I still have my favorite gift from my uncle: a small gold medallion of Saint Estachius. I wear it every day.

Uncle Francesco was a good man: funny and charming. Passionate about everything. He loved to cook and to play tennis. He’d take Nero and me to the courts and play two-against-one, smoking us every time. He wasn’t tall, but he was compact and wiry, and he could fire a shot into the very back corner of the court, so the ball was touching the lines, but still inside. It was impossible to return. Nero and I would be sweating and panting, swearing this would be the time we finally beat him.

I sometimes wish we could have him back for a day so he could see what we all look like as adults. So we could talk to him as peers.

I wish the same thing about my mother.

She never saw who we turned out to be.

I wonder if she’d be happy?

She never liked the mafia life. She ignored it, pretended to be ignorant of what her husband was doing. She was a concert pianist when my father first spotted her playing on stage. He pursued her relentlessly. He was much older than her. I’m sure she was impressed that he spoke three languages, that he was well-read and well-spoken. And I’m sure his aura of authority was impressive to her. My father was already the head Don of Chicago. One of the most powerful men in the city. She loved who he was, but not what he did.

What would she think of us? Of what we’ve done?

We just finished a massive real estate development on the South Shore. Would she look on that in awe, or would she think that every one of those buildings was built with blood money?

The bartender brings Dante’s drink.

“Can I get another for anyone else?” he says to us.

“Yes!” Aida says at once.

“Alright,” Nero agrees.

“Not for me,” I say. “I’m gonna head out.”

“What’s your rush?” Nero says.

“Nothing,” I shrug.

I don’t know how to express that I feel impatient and uneasy. Maybe I’m jealous of Dante leaving for Paris with his wife. Maybe I’m jealous of Aida and Nero, too. They seem sure of their path. Happy in their lives.

I’m not. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

Dante stands up to let me out of the booth. Before I leave, he hugs me. His heavy arms almost crack my ribs.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says.

“Of course. Send us postcards.”

“Fuck postcards. Send me chocolate!” Aida pipes up.

I give her a little wave, and Nero too.

“She hasn’t had wine in a while,” I say to Nero. “You better drive her home.”

“I will,” Nero says, “But if you puke in my car, I will fucking cut you Aida.”

“I would never,” Aida says.

“You have before,” Nero snarls.

I leave them in the booth, heading out into the warm Chicago evening. It’s summertime — even at ten o’clock at night, the heat is barely beginning to fade.