Page 138 of The Mafia King's Reign
"Do I?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "I do not remember the hero in any story choosing himself. Heroes sacrifice. They find another way."
Rosa sighs and gestures for me to join her, so I sit on the opposite side of the bed, maintaining distance.
"Salvatore lost his mother young, leaving only his father to raise him and his brothers," she says, her voice taking on the cadence of an old story, one she's told herself many times to make sense of this world. "In this world, men rule with heavy hands and teach their sons to do worse. It is the women, with patience and strength, who steady them. If he could release Marco, he would. But he is not alone. He and his brothers act as one. That unity is what keeps them powerful."
"So the kingdom matters more than my father's life?" I ask. "Power matters more than doing what's right?"
"You do not understand," she says softly.
"No." I stand abruptly. "I do not understand why someone with so much power still needs more blood. Especially my father's. He's a good man. He never hurt anyone. And Salvatore would kill him just to what? Send a message, to maintain control, to prove he's strong."
I pace to the window, looking out at the grounds, "I cannot let this go, Rosa. I won’t."
She stands, smoothing her hands over her apron. "I know. Everything will be all right. You'll see."
The words sound hollow, a comfort she doesn't believe herself. She leaves, forgetting the flowers on the tray.
"Rosa?" I call after her, and she waits while I pick them up and hand them back to her at the door.
She nods once before disappearing down the hall, the flowers cradled in her arms like a child.
"Back to my routine," I murmur as I make my way to the library.
The library is quiet, and the smell of old books and leather grounds me. It reminds me of who I was before Salvatore Vitale entered my life and turned everything upside down.
My eyes land on one of my father’s favorite novels, and something twists in my stomach. Of course. The Baader Meinhof phenomenon. Once something takes hold in your mind, it appears everywhere, a constant reminder of what you're trying to forget.
The sight of the book pulls me into a memory so vivid it steals my breath.
My father was picking me up from school, and the book was on the dashboard, with a green bookmark sticking out of it. I looked to the road and saw that my father missed the turn that would have taken us into our neighborhood.
"Dad, why do you always take the long way home?" I asked from the passenger seat, my legs swinging slightly above the floor.
He glanced at me and smiled, that warm smile that makes everything feel safe. "Don't you like the adventure?"
"I do," I said, "but I have homework."
He laughed and ruffled my hair, the way men do with boys, not caring that he's messing up the ponytail I spent ten minutes perfecting. "You are a brainiac. You will finish in no time."
"What if it is hard?" I asked, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth.
"Then you get it done in a little more time." His voice is so certain, so confident in my abilities.
I think about that, then frown. "What if it is super-duper hard?"
"Then you remove distractions and focus on the problem until you find a solution." He taps the steering wheel for emphasis.
I am quiet for a moment, processing. "What if it is impossibly hard?"
His expression changed slightly, more serious. He took a breath, and I could see him choosing his words carefully, the way adults do when they're about to tell you a truth they want to stick with you.
"If it seems impossible," he said slowly, "then it may be time to let it go. Sometimes, even the smartest of us cannot solve the impossible. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is recognize when a fight cannot be won."
The impossible.
Like choosing the man I love over the man I have always loved.
The memory releases me, leaving me standing in the library with tears streaming down my face. I stand too quickly, the walls of the library closing in, the books that once brought comfort now feeling like witnesses to my failure.
