Page 3 of Bitter Poetry
“Very forward thinking of you, Dante, waiting. Most men in our world want to bag them young and still keep the mistress on the side. My sister and Carmela used to be best friends, so yeah, don’t fucking hurt her, and don’t put this on the table with her unless you’re prepared to commit.”
Our world?I park that for now.
“I’m getting the picture, Leon. And, please, give me some fucking credit.”
“Alright then.” He grins. “Fuck. Listen to us discussing marriage. At least one of us is on the right trajectory.”
His smile fades.
The mood is soured.
He downs the rest of his whiskey.
“College feels like a long time ago,” I say. “The plans we used to make for the future, where you took over from your father as underboss, and I was the consigliere, really came off the rails.”
He puts his glass down on the coffee table. “Only one of them did.”
“Will you see Don Cedro while you’re here?”
“No. Not this time.”
“This time?”
“Maybe never. I’ve made my peace with it.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You still suspect Ettore Gallo was behind your father’s death?”
He looks me in the eye, our shared history, former hopes, dreams, and aspirations now specters sitting in judgment. “Nothing has come to light to change my mind. One day, Ettore Gallo is going to pay.”
CHAPTER 1
ONE MONTH LATER…
CARMELA
I’ve been out shopping with my mother and sister all afternoon. Jessica has been bratting. She hates shopping, but my mother insisted that she buy something other than jeans, hence her less than congenial mood.
I’m ready for some time away from my sister as I slip my coat off and pass it to our maid, Brigida. Our driver and guard bring up the rear laden down with packages.
“Your father asked to see you in his study,” my mother says to me.
My sister’s head turns our way.
“Not you,” my mother says. “Go and put your new dresses away.”
Jessica whines and pulls a dramatic face before she heads upstairs, her footsteps thudding. She’s eighteen months younger than me, but no one would guess when she’s already taller.
I share a look with my mother.
She smiles and squeezes my hand. “It will be fine, darling. I promise.” She turns and heads upstairs, probably to check if my sister is actually putting her clothes away.
When I knock on the study door, my father calls me straight in. He smiles and puts aside the document he was reading.
Cedro Accardi is a good father. I know he isn’t necessarily a good man. There is a point in your life when you understand that Father Christmas is not real. It takes a little longer before a young girl realizes that her father is a criminal, and what that means arrives in increments, put together by events and snippets of conversations over the years. I suspect I’m still heavily shielded and not entirely clued in. It’s not like anybody would ever say anything to me. The people I mix with are all part of the family in one way or another, and they’re careful with their words.
“How was your shopping trip, Mela?” he asks.
“It was good, Papa. Despite her best efforts to make them all look ugly, we got some pretty dresses for Jessica.”
