9. Simon

I'm lost in the middle of a sea of clinking glasses, forks on plates, and low conversation. The lighting's low beneath an expensive chandelier, and my father grunts his way through a boring story. The chief of the Chicago PD is a man named Christopher Morgan, and the only thing he loves more than fighting crime and acting like a hot-shot cop is telling boring stories about his boat.

"And that's when my granddaughter, no more than five years old, hoists this enormous fish over the side and everyone's screaming as it flops around, making a damn mess, you should've seen their faces, Alessandro!" Christopher roars with laughter. He's a pink-faced older man with heavy wrinkles and white eyebrows. If Central Casting put out a call for distinguished-looking police officer, he'd get the job every time.

"You take your family fishing," Dad comments, plastering a grimace on his face that's probably meant to be a smile. "How wonderful."

If Christopher notices how off my father's acting, he doesn't show it. Instead, he digs into his expensive steak and regales us with another story while I flag down the waiter and order my second glass of whiskey.

The meat tastes like cardboard and the company is dull, but this is part of the job. We take important people like Christopher out for expensive meals at high-end restaurants and we pretend to enjoy their stories about catching fish with their grandkids. Normally, Dad's great at this; he's charming, outgoing, the sort of man who can make anyone feel at home. That's been his superpower and part of his rapid rise to dominance over the city. He builds alliances like normal people gather flowers.

But today, it's almost painful to watch. Dad's crotchety and barely paying attention, and by the time Christopher's through with his second dull-as-fuck story, I'm thinking about putting a bullet in my head. But the old cop's starting to notice something's up.

Which means I have to step in and take over since Dad's clearly not going to. "You mentioned your granddaughter likes to swim. Did you teach her yourself?"

"I wish. Her overprotective parents wouldn't let the girl anywhere near a pool without at least ten hours of professional training. It was crazy! At her age, I was thrown into the damn lake and told to either figure it out or sink to the bottom." He laughs loudly, and I make myself join in, while Dad continues to glare at his food like it's about to reanimate and gore him with horns.

Lunch is horrendous. Dad's been off lately, but this is by far his worst performance. Unfortunately for everyone, there's business to handle.

"The streets have been quiet lately," Christopher says, swirling his glass of wine. "Gotta say, people in the department are happy about that. But I've heard some very unfortunate rumors."

"I'm sure the rumors aren't true," I say, handing him a clipped cigar and lighting it for him. The cop puffs away and scowls.

"You know how much shit I'm getting from both ends right now. The politicians are livid about the murder rate, no thanks to your little skirmishes, and they want a thousand more officers on the street. Meanwhile the street-level activist folks are livid that we're not abolishing our own damn department and replacing it with a bunch of hippies with flowers and hugs." He blows a big stream of smoke and points the cigar at me. "I need you to play your role in all this, Bianco."

Dad opens his mouth to say something, but I speak over him. I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't like the way Christopher's talking to us—it's not his place to tell us how to manage our business—and I don't want my old man to say something stupid right now.

"We can't control what certain factions do on the streets," I say as politely as I can. "But we value our relationship, Chief Morgan. I'll see what we can do."

Christopher grunts his thanks and we discuss other, less pressing issues, and I let Dad take over from there.

Once lunch is over, the chief leaves through the back, apologizing for the secrecy, and I stand out front with Dad while we wait for our driver to pull around.

"I don't like how that went in there." Dad gives me a hard stare. He's leaning on his crutches and looks sunken to the point of exhaustion, all from having to sit at a table for an hour and listen to a blowhard tell boring stories.

"Chief Morgan will get over it. He's just doing his job." I know what he's talking about, but I don't want to argue with him.

Unfortunately, my father is a stubborn bastard. "You talked over me. You took over, but I never gave you permission to negotiate on my behalf."

I turn on him, fighting back my anger. "That's because you were so clearly uninterested in what the chief was saying."

"Like you enjoyed that story about his shitty little granddaughter catching some fucking fish?"

I grind my teeth to keep my frustration from boiling over. "Obviously, I didn't care about that, but I'm supposed to make him feel like I do. That's what you taught me, remember?"

He glares at me for a full five seconds before looking away. "My fucking legs hurt." His voice is small and tired, and his admission is like a kick to my chest. All the anger leaves like a deep exhaled breath.

"How bad?" I ask.

"Bad enough that all I could think about was getting home." His face is white, and I'm guessing being on his feet right now isn't helping. But there's no way he'd let me help. "You were right to step in. But you still should have waited for me to give you the sign."

I could hit the old man. I really could. "You were never going to do that," I say instead. "We both know it. You're too damn stubborn."

He glances at me. "You need to remember who the Don is, Simon. You had control while I was recovering, but that isn't your role."

"Not yet." I step closer to him, lowering my voice. "You're always in pain, Dad. You work yourself too hard, and it's starting to get to you. If you hadn't gotten shot, there's no doubt in my mind that you'd stay the Don until your deathbed, but things are different, and you know it. You have to see how today?—"

"I'm not talking about retirement with you," he says and his tone is jagged ice. I could slice myself open on the resentment in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if this is about you taking power more than it is about me getting better."

I stare up at the sky. What's frustrating isn't that he thinks I'm trying to usurp him, because in a lot of ways, I am.

No, what pisses me off is this delusion he has about getting better.

It's never going to happen. He's been to a dozen different doctors, and they all tell him the same thing: the bullet hit his spine, and he's lucky that he can walk at all. His pain will most likely never improve, though it probably won't get worse. He'll never walk unassisted again. He'll never be what he was before.

He doesn't care what the doctors say. In his mind, he's going to wake up one morning, fully restored.

"Dad, I love you. You know that. But the family is bigger than either of us, and nobody will be served by you killing yourself. We need you around, but you won't last long pushing yourself like this."

He shakes his head as the car parks at the curb. "You really think you're ready to step into my role? You think you can take over the Famiglia and become the Don? You tasted it once, but you have no idea what it means. It's commitment, Simon. When you're the Don, every mistake is your mistake. Every problem is your problem. It all goes through you, and you're alone in everything. But you haven't been able to commit to anything. I don't know how you think I can trust you to give your life to the organization that I built. The answer is no, Simon. You're not ready."

He gets into the car. I remain on the curb, processing what he said. My hands feel numb and I could slam my fist through the window if that wouldn't give him more ammunition for his point.

My father is so far gone that he can't even see how I've already sacrificed everything for the Famiglia. I have no life beyond this organization exactly because it's the most important thing in the world. I bleed for the Bianco Famiglia, and I already blame myself for anything that goes wrong, because ultimately, I'm responsible. I already carry the burden of leadership. I'm already so damn alone.

But he can't see that, because he's too wrapped up in his own pain.

Before he got shot, my father was talking about phasing me into the Don role. He was sharing more with me, bringing me into important meetings, making it clear that one day I would be on top. It was beginning to sound like it would happen sooner rather than later.

Now though, it's like getting shot made him double down on dying in the Don's chair.

I climb into the back seat beside him, and my father doesn't speak as the car takes us back to the oasis.

And all I can think about is Emily. How she'd make the perfect wife. My father couldn't keep throwing my relationship status in my face if I had her by my side, and maybe that wouldn't be enough on its own to change his mind, but it would be a start. It would help give me legitimacy. It's the first step on a long, difficult path.

All I need is for her to make the right decision.