“Dad, you don’t look so good.”
“We don’t get lots of fruits and vegetables in here,” he teased, but the joviality didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward and took my hand in his; I could feel his rough, calloused skin against mine. “Happy belated birthday, Soph.”
“No contact across the tables!” shouted a nearby prison guard. I resisted the urge to slam my head against the table as we pulled our hands apart. I kept my gaze on my fingernails instead. “Thanks, Dad.”
“So how is everything at home?” His eyes lit up with interest, brightening his face and pulling my attention away from the new lines that had formed around his mouth.
“Boring, as usual,” I lied, purposefully omitting the part about me being drugged at Millie’s house party. I knew he would hear it from Jack or my mother soon, but it wasn’t going to be from me.
“I started a new book yesterday …” he began.
I listened as he told me all about the books he had been reading. When he finished, I traded some of my own safe topics, including how my mother had gained some new clients in Lincoln Park and Millie’s recently formed harebrained intention to go Greek-island-hopping after high school. We spoke about Mrs. Bailey’s weekly visits and touched briefly on my fast-approaching senior year. My father smiled and contributed at all the right times until the conversation drew to a natural close. As much as I wanted to pursue less threatening topics, I knew I had to prioritize my true intentions, because the visit would soon come to an end. As it was, I hadn’t even scratched the surface of the real reason I had come to see him.
“Dad,” I interjected before he could launch into another ambling conversation. “I have a question.”
He perked up in his chair and regarded me seriously. I loved that about him — he had always treated me like an adult worthy of respect, even when I was a small child. I knew that meant he would answer me as best he could. “What is it, Soph?”
I decided to dive straight in. “Remember I told you how a new family moved into the old Priestly place? There are five of them and they’re all boys.”
His eyelids fluttered, but he kept his mouth closed in a hard line, waiting for me to finish.
“Well, I think you might know them.”
“Have you spoken to this family?” he asked, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Have they approached you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve spoken to them.”
My father buried his face in his hands and released a heavy sigh. “Jesus,” he said, half-muffled. “Jesus Christ.”
That horrible sinking feeling came over me again, pricking at my eyes and sticking in my throat. “Dad?”
“Sophie,” he said, but this time it was weary, and heavy with disappointment. He uncovered his face, letting his hands fall to the table with a heavy thunk. “I thought Uncle Jack told you to stay away from them?”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he came to see me when he found out they had moved in. And we decided — ”
“Hold on,” I cut in. “What do the Priestlys have to do with our family?”
My father double-blinked, his mouth twisting to a frown. “The Priestlys? Who are the Priestlys?”
“The — ” I stopped abruptly. My whole brain shifted. Think. Who were the Priestlys? We had all just assumed the connection between Nic’s family and the old house. After all, it had never been put up for sale, which meant it was inherited or passed down, surely. Even my mother hadn’t questioned it. But now …
“Sophie,” my father said, his voice so quiet I had to lean toward him. “I don’t know where you got that idea from, but they are definitely not Priestlys. They’re Falcones.”
He might as well have punched me square in the face.
I slumped backward in my chair. How could I have been so stupid? So ignorant? Luca was right. I was wrong. I had been wrong all along. They had never identified themselves as Priestlys — I had plucked the name from an old neighborhood legend and never thought to check whether it was true. The realization came upon me in a succession of lightning bolts. The Mediterranean complexion, the Italian dialogue, the Falcon crest. Nic’s face. Those damn eyes. The sudden hatred.
“Falcone,” I repeated, Falcone-eh, my voice sounding very far away as I tripped over the word that had just changed everything.
“Yes.” There was a heavy pause, and then, delicately, my father asked, “Do you remember who Angelo Falcone was?”
It was a painfully unnecessary question. The name was seared in my brain forever.
“Of course I remember.” I rested my head on the cold metal table. I had looked at Angelo Falcone’s picture fifty times, and yet it hadn’t clicked. I had studied Valentino’s portrait of him and hadn’t even made the connection between his face and the man in all the newspapers when it happened. The man with Nic’s eyes. Oh God.
I lifted my head. “He’s the man you killed.”
“That’s right.” My father had placed his hands in his lap so I could no longer see them, but I knew he was fidgeting. If I concentrated hard enough, I could see the vein in his temple pulse up and down against his skin. He started to grind his teeth — it was a habit he had picked up in prison. For a long moment, neither one of us said anything, but every time his molars rolled against each other, I winced.
I would never forget that name or that day for as long as I lived. But we had never talked about it, not properly. Maybe it was time.