Quite the opposite, he seems to like it. Actually, there isn’t any one of my choices he’s kicked against—except for Chicago and the knowledge that I’d been secretly dating a bad boy. That seemed to torture him to no end.

Despite working from home, he dresses the same way on weekdays: an expensive tailored shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a waistcoat that masks a growing paunch. There’s a half-smoked cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the air.

“Adele,” he says blandly. “Took you long enough.”

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart races. “I didn’t want to come at all, so don’t push me, Daddy.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Alright. Maybe what I should say is that I’m glad you’ve come home.”

We remain silent for a beat, simply staring at each other. I get the urge to go and throw my arms around him, a move he never returns but still makes him flush with pleasure. We both need it, but I stamp it out, fully resolved not to forgive him too easily.

He gestures to the seat opposite him. “Why don’t you sit down?”

I remain standing, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “I’m good here. You said you wanted to explain. So explain.”

He sighs and gestures to the seat again. “Please, Adele, sit. This could take a while, and I want you to be comfortable.”

Reluctantly, I sink into the chair, the leather cool and firm against my skin. I watch him as he relights his cigar, his movements slow and deliberate. Instantly, the pungent scent wafts through the air, a contrast to the complex aroma of pine and fruit when Dante smoked three weeks ago. I’d tasted it on him too. Sniffed it on my hair that night and remembered it every night after as I laid awake in bed, craving the impossible.

Pulling my thoughts from that dangerous path, my eyes scan the bright, airy room.

Multiple monitors take up an entire wall, displaying stock tickers and financial news, while leather-bound books and awards line the shelves on the opposite side. I used to love this room. The very few times Dad allowed me to come in, sit on his desk, and tell him about something I’d read. Now, it feels like a cage.

“Adele, I know you’re upset with me. And you have every right to be,” he begins, his voice soft. “I want to explain everything to you, but first, I need you to listen with an open mind.”

“Why do you do it, Daddy?” I ask quietly, my fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the armrest. “All those years, I thought you, this . . .” I throw my arms out, gesturing to the room, “was all legitimate.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Legitimate is a subjective term.”

I feel a rush of irritation, my jaw clenching. “Oh, come now. You and I know where the law stands. What you’re doing is a crime, punishable by law.”

“It depends on who’s making the law,” he counters. As he leans back on his seat and takes several puffs of his cigar, his eyes begin losing their softness.

My voice rises slightly, betraying my frustration. “There’s only one entity capable of making laws, Daddy. One government. One moral code.”

“Yes, I know I’ve brought you up to think like that. But now I’m telling you, it’s not true. There’s more than one—”

“Let me stop you there, Daddy.” I put my palm up to interrupt him. “It wasn’t you who taught me to think that way. That is how the world works.”

His smile is cold, indulgent, and designed to make me feel about two inches tall. But that was before. Now, it just irritates me.

“The world you knew of, Adele, is different from the one I’m going to spell out for you in the next few minutes. But before I do that, I want you to remember that everything I’ve done, and everything I will do from here on out, is to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” I ask, my heart starting to pound. I expected regret. An explanation of how he derailed from the straight and narrow. How he got enticed into a life of financial crime and money laundering. I didn't expect him to be cold, detached, and unremorseful. “Protect me from who, Daddy?”

“From the kind of people I work with,” he admits, the hardness in his eyes now becoming steely. “I work with powerful people. Together we make a very formidable unit. But that also means that I don’t always have the freedom to make independent choices.”

I shake my head, trying to process his words. “I fail to see how you engaging in an elaborate money laundering scheme protects me.”

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