Chapter 14 Saint
Saint
Antonio's bedroom smells like death.
Not the fresh death I'm used to. Not blood and gunpowder and fear. This is slow death, and it has the under scent of chemicals and decay. It's morphine and a body giving up piece by piece.
I stand in the doorway, trying to prepare myself. This is one of the hardest moments of my life. When my father died, it was quick. I wasn't there.
Antonio…
It's just different.
"Are you coming in or are you going to hover like a ghost?" Antonio's voice is weaker than I've ever heard it, but the command is still there.
Even at the end, he makes sure I understand that he's in charge.
I enter, closing the door behind me. He's propped up in bed, skin gray, eyes sunken. He's lost thirty pounds in the last month, and I can see his bones through his skin.
"You look like shit," I say, taking a seat.
He laughs, and it turns into a coughing fit. When he recovers, there's blood on his lips, which I wipe away. "Always the charmer."
I pour him water, help him drink. His hands shake as he tries to hold onto the glass.
"The doctor says you're refusing treatment again."
"The treatment makes me feel worse than the cancer." He waves a dismissive hand. "I'm done, Santino. It's time."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't accept reality?" He fixes me with those dark eyes that used to terrify me as a kid. "I'm dying. We both know it. The only question is how long I'm going to suffer first."
I sit in the chair beside his bed, jaw tight. "You're not dead yet."
"But I will be. Soon." He reaches for something on the nightstand—a gun. My gun, I realize. The one I keep in my office. Someone must have brought it to him. "Which is why I need you to do something for me."
"No."
"Santino—"
"I said no." I stand, backing away. "I'm not fucking doing it."
"I'm asking you for mercy." His voice breaks. "I'm in pain. Constant pain. The morphine barely touches it anymore. And it's only going to get worse."
"Then take more morphine."
"And die in a drugged haze, not knowing my own name?" He shakes his head. "No. I want to go on my terms. Clearheaded. With dignity."
"Asking me to shoot you isn't dignified." We've been going over and over this. He won't let up. He wants to die, and he wants me to do it, and I won't.
It's the first time that death has felt like too much.
"Asking my son to end my suffering is the most dignified thing I can think of." His hand trembles as he holds out the gun. "Please."
The word breaks something in me. Antonio doesn't beg. Doesn't ask. He commands. And he's never outwardly called me his son. He's desperate, and he's playing me.
My voice is rough. "Then, ask one of your sons to do it."
"You've killed hundreds of men—"
"Not you!" The words explode out of me. "I can't kill you. You're the only—" I stop myself. I've been telling myself I couldn't kill Antonio because I'm not ready to take over the family, but I'm also not lining up to kill the man who raised me.
"The only what?"
Father. The only father I've ever really had. Mine died before I could form long-term memories, and Antonio took that place.
But I don't say it. Can't.
Antonio's face softens. "Sit down, boy."
I sit again, feeling like that twelve-year-old kid who showed up covered in blood, trembling and scared.
"I know this is hard," Antonio says quietly. "But I need you to be strong. For me. For the family."
"Asking me to murder you isn't strength. It's—" I run my hands through my hair. "I won't do it."
He's quiet for a long moment. "Alright. But when it gets bad, when I can't take it anymore, I'll do it myself. And you'll live with knowing you could have spared me the indignity of fumbling with a trigger while I'm too weak to hold the gun steady."
The image makes me sick.
"We're not having this conversation again."
He coughs again, more blood. When he catches his breath, he blinks hard. Confused. "Where's Martina? She should be here."
Martina. My aunt. Dead for fifteen years.
"Uncle—"
"She needs to know about the meeting. The Morozovs are coming, and she needs to—" He stops, blinks harder. Shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "No. No, that's not right. Martina is…"
"Gone," I finish softly. "She's gone."
His face crumples. Not with grief but with frustration. "I know that. Of course I know that. Why would you—" He stops himself, pressing his palms against his temples. "My mind is going. The cancer's in my brain now. Did I tell you that?"
"No." The nurse did. We're on hospice care. It's only a matter of time. Only God knows when. They don't think Antonio will even live long enough to suffer more indignity. That's why I won't pull the trigger. At least, that's what I tell myself to ease the guilt. It'll all be over soon anyway.
I'm cold-blooded. I'd kill almost anyone in an instant. Hell, even my cousins, his sons, would end up dead if it served my goals.
And yet…
I can't kill Antonio. This is my line. My limit.
Even if he can't respect it.
