"So you didn't tell them I was coming after your family? You didn't tell them about the man at the body shop? You didn't tell them about the man who didn't come home from Vegas with us?"

"I didn't," she whispers. "I swear."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"Yes."

"Why would I?"

"Because I'm telling the truth."

I want to believe there isn't more, that she didn't spill every dirty detail, but the evidence is stacked against her and she's already confessed to part of it. I want to believe in her.

I'm not sure I can.

"I didn't do it," she says. "Whatever they know, it didn't come from me. I didn't tell them anything about you. I told them my mother shot you. That's all. I swear. I wanted to stop all of this. It didn't want anyone else to die! I thought if they arrested her, she'd be safe. I thought you'd be safe. I was trying to save both of your lives!"

"And you endangered yours in the process yet again," I say, laughing bitterly as I back up a step. I need some room to breathe… to think. Running my hands through my hair, I growl with frustration, trying to purge the aggression that's building beneath my skin. "Do you know what happens to people who rat? Do you know what we do to them? Christ. You're supposed to lawyer up—that's what you do. You keep your mouth shut and they go away. Because that man? Jameson? He doesn't give a shit about me. He doesn't care about your mother, or you. He doesn't care about anything. All you gave him was validation. You gave him the justification he wanted to continue. The only person you helped is him."

"I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter," I say, cutting her off. "Don't say it unless you mean it. How many times have I told you that? Huh? You said it, and now you have to stand by it. And now I have to…"

Her voice trembles as she asks, "Have to what?"

Turning, I head for the door, not answering that question.

What am I supposed to say?

Now I have to decide who else will die because of this?

There are worse things than being alone.

Being lonely, for one.

It's torture, being in a room with someone, breathing the same air, but feeling miles away. The isolation you feel, sharing a bed with someone you can't connect with, is insurmountable. Some people get off on casual sex, they relish in the physical pleasure, but that's never been enough for me. I've slept with a few women since my wife died, casual flings that ended as quickly as they started.

I got nothing out of it.

Afterward, I'd lie in bed beside some woman as she bathed in a post coital glow, coated in sweat and body fluids, and feel nothing but desolation. Disgust. It reeked of desperation.

It was always the loneliest moment of my life.

Until now.

Karissa's lying in bed beside me, both of us wide-awake. I could reach over and touch her if I wanted, run my rough fingertips along the curves of her soft frame, but succumbing to the temptation feels a lot like surrendering. Sex, with her, always had passion, toeing the thin line between love and hate. Touching her tonight would be dangerous. I could just as easy condemn her as I could forgive her, wrapping my hand around her throat and forgetting to let go.

Sighing exasperatedly, I sit up, my feet hitting the floor beside the bed. I run my hands down my face. I'm exhausted, physically and mentally, but I'm not going to get any sleep.

The moment I stand, her voice calls out to me. "Ignazio?"

Not Naz. Ignazio.

I think she knows that gets to me.

"Not right now," I say as I head for my closet. "I can't do this with you right now, Karissa."

She says something else, but I don't stick around to hear it. I grab a suit and walk out, putting it on and pulling myself together as I head downstairs. It only takes me a few minutes, and I slip on my shoes in the den, grabbing my keys before heading outside.

I lock the door behind me.

I need some space.

I need some answers.

I need to fucking think.

It's five in the morning, and there's not too much traffic on the streets as I drive around the outer boroughs before heading to Manhattan. I'm not sure where I'm going or what I'm even doing, ending up in Hell's Kitchen before dawn. I drive through the old neighborhood, the streets I ran growing up. The streets where Johnny Rita was my best friend, where Carmela was like a sister to me, where I fell in love with Maria.

They're all dead now.

All three of them.

Depends on who you ask, I might have all of their blood on my hands.

I pull the car in a spot along the street and get out but don't bother to feed the meter. I have no change on me. I stroll down the sidewalk, toward the old brick townhouse, oddly a shade lighter than the rest of the places on the block.

It's dark, no lights on, but it doesn't matter.

I have no intention of going inside.

I hesitate in front of it, staring at the chipped paint of the black front door, before I take a seat on the grungy steps leading to it. I sit in silence under the dim outside light, gazing around the neighborhood.

After a few minutes, the door behind me unexpectedly opens. I don't turn around, don't bother to look. I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. Footsteps descend the steps and pause on the sidewalk in front of me.

My eyes slowly move up, meeting my father's steely gaze.

"I've seen you more this summer," he says, "than I saw you the past few years."