Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I knock once, then build up my courage to knock again.
“Come in!” He calls.
I push the door open and step inside. He’s alone, which is both good and bad. If he were in a conference with Uncle Gio or Edoardo, I might have an excuse to come back later. But it looks like now is as good a time as any.
“Hi,” I begin.
He looks at me carefully, already alerted to the fact that I’m nervous. “Son,” he responds, waiting for me to continue.
“I have a request to make,” I say.
“Which is?”
“I met someone,” I answer, taking a seat across the desk from him.
His face brightens, and I’m filled with relief. I can already tell that this conversation is going to be easier than I expected.
“Her name is Sofia, and she’s a writer,” I say.
“Congratulations.” My father applauds. “How did you meet her? Tell me about her.”
“We met at the library when I was studying for the bar,” I respond. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”
“Excellent,” he says excitedly.
“I’d like to invite her to dinner,” I respond, leaving out the fact that the invitation has already been delivered.
“Great!” He exclaims. “When were you thinking?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, “Or Thursday. Whichever works for you.”
“Tomorrow is fine,” he responds. “Let me get Marlena in here. I’m sure she’ll want to hear this.”
I sit back and watch as he texts his wife. Because the house is so big, we often text each other from different rooms. My father plugs away at his phone for a minute before setting it back down on his desk.
“She’s on her way,” he reports. “So, tell me more about Sofia.”
“She lives in a very small apartment,” I respond. “She likes comedy shows.” I cast around for other tidbits of information to share. For some reason, I don’t want to tell my father that Sofia lost her brother. That seems too personal. Instead, I describe a few of the dates we’ve been on. “We go out for coffee, or to some restaurants that aren’t on my map.”
Dad laughs, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. He has relationships with the owners of at least a dozen restaurants and knows that I don’t want to take Sofia to any of those. I wonder if my father has ever been in my shoes. Has he avoided eating somewhere while out with Marlena because of some business or another?
Of course, he must have. He didn’t get to his position overnight. But I have a hard time picturing Dad breaking knuckles or accepting gifts of cash under the table. He seems too old for all that.
I don’t know when it happened. I never thought of my father as past his prime before. Actually, I expected that his marriage to Marlena would make him seem younger, but it hasn’t. I think I can see a bit of gray hair at his temples, and the bags under his eyes look firmer than they did a few months ago.
It must be the stress of his position, I tell myself. He couldn’t have aged a decade in the past year. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finally getting ready to step into his shoes that I finally see the toll this life has taken on him. I guess being a mafia don ages you significantly. I wonder if the same will be true for me. Will I look like I’m eighty when I’m only fifty-two? Maybe I’m being too harsh, but it seems like the responsibility of his role is catching up to my father.
“How are things going?” I ask, filling the time while we wait for Marlena to arrive.
“Okay,” he says, “How are things going with you?”
“I’m learning a lot,” I respond.
That’s the understatement of the year. There’s a delicate dance that we perform whenever we’re together. There are things we both know shouldn’t be said aloud. For example, I can’t say that I watched Dante beat up the man from the bakery, or that we passed a wad of cash to Councilman Jennings. I can only speak in vague terms about the things I’ve witnessed, not because my father doesn’t know about them, but because not sharing gives us plausible deniability.
“Good,” he says. “Do you feel like you’re starting to understand the organization?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He changes the subject. “And how is it going studying for the bar?”
“Fair,” I respond. “I’m still nervous, but each question I tackle is a little easier.”
“That’s good to hear,” he decides. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
I nod, accepting his support. I’m still not sure if he knows something I don’t. I wouldn’t put it past him to bribe someone into letting me pass. I hope he has faith in my natural abilities, which he says he does. Whether I pass the bar or not, I want it to be on the merits of my knowledge. I can always take it again if I fail and knowing that I did it myself is important to me.