“He’s dead. Isn’t that enough? I thought that would have satisfied you, but I guess I was wrong.” Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t feel sad. Confused and remorseful, yes, the need to defend my father fierce. The desperation to understand my muddled loyalties even more so.

Salvatore ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and glanced away. He nodded but didn’t speak.

“Why don’t you just drop me off at the house?” I asked, feeling betrayed after yesterday. But what did I expect? What did I think, that we were building a relationship?

“Which way to the coffee shop?” he asked, ignoring my request.

I pointed and walked just ahead of him. The coffee shop was small and exactly as I remembered it. And it was full.

The entire place quieted when we walked in. I looked around at the faces, not really recognizing anyone, but knowing they must recognize me. Or, more likely, Salvatore. Benedetti were not welcomed in this neighborhood for a long time. That hadn’t changed, even though now, they owned it.

“Let’s get a table,” Salvatore said when I walked up to the counter.

“We can just get a cup to go.” I hadn’t thought about how people might react to him. To me with him.

“No.”

He made a point of meeting every eye in the place, and I was sure he felt it too.

“There’s a couple leaving. We can take their table.”

I looked to where he pointed, and sure enough, the pair at the table left money on the check, gathered up their things, and walked out.

“We don’t have to stay,” I whispered, not sure if it was more for him or me. People would know who I was. They’d know either because of my father and the photos of the family after his death in the local paper or because of Salvatore.

“We’ll stay.”

He pulled out one of the chairs and waited for me to have a seat before he took the chair opposite. I saw how he’d chosen the seat where he could watch the whole of the café, especially the door. It was a subtle reminder of who he was. Who I was.

A waitress came to clear and wipe down the table.

“What would you like?” Salvatore asked me.

“Um, a cappuccino, please. Thanks.”

“I’ll have a double espresso and one of the éclairs if they’re fresh.”

“Baked just this morning,” the waitress said, her tone unfriendly.

Salvatore excused her with a nod.

Voices picked up as conversation began again, and I wondered how many of them were talking about us.

Salvatore leaned back in his seat and looked at me. “You came here a lot growing up?”

I knew he wasn’t oblivious to the stares or whispers, but he acted like he couldn’t have cared less.