Page 12 of Broken Honor

Distribution of cocaine—first offense, high volume. The courts slapped me with a ten-year sentence. The kind that makes papers look legitimate. The kind that says “big fish caught.”

But with the right lawyer and the right money passed under the right tables… I served just four.

Then I was released on parole.

Their eyes shifted off the operation. The investigation fizzled. Mission accomplished. The new mission is to find the rat who snitched.

I wrap a towel around my waist and step out into the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at my hands. Rougher now. A few new scars. My knuckles ache faintly from old fights. The thought creeps in quietly, uninvited.

My father.

He died while I was in there. I wasn’t at the funeral. Didn’t even see his body. The official report said heart attack. Alfio said it happened fast—one minute he was in the office, next minute he was on the floor.

It never sat right with me. I sigh. There is so much to do. I push myself up to my feet and I open my closet to search for some clothes.

I pull on a plain black shirt, soft cotton against freshly scrubbed skin, then slide into charcoal sweatpants. The suit stays untouched on the bed. It can wait.

I towel off the last dampness from my hair, running a comb through the shorter strands I’d cut clean only moments ago. My jaw is raw from the shave—closer than I’ve had in four years—but it feels good.

I head downstairs, barefoot, the wood floor cool beneath my feet. I follow the soft clatter of cutlery and the hum of low voices until I reach the dining room.

The chandelier glows low overhead, warm gold against polished silver. The long table is already set—simple, understated, but familiar. Plates of roasted lamb, bowls of seasoned vegetables, two bottles of red uncorked and breathing.

Alfio looks up first, nods once in approval. Enzo slouches in the seat beside him, rolling a glass between his palms, already halfway through his first pour.

Omero sits farther down, posture straight, one leg crossed over the other. He’s slicing his food with surgeon-like precision.

Riccardo sits at the end, as always—arms folded.

Enzo grins when he sees me. “Thought you’d come down in that horrid jumpsuit.”

“Have the maid burn it,” I say, pulling out the empty chair beside Alfio and sinking into it.

“Good,” he says, raising his glass. “It looked like it was stitched with cigarette ash and shame.”

I reach for the wine bottle, filling my glass halfway. Alfio lifts his next.

“To freedom,” he says quietly.

Enzo lifts his too. “To freedom, and to finally not having to read your depressing letters.”

“Libertà,” Omero echoes, clinking his glass lightly with Riccardo’s.

I raise mine, nodding once before taking a sip.

The wine is good.

For a few minutes, we just eat—chewing, passing bread, salt, and wine. No pressure to talk. Just movement, rhythm, the comfort of habits built over decades.

Enzo flicks a piece of bread crust at Alfio, who swats it off without looking up.

Riccardo clears his throat, voice flat. “You’re not twelve.”

“Oh please, let me live, man.”

Alfio rolls his eyes. “Can we go five minutes without you two bickering?”

“It’s called brotherly love,” Enzo says.

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