He shakes his head again, and I can see him fighting to focus. To stay present. For a moment, his eyes clear. He's back. Fully Antonio again.
"The girl," he says, voice sharp once more. "Your wife. She's still not pregnant."
I tense. "It's only been six months—"
"Six months is enough to know." His voice has gone cold. Clinical. "She's infertile. Barren. A curse on this family." He slips out of focus, slightly. "Her mother knew. That bitch always wanted to put me in my place."
"Don't." My tone is sharp. "Don't talk about her like that."
"It's the truth." He waves a dismissive hand. "You need to set her aside. Get an annulment. Find a woman who can actually give you an heir. A man without a son is weakness."
"That's not happening." I want to remind him it's not the 1960s. And yet, I know he won't care. His rationality has been eaten by the cancer.
"Listen to me—"
"No. You listen." I lean forward. "Gemma is my wife. My responsibility. And I'm not setting her aside because your timeline doesn't match reality."
"Your loyalty is admirable but misplaced." His voice is getting weaker. I can see him starting to slip again, the clarity beginning to fade. "The succession—"
"Will be fine. We'll have a child when we have a child." I close my eyes. "God's timing cannot be rushed."
He snorts. "You don't believe in God."
I stare at him. No matter how he looks now, I will always see a man larger than life. Commanding. Strong. "You do."
He coughs. "And if you don't? If she can't?" He's losing the thread now, words starting to slur. "You'll be weak. Vulnerable. The captains already question you. Without an heir, without my backing—"
"I'll manage."
"You're a killer, Santino. A good one. The best I've ever seen." He's rambling now, slipping away. "But leadership requires more. Requires sacrifice. Requires making hard choices."
"Like setting aside my wife?"
"Like doing whatever it takes to secure the family." His eyes flutter closed. "She's a curse. Bad luck. First her mother, then her. The Nero women are poison—"
"That's enough." I stand. "You're not yourself. Get some rest."
"Promise me," he mumbles, barely conscious now. "Promise you'll do what's necessary. For the family. Always for the family."
He's not going to let this go. It makes me want to take the gun and do what he asks. Instead, I lie.
"I promise."
His breathing evens out. Sleep or unconsciousness, I can't tell.
I'm halfway to the door when I hear it, a soft sound. Like fabric brushing against wood.
Someone's outside.
I yank the door open only to find the hallway empty.
But there's a faint scent in the air, a floral perfume that reminds me of Gemma. She wears something that reminds me of a fresh spring day after the rain, and I scent it now.
Was she here?
I look both ways down the hall. Nothing. No sign of her.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I'm so on edge I'm inventing threats.
I start toward our bedroom, then stop. Voices downstairs. My cousins.
Family first. I'll find Gemma after.
I head down, schooling my expression into something neutral.
Even with Antonio still alive, I am head of the family.
And I must deliver bad fucking news.
Marcello, Julian, and Dominic are in the foyer, bags at their feet. Antonio's sons. My cousins.
Marcello's the oldest at twenty-six—working as a big shot lawyer in the city. Julian's twenty-two, finishing his MBA at Wharton. Dominic's the youngest at twenty, still at Oxford.
None of them look like they belong in this world. They are clean-cut with soft hands, and tech neck from leaning over computers all day.
Antonio kept them away from the business. Wanted them to have normal lives. It worked, mostly.
I have my suspicions, especially about Marcello, but I keep them to myself. Now isn't the time, and I don't like to ride people's assess for no reason. As long as he keeps his shit above board, he can do what he likes.
Besides, we aren't here for all that. We are here to say goodbye. To watch our father die. Now, is not the time to bring up bullshit.
"Saint." Marcello's the first to move, pulling me into an awkward hug. He smells like expensive cologne and paper. "How is he?"
"Dying."
Julian winces. Dominic looks away.
"I talked to him last month on FaceTime," Julian says, shaking his head. "He didn't look so bad."
"It's moving fast now. Spread to the brain. He refused treatment when he realized it wasn't buying him more than a year."
"Can we—" Dominic clears his throat. "Can we see him?"
"He's sleeping. Give him an hour."
They nod, and we stand there in uncomfortable silence. We're family, technically. But we don't know each other. Not really. Haven't since we were old enough to understand the family we were born into.
Antonio raised me to be a weapon. He raised them to be respectable.
"How are you holding up?" Marcello asks.
"I'm fine."
"Right." He doesn't believe me. "And Gemma, your wife? How's she doing?"
The concern in his voice surprises me. They've never met her. "She's...managing."