Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

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hand had turned

corridor, rubbing the grit

home. I neede

her body hitting the wall replayed in my mind, m

she had admired. She would forgive me. She always forgave

corner toward

ital scrubs, but he didn't move like a healer.

ned hi

o on his neck.

novese

ead. My blo

irwell before I could even

e room, my sense

-far too vibrant for someone allegedl

back! Did you b

searching for the

man?" I asked,

e picture of inno

who jus

rittle, nervous sound. "That was

ers wear surgic

d. "You're being para

swer, the door sw

nts wal

like a brewing tempest, while my fa

ght. "Mr. and Mrs. Moretti!

hed for

away as i

ather album onto the tray table. It hit with a

ia asked, her voice

it," my m

ed the

g of neglect. P

harity gala. S

stmas mass. S

ew's baptism. Ce

nte," my mother said, her voice cutting like glass

led. "That's not f

ed her and pull

nnounced. "From the hallw

resse

ed in s

oom. I watched him stay for forty minutes. I watche

d up at

s were no longer soft; they were

ow," my mother said. "The Genovese d

me like a physical

arehouse. The s

performance to make me leave the

d fallen

eration clawing at her features.

her. Really

widow anymore. I saw a

she begged, tear

ck, putting dist

" I said, my voice turnin

ed forward, her

ante. Before you have

und without

fia screame

lked faster. Then,

my gut, heavy an

l. The blood on her fingers. The

d to ge