Chapter 17
By sixteen, Luke began calling me Dad.
Not always.
Not when angry.
Not when scared.
But sometimes.
The first time happened at the garage.
He was trying to fix an old motorcycle Rocco gave him.
The engine coughed, sputtered, died.
He shouted, “Dad, hand me the wrench.”
I froze.
He froze too.
Rocco pretended to inspect the ceiling.
Luke’s face reddened.
“I mean Angelo.”
I handed him the wrench.
“Dad works.”
He looked down.
“Okay.”
Then he bent over the engine like nothing happened.
I walked outside and cried behind a parked car like a fool.
Rocco found me.
“Should I pretend I didn’t see?”
“Yes.”
“Done.”
He was a good cousin.
One of the few.
The family business changed because Luke existed.
Or maybe because Isabella’s tapes made me unable to stomach the old life.
I sold what could be made clean.
Shut down what could not.
Men who depended on shadows left.
Some threatened.
Rocco and I handled threats carefully.
Legally when possible.
Firmly when necessary.
I wanted Luke to inherit choices, not enemies.
He started volunteering at a youth kitchen.
The first time he served pasta to a hungry boy, he went quiet afterward.
In the car, he said, “I hated when people watched me eat.”
“I know.”
“I want this place to let kids take seconds without asking.”
So I funded it anonymously.
Luke found out anyway.
“You don’t have to buy every hurt,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m learning.”
He rolled his eyes.
A normal teenage expression.
I treasured it.
Lucia earned a fragile place in his life.
She never pushed.
On his seventeenth birthday, he let her hug him.
She cried so hard he looked alarmed.
“Okay, Aunt Lucia. Oxygen.”
Aunt Lucia.
Another bridge.
Another small repair.
That night, Luke and I sat by Isabella’s hill.
He said, “I’m still angry.”
“Me too.”
“But I’m happy sometimes.”
“Me too.”
He leaned back.
“Feels weird.”
“Yes.”
“But good weird.”
May you like
I smiled.
“Yes. Good weird.”
