"Bullshit