Safety is subjective. I’ll never be safe as long as Dario isn’t.

“You can’t protect me.”

“No one’s going to hurt you. Everyone misses you. It can be like it always was.”

I scoff and rub my eyes. It was always a prison, and we were all looking between the bars so much we didn’t know they were there.

“Nothing will ever be like it was.”

“I’ll kick Sergio out.” He’s more awake now and more convinced he can make impulsive promises. “We’ll kill him. You can do it if you want. He killed Dad and stole you, so you—”

“No!” I pick up my head when I realize who he’s talking about killing. “No.”

“I’m not letting this go. Dad is dead. Sergio’s angling. He should have gone home to Queens already, but he had his head buried so far up Dad’s ass he could taste yesterday’s lunch.”

“Gross, Emo.”

“The sewing circle. The cooking shit… whatever you all do, it’s not the same without you. They all say it. Look, I need you to hold us together while I take over, okay? And if I let Lucari live, there’ll be chaos.” He looks at me, clear-eyed, considering my determination. “He killed our father, Goody. You don’t have to save his life.”

I don’t have to do any of it. I can send Massimo home or just walk out. I can get in the Buick and drive. Leave behind the Colonia and Dario.

“Yes. I do.”

“I say no, and that’s final.”

“Then you can try and catch me.” I stand.

Massimo tries to get off the table. Stops. Grunts in pain. I cross the room. I’ll be gone before his feet hit the floor.

“Wait,” he says, and I stop. “Fine. I won’t kill him.”

“And you won’t tell anyone else to.”

“Jesus. Fine. But I’m not stepping in front of a bullet or an angry mob for him. I take zero action to keep him alive.”

“Agreed.” I grab the shotgun and hand it to him. “I assume you know how to use this.”

“Who told you you could drive?”

After another near-miss, Massimo’s question is more of an accusation against the idiot who allowed me to get behind the wheel. He’s stretched across the back seat in Junior’s checked kitchen pants and white T-shirt. The shotgun sits on the floor beside him. The right leg that’s too shot up to press the pedals is raised on a sack of flour. A chef’s clog with the toes cut away hangs off it.

“I did,” I say.

“Pull over. Let me do it.”

“Not with your wrong foot, no.”

“Goody.”

“Emo.” We make eye contact in the rearview. I break it to get on the highway entrance. “Tell me what happened since I left. How are you not in charge?”

“My back was turned. You called me. From that, I had a location within a half mile area. But if I told Dad… I didn’t know what he’d do to you. Sergio bragged to me that hollowing Dafne was his idea. I didn’t want him to get any ideas about you.”