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If it wasn’t for Salvatore, I wouldn’t be here, in my own house in Asbury Park, right now. Franco was hell bent against me leaving. Against me taking his first grandchild away from him, taking that last piece of Sergio with me.

I understood something in these months and I’m glad for it. Franco mourned Sergio. He was devastated by his loss and it made me see a different side of him. A human side. Still cold. Still manipulative and all powerful, but human. This is the one thing Franco Benedetti and I have in common. We’re both hurting over the loss of Sergio.

So we came to an agreement. Franco Benedetti will still be a part of my son’s life, but he won’t be in it, not now. Not yet. I’ll deal with the future later.

I named my son Jacob Sergio Benedetti. And when he looked at me the first time, I was grateful that he did look like Sergio after all. It hurt, but it also reminded me of him. And I don’t want to forget Sergio. I don’t want to forget a minute of the little bit of time we had together. And the baby we made, the love I feel for him is sometimes overwhelming.

It’s almost eleven at night when the doorbell rings. It’s Salvatore. He usually visits once a month, but I’m not expecting him for a few weeks, and when he comes, he usually comes early in the morning to spend time with Jacob. Although, we’ve become friends since Sergio’s death and I like him. He struggles with the life he’s now bound to lead. It’s strange, he thinks of things so differently than Sergio did.

Something’s up, though, because Salvatore called not twenty minutes ago to see if I was home. Asked if he could come.

“Hey, Salvatore,” I say, opening the door.

He’s preoccupied. It takes him a minute to even say hello back.

“Come on in,” I say, opening the door wider.

“Why is it so quiet?”

“It’s late. Jacob’s asleep.”

“Oh.” It’s like he didn’t realize the time. He steps in, stops. Shakes his head with a snort as if he were continuing some conversation in his mind.

“What’s going on?” I ask when I close the door.

He navigates around the toys to sit on the couch. “You have something to drink?”

“Sure.” I get him a whiskey, take the seat beside him and pour myself a tumbler, too. I started to drink the stuff in the last few months. Just a little now and again. It still burns, but it’s Sergio’s favorite brand and it reminds me of him, of us sitting together while he drank a glass. The smell alone will do it, but the burn, it’s what I crave some nights.

Salvatore takes a swallow then focuses his attention on swirling the amber liquid around.

“I have to claim her,” he says.

“What?”

He looks at me. “Lucia DeMarco. Her time’s almost up.”

I just watch him. Watch the furrow between his brows. Salvatore’s relationship with his father is different than Sergio’s. Sergio could manage Franco. He was the favorite son. Salvatore and Franco, though, their relations are strained, at best.

He swallows the rest of his whiskey. “Not quite half a year left, and I have to take her. Show the world how powerful the Benedetti family is.” He gets up, pours himself a second, generous glass full. Drinks half of it before turning to me. “I’m to break her. Destroy her.”

“There’s no way out—”

“No.” He cuts me off with an ugly snort. “There’s no way to do anything,” he spits, finishes his drink. Pours another glass and swallows that too. “In six months’ time, I’ll own the DeMarco Mafia princess. I’ll take her from her tower, bring her to my home, and I’ll punish her for being born a DeMarco. I’ll bring her to her knees to bury her father’s nose in the dirt.”

I go to him. “Salvatore,” but what can I say? I have no advice, no comfort to offer. I know the DeMarco bargain. It’s a devil’s bargain made by Franco Benedetti, to be executed by his succeeding son. “At least it’s not Dominic,” I say.

He looks at me. Shakes his head. “Do you know what he did to her? What my father ordered when the girl was sixteen? Fucking sixteen years old. A child.”

I don’t want to know.

“He had her tied to a cold steel table. Had her legs pried apart and had a doctor confirm that her virginity was intact.”

“Christ.”

“While her own father was made to watch.”

“Salva—”

“While I stood by and did nothing,” he spits, his tone harder. “Not a goddamned thing. Fuck. I couldn’t even look at her. It made me sick. Or it should have. But you know what?” He walks away, so his back is to me. “It made me hard. It made me fucking hard.”

I watch his back, big broad shoulders, muscular arms. He’s built like Sergio. Powerful.

“I am my father’s son. A monster. Like him. Maybe worse.”

“No. No, that’s not true.” I try to take the drink from him, but he won’t let me.

“I’ll be her monster.”

“Salvatore, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he says too loudly. “I do have to. That’s the point. I will take the girl. I will break the girl. It’s my duty.”

The monitor goes off then. Jacob’s fussing. He probably hears us, his room is just down the hall, and Salvatore isn’t being quiet.

“Shit,” Salvatore says, realizing. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. He’s been waking up at night,” I lie. I don’t want him to feel any worse than he already does. Jacob lets out a long cry. “I’d better go settle him down.”

Salvatore nods. I realize he hasn’t even taken his jacket off. I go to Jacob, pick him up out of his crib, cradle him, kiss the top of his perfect head, kiss the soft dark hair there.

“Shh, baby. It’s okay. Shh.”

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep again. And when he does, I lay him back down and tuck him in, but by the time I return to the living room, Salvatore’s gone.