55. Chapter Fifty-Five

My father's house is large and daunting, like a haunted mansion you'd see on television. It's old, built sometime in the late 1700s, but there have been so many updates I doubt that date can be considered accurate anymore.

Rocco stops in front of the veranda that leads to the front door and idles the car.

"Need me to go in with you?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No."

I grab the door handle and tug on it to get the hell out. If I don't get this moving, I'm never going to do it at all.

The key to his house is one I rarely use, because I never come here anymore. But I still know exactly which one it is on the ring, so it's easy to find. It slips into the lock just as easily, and after a few seconds, I'm pushing my way into the house and entering the code to shut off the alarm. It's used more for him nowadays, to ensure he's staying inside and not trying to leave in the middle of the night, which he was doing about six months ago.

The mudroom is small, with a rack to the right for your shoes as my father hates shoes in the house. I toe mine off, then take off my suit jacket and hang it on the rack. He finds wearing a jacket necessary when you're trying to make an impression of power. That isn't warranted in his house, he'd argue.

Taking a deep breath, I step into the parlor. The light is low, dimly illuminating the room that looks like an antique showroom in of a museum. We never played in here as children, and still to this day, I don't know what half of these things are and why they were so important to him. And now I'll never know.

Soft humming sounds in the kitchen, so I go that way. I was careful and purposeful in choosing when to do this. The more my brother sticks up for the incompetent nurse, Bianca, the more I think he has something going on with her. That's fine. Whether it be good or bad, it's his issue, not mine. But because of it, I knew if I came here while she was on shift, she'd tell my brother no matter what I said or threatened her with. So when I'd checked the scheduling system we use for the nurses and saw Bianca had a vacation coming up, I knew it was my best shot.

"Gladys," I say softly.

The plump woman yelps, her hands flying in the air. She whirls, pressing a hand to her chest and catching her breath.

"Mr. Bramante. I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting you."

"It's an unexpected visit," I say, stepping into the kitchen.

"Is there anything I can get you? Your father is already in bed. I'm preparing breakfast for the morning."

I glance at the counter, noting the chopped up vegetables and fruit. It's all for nothing.

"No, thank you, but my brothers and I have made some sudden changes. That's why I'm here."

"Okay. What kind of changes?"

Gladys is an older woman. She's been with my father for close to a year, since he first got his official diagnosis. It came on fast and strong. We'd only noticed the oddities for about a month before he went in for testing. It's rare, but it does happen. Usually it's slow progressing in the beginning, but for us, it's a little backward. It's the end that seems to be taking too long, and time isn't on our side.

"My brothers and I will take over my father's care full time, effective immediately. I'm here to relieve you of your duties." Her eyes widen. "You will be paid your wages for the next month, along with a hefty release bonus for the trouble."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Mr. Bramante. It's too much."

"I insist, Gladys. But I do need you to pack your things up."

She turns toward the counter again. "Sure, let me—"

"Immediately."

Her eyes widen again, and she nods, reaching around to untie the apron. She leaves it on the counter, moving past me and into the parlor. I step into the doorway to watch her go.

"Gladys?" I call out. She stops and turns to look at me. "It's best you tell everyone you are on a vacation for the next week or so. Do you understand?" She nods violently.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Bramante. I understand. That's absolutely fine." She forces a smile.

"One last thing?"

She looks up, her eyes wide and full of fear. I didn't want to scare the woman, but it's important.

"Anything." Her word comes out a whisper.

"Your discretion is crucial."

She swallows hard. "Of course, sir. Nothing to worry about here." She grabs her coat from the rack, slips her shoes on, and hurries out the front door.

The easy part is over. I walk back to the front door to lock it and set the alarm. I won't be here long, but it's best I'm alerted if someone were to unexpectedly show up. Like I did.

I navigate down the hall from the kitchen into the first bedroom.

When I was a child, this was a boring sitting room which was never used. Most of the rooms in this giant house weren't used. All the bedrooms were on the second floor, but Papa has been unable to use stairs for the last seven months. It's not that he is physically incapable, he just forgot how to use them.

His large frame takes up most of the queen sized bed. He's lying in the middle, on his back, sleeping soundly. I'm lucky I caught him having a good night. Most nights he's awake. Though, it is still early, so perhaps he'd have woken at some point, thinking it was time for breakfast and to bring his sons to school. That's his new thing lately. What an interesting disease. What is it that causes the brain to focus on a certain period of time when no other parts of it work properly? Is it the happiest? The most stressful? Is it something else? Why is it my father has reverted to the time when me and my brothers were barely teenagers? Is that a place his brain thinks he is safe?

Curious. So very curious.

I pull my gun from my holster, take the silencer from my pocket, and attach it. There isn't anyone around to hear the shot, but I have a feeling I'll appreciate it more when my nightmares aren't filled with the echoes of the gunshot that I killed my father with. I move to his bedside and sit in the armchair beside it. I watch him sleep. When was the last time I saw him? It's been months. At least six. Maybe more. He'd call every now and again, but most times he wasn't of clear mind. He'd speak nothing but nonsense, which is why we had to tell the nurses to take his phone away. The man always found it, though. It's a miracle he didn't call the wrong person and cause trouble. The worst he did was call the butcher down the road and order a hundred pounds of steak for a party he thought he was having but didn't. I made the nurses donate it to a homeless shelter in the city, since the butcher wouldn't take it back.

"Papa," I breathe out, staring at his sleeping form. He seems so peaceful right now, but knowing all this man has done? The blood on his hands, the lives he's taken, the empire he built.

My brothers will hate me for this, but I'm certain my father would approve. Family always came first to him, and it comes first to me too, and that's why I'm doing this.

The treaty states with the death of the head of the family, it'll go to the person they've designated. Me and my brothers have been designated. The only way we get anything without a fight is by my father dying. If we had the resources to take on the Gaetanos, Kerneys, and Canvanis, I wouldn't do this. But I'm not so stupid to think we stand a chance against the three other families alone. I know we don't.

"You'll be with Mama now," I say, getting to my feet and taking aim. The barrel is inches from his head, and I note the way it shakes. Normally, I have such a steady hand. Normally, when I'm shooting, I'm calm. But right now I can't breathe. My chest is tight, my head is foggy, and my fucking hand won't stop trembling.

But I have to do this.

For me. For my brothers. For my wife.

For everything my father has built, to ensure it lives on in his name.

He would approve. He would do the same thing. Not a single part of me thinks otherwise, and my brothers may not agree. But they don't have to. I don't need their approval, I only need my father's.

I cock the gun, take a steadying breath.

"You would do the same thing, Papa," I whisper, gritting my teeth.

And then I pull the trigger.

I bite back a choked sound.

It's done.

One simple bullet hole to the side of his head. Blood trickles down, landing on the pillow. He stops breathing. I close my eyes, take another deep breath, turn around and run out of the room.

I suck in lungfuls of air and still I feel like I can't fucking breathe. I move to the kitchen and down a glass of water before splashing some on my face. Finally, the panic calms and the oxygen courses through me, no longer making me feel like I'm going to pass out.

A few more breaths and I feel almost normal. I'm stepping out of my son role and back into my businessman one.

I remove the silencer. Put my gun back in the holster. I hold my head high and take another deep breath. I go to the door. Put my jacket back on. Slip my shoes on my feet and leave for good.