Page 6 of Of Vows and Betrayal

The doctor pales a bit. “I—y-yes, of course. Better to err on the side of caution.” He clears his throat again, visibly uncomfortable under my father’s stern gaze, an intimidation I can hardly blame him for. “I would like to see you back in?—”

“There’s no need. Our own doctors will take over from here,” my father interjects firmly.

The doctor gives me a side glance, and I nod subtly, appreciating his concern. Facing a man like my father is daunting, and I’m grateful for his efforts on my behalf.

“Perfect,” the doctor says, pulling a prescription pad from his pocket. “Let me just prescribe some painkillersand antibiotics to ensure there’s no infection.” He hands the prescription directly to me, and I’m relieved that my father doesn’t attempt to intercept it.

“Am I free to go then?”

“Yes, here are your discharge paperwork.” He hands me a green slip of paper, his tone earnest, almost warning. “Take care, okay?”

I nod, and as we exit the room, my eyes glance down the hallway, a part of me irrationally hoping to catch another glimpse of the man who saved me, seeking reassurance in his presence.

“What are you looking for?” my father asks sharply.

“I—the police,” I stammer out quickly.

He slows his steps, his face tensing. “We don’t involve the police. Why do you want to see them?”

“I don’t. I just thought it was mandatory in cases of knife or gun wounds, and the stranger has?—”

“I’ve dealt with the police. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Good,” he replies as we reach his car parked across the street.

“No driver?” I observe, glancing around.

“No, I didn’t think.” He sighs. “I got a call you were at the hospital and just… acted.”

I glance at him and see past the annoyed Mafia boss to my father—a man looking tired and genuinely concerned. “I just wanted some flowers for Mom’s grave, Dad. I didn’t think…” I sigh and shrug as he opens the passenger door for me.

It took over a year to start calling himDad, and even now, the word sometimes feels foreign on my tongue.

He gets into the driver’s seat without responding, and I wonder how deep his annoyance runs.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he drives in the opposite direction from our home.

“You wanted to see your mama, si? Let’s go.”

A smile breaks through my unease, but it’s quickly tempered by a surge of emotion. He stops briefly along the way and returns with a bunch of wildflowers. “Here. Your mom loved it when I brought her wildflowers.”

I nod, feeling the lump in my throat thicken painfully. I know that if I try to speak, I might start crying and never stop.

He drives me to the cemetery as dusk starts to fall. When we arrive, the main gate is already closed, but this hardly deters my father. He strides a few steps ahead to a side gate and rings the bell. Within a minute, the middle-aged gatekeeper emerges from his small stone house. Any initial sternness in his bearded face softens upon seeing my father, and he quickens his pace to the gate.

No one makes a high member of the Gambino Mafia wait, and that includes Angelo Bergotti.

“Mr. Bergotti, always a pleasure to see you,” he says, swinging the side gate open.

My father merely nods at him and gestures for me to go ahead.

I take the familiar path to my mother’s grave. I know many people find deserted cemeteries at night creepy, but I disagree; I find them strangely peaceful. The dead can’t hurtyou; only the living can. Their most painful act is leaving you behind, a wound that never fully heals.

I stop in front of my mother’s grave: forty years old—mother, friend, gone too soon. It hits me every time, the stark injustice of it all, and despite trying to suppress it, the anger that dims but never fully fades flares up again.

I place the bouquet in the small vase and sit down beside the grave, leaning against the headstone.

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