Chapter 3
Chapter Three
MAURIZIO
The private dining room at Carlito’s Authentic Italian Cuisine hummed with boisterous conversation and hearty laughter.
Waiters in crisp white shirts circulated with trays of antipasti and glasses of dark red wine.
I’d been greeted by everyone important. All pretense of grieving was over, and it seemed that all the people in attendance were celebrating.
I sat at a corner table, a plate of untouched food before me, watching the careful dance of power and respect playing out across the room.
Capos and made men clustered in small groups, voices low, occasionally glancing toward Nicco, who held court near the rear of the room.
I sipped water instead of wine, needing clarity to navigate the afternoon.
The worst of the funeral was over, but I knew from experience that family gatherings like this often held unexpected complications.
My cousin Frankie called from Chicago to offer his condolences.
Frankie and I grew up together. He was twenty-eight, like me, and we were more like brothers.
When he was appointed capo of Chicago, I was just as shocked as he was.
I missed him. Nicco and Cenzo were cool, but I never had the same bond with them that I did with Frankie.
Cousin Valentina was a girl, and she pretty much stayed away from my childhood home when we were young.
I think she was afraid of my father. Now I believe she was kept away on purpose.
Maybe for reasons I didn’t want to think about.
Cenzo had disappeared shortly after our arrival, drawn into a conversation with several New York associates.
I didn’t mind the solitude. It gave me space to breathe, to process the morning’s events without maintaining the mask of dutiful son.
A waiter approached with a tray of small arancini, but I waved him away.
My stomach was knotted too tight for food.
I was contemplating a discreet exit when I noticed Nicco moving purposefully across the room toward me.
Three people followed in his wake. There was an older Italian woman with silver-streaked dark hair and two adults, a woman and a man.
Something in their bearing, in the way they moved, struck me as familiar in a way I couldn’t immediately place.
“Maurizio,” Nicco said as they reached my table. His voice carried an unusual tone. “There are some people you should meet.”
I stood, smoothing my suit jacket automatically, my mind racing through possibilities. Business associates? Distant relatives paying respects? I couldn’t place any of the three faces standing a few feet from me.
“This is Myra,” Nicco said, gesturing to the older woman. “Your father’s first wife.”
The words brushed past me slowly. First wife? My father had been married before. I’d heard my mother mention this a time or two when she’d been drinking heavily.
“And these,” Nicco continued, seemingly oblivious to my shock, “are your half-siblings, Gianna and Michael.”
I stared at them, unable to fully process what Nicco was saying.
Half-siblings. People who shared my blood, who had existed my entire life without my knowledge.
The woman Gianna had hair like mine. Michael was taller, broader through the shoulders, but something in the set of his jaw was unmistakably Bregoli. He resembled my father, our father.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Myra said, her voice gentle but firm. She extended her hand, and I took it automatically. “I’ve heard about you over the years.”
“I, I hadn’t heard about you,” I managed to say. The words clumsily and rudely came from my mouth. “Any of you.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Michael said while his eyes assessed me carefully. “I’m sure Gianni wanted to forget we existed.”
I shook his hand, then Gianna’s, feeling like I was moving through a dream. The lady, my half-sister, was named after Gianna. Their faces were a strange mix of familiar and foreign echoes of my father, of myself, blended with features from a woman I’d never known existed until this moment.
Myra studied my face with the kind of careful attention that made me want to look away. “You have his eyes,” she said finally. “The same shape.”
I wasn’t sure whether she meant it as a compliment or an accusation. Perhaps both. “How long were you married?” I asked, struggling to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about my father’s life.
“Ten long years,” she replied. “I left when Michael was ten and Gianna was six. I took the children and escaped. It was necessary.”
Escaped? An odd word to use, but somehow, I knew she meant it.
I didn’t need her to elaborate. I knew exactly what kind of man my father had been.
What kind of husband was he to his first wife?
What kind of father was he to his first kids?
If he treated this woman anything like he treated my mother, I was just glad she made it out alive.
“We grew up in Oregon,” Gianna offered, her voice softer than her brother’s. “Mom remarried when I was ten. We took our stepfather’s last name, Gapen.”
“Did he, did my father ever try to find you?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.
Michael’s expression hardened. “I’m not sure. When I was sixteen, I met Uncle Dom and Nicco.”
“You did?”
“Maurizio.” Nicco spoke up. “Yes, my father helped Myra leave Gianni. Not to speak ill of the dead, but you know your father was a little off. There was some extreme violence, and ah, my father felt it was best to hide Myra and her kids away.”
“He almost killed my mom,” Michael added.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not entirely sure what I was apologizing for. For my father’s behavior? For my ignorance on this matter? Or for the awkwardness of this moment?
“We didn’t come for apologies,” Myra said firmly. “I came to see if he was really dead.” Her bluntness was startling. “I wanted to make sure me, and my kids were safe from him. Now I can truly end this chapter of our lives and live without fear.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over our small group. I struggled to find appropriate words for this impossible situation. What do you say to the family you never knew you had? The family your father ruined, and your uncle secretly helped to hide?
Before I could speak, Nicco’s attention shifted to the entrance of the private room.
I followed his gaze and saw a young woman with vivid red hair entering.
There was a small bundle cradled in her arms. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, her face pretty but strained, her posture defensive even as she moved. I recognized her from the Palladium.
Nicco excused himself from our group and crossed to intercept her. They spoke briefly, his hand resting lightly on her elbow in a gesture that seemed protective rather than controlling. He nodded toward me, and she turned, her green eyes finding mine across the room.
“Who is that?” I asked. My question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.
“Hannah,” Myra supplied an answer. “Another of your father’s victims.”
Before I could ask what she meant, Nicco guided the young woman toward us. As they drew closer, I realized the bundle in her arms was a child, perhaps only a few months old. Something cold settled in my stomach as pieces began falling into place.
“Maurizio,” Nicco said, his voice carefully modulated, “Hannah wanted to speak with you.”
Hannah stepped forward, shifting the baby in her arms. Her gaze was direct, unflinching. “I wanted to see for myself that he was really gone,” she said without preamble.
I nodded, unsure how to respond. The baby in her arms made a small sound, and she automatically rocked him, a practiced motion that spoke of long nights and constant care.
“This is Gabriel,” she said, tilting the infant slightly so I could see his face. “He’s six months old.”
I stared at the baby, seeing unmistakable echoes of my father’s features— the same features I saw in my own mirror each morning. The shape of the brow. The set of the small mouth. My half-brother. Another secret revealed only after death.
“And this is my father’s son.”
“Yes, Nicco told me to come and introduce you to my baby.”
Nicco touched my shoulder. “Yeah, this is Gianni’s son, your other half-brother.”
“With Gianni gone, I can move back to Vegas,” Hannah continued, her chin lifting slightly.
I glanced at Nicco, who met my gaze steadily. Of course he would know about this. Nicco made it his business to know everything that might affect the family’s interests or reputation.
“If you want to know your half-brother, that’s up to you,” Hannah said, her voice softer now. “I won’t keep him from his family. I’ve already been introduced to Gianna and Michael. Mr. Bregoli wanted me to give you a chance to meet Gabriel.”
I nodded, still struggling to find words. “I understand. Thanks for coming.”
Hannah shifted the baby to one arm and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small piece of paper. “My number,” she said, pressing it into my hand. “If you want to talk. If you want to be part of his life.”
Our fingers touched briefly, and I felt the weight of her scrutiny. She was evaluating me, trying to determine if I was like my father. If I were a safe person to be around.
“Thank you,” I managed. “I, I’m sorry for, I don’t know.”
“You’re not responsible for his actions,” she said firmly. Then, after a pause: “But it’s nice to meet you in person.”
She stepped back, nodded once to Nicco, then turned and walked away, her steps quick and purposeful. The baby peered over her shoulder as they left, dark eyes that seemed too knowing for an infant.
I stood there surrounded by my newfound family, who were essentially strangers. Myra, Gianna, and Michael watched me with expressions that mixed sympathy and caution. Nicco’s face had returned to its usual mask of careful detachment.
“So, you knew?” I asked him quietly. “About all of them?”
“I know everything about this family,” Nicco replied simply. He bent close to my ear to whisper. “I know everything.”
The implication wasn’t lost on me. He knew about me and Labria. Did Cenzo tell him? Or did he tell Cenzo? I couldn’t ask. There were too many strangers in our midst. I invited Myra, Gianna and Michael to my table. I had questions, and they had answers.
As the afternoon wore on, I went through the motions of appropriate social interactions.
I exchanged contact information with my half-siblings and promised to stay in touch.
I accepted condolences from various associates and family members.
But inside, I felt more alone than I had at the church.
I felt more isolated than I had been standing before my father’s casket at the church.
I thought I knew my father, and I didn’t know shit.
I thought of Labria waiting at my townhouse, of the secrets we were keeping, of Cenzo’s cryptic warnings. What else didn’t I know? What other revelations lurked beneath the surface of my carefully constructed life?
The man we buried today had been a stranger to me in many ways, despite sharing a home with him for eighteen years.
Now I was surrounded by his legacy. I was left with siblings I’d never known.
Later, Nicco told me my baby brother was born from the brutal rape of Hannah, who was younger than me.
The weight of the Bregoli family name carried both privilege and poison.
Why was my father the way he was when his brother Dom was beloved and praised?
I’d never felt this much fear in my life.
There was this fear that I would end up like him.
The terror of the thirteen years I had with my mother wasn’t enough to quash the paternal side of my DNA that could one day make me into a monster.
I never thought of my father as a good guy, but from the stories I’d heard today, he was the fucking devil.
I stuffed my face with the owner’s wife’s Schiacciata Fiorentina stayed an acceptable amount of time for a grieving son.
Nicco gave me the okay to leave, and I wanted to run away and into the comfort of Labria’s arms. As I finally made my way toward the exit of Carlito’s Restaurant, I realized that Gianni Bregoli might be in the ground, but his ghosts would haunt me for years to come.
I made a silent vow to never be anything like that man.
He was a villain. I was a hero. I also vowed to undo his wrongs.
After twenty-eight years as an only child, I wasn’t going to turn my back on Gianna, Michael or Gabriel.