“You’re full of shit. You don’t step in, you don’t take it on yourself. Nothing. Not anything. You get that?”

“Pop backed me. I told him and he said do what needed to be done.”

Dante hesitated. “What are you talking about? You told Pop?”

“I did. Ask him. I got word and I went straight to him. He said take care of it. You weren’t here and someone had to shut the bitch down.”

“Pop said?”

“I swear. I wouldn’t have done it without him. What the hell were we supposed to do? She’d have ratted us out.”

“You do anything like that again, I’ll kick you to death. Now keep away from me.” Dante pushed Cappi toward the elevator, kicking him hard in the ass as a fare-thee-well.

In the limo, he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. The smack-down was pointless. Dante knew his brother would run straight to Pop and whine about mistreatment. What felt good in the moment would just come back and bite him in the butt. His only hope was to get to his father before Cappi did, a matter of who could tattle first. Absurd for a man his age. He put the incident out of his mind. He had other issues to worry about.

He’d had lunch with his sister Talia that day and he’d broached the subject of Lola. “I’ve been thinking I’d ask her to marry me.”

“Well, that’s a cheery prospect.”

“I can do without the sarcasm. I’m telling you because you’re one of the few people I trust.”

“Sorry. I thought you were joking.”

“I’m not. We’ve been talking about it and it’s not such a bad idea.”

“I don’t get it. It’s been eight years. Why marry her now?”

“She wants a kid.”

“She wants a child?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Talia laughed.

Dante closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t do this. Don’t turn this into a fight. Say what you want. That’s why I brought it up. Just don’t be a bitch about it.”

“Fine. You’re right. Let me take a deep breath and we’ll start again. Nothing accusatory. I’ll ask questions, okay?”

“Fine.”

“How’s she going to handle a pregnancy?”

“Like every other woman, I guess.”

“Not like other women. She’s a head case. I don’t mean this as criticism. I’m stating a fact. She’s obsessed with her body and nutty about her weight. That’s why she smokes. To keep the pounds off.”

“She says she’ll quit. She’s also cut back on alcohol. Glass of wine a day and that’s it.”

“Because she’s worried about the calories, which is why she does drugs.”

“She doesn’t do drugs. Would you listen to yourself? She’s dead set against drugs.”

“Except for appetite suppressants. Have you looked at her lately? She’s skeletal. She has an eating disorder.”

“She had an eating disorder, but that’s done. She saw Dr. Friedken for a year and she’s fine.”

“He’s not ‘doctor’ anything. He’s not even a licensed clinical psychologist. He’s a psychic nutritionist. A quack.”

“He helped her. She’s better. She eats like a normal person.”

“And then goes in the bathroom and sticks a finger down her throat. Pregnant women get fat. It’s a fact of life. She’ll go off the deep end.”

“Not all pregnant women get fat. You didn’t.”

“I gained forty pounds!” Talia reached out and gripped his hand. “Dante, you know I love you more than life itself, so please let me speak from the heart. Lola’s a narcissist. She’s moody and insecure. All she thinks about is herself. How could she possibly make room for a child?”

They changed the subject at that point since neither of them trusted themselves to go on. The question she’d posed was a bothersome one that he was still pondering.

He caught his father after dinner when he was sitting out on the verandah, smoking a cigar. Dante had always associated the smell of cigar smoke with Pop. There was a time when Lorenzo Senior had smoked in the house. He considered this his due. The living room drapes and the upholstered furniture had been saturated with smoke, the ceiling pale gold with nicotine, windows clouded with the residue. When Dante moved his father into the big house, he insisted Pop confine his smoking to one of the outdoor patios.

The old man was eighty-three and far less imposing than he’d been in the days when Dante was routinely pounded to a pulp. The punches and kicks were meant to keep him in line, or so his father said. Now he couldn’t get over how small his father was, like a miniature adult, his cheeks lined and sunken, his nose and ears out of proportion to the size of his face. His hairline had receded in the shape of a heart, a V of gray in the middle of his forehead with a balding arc on either side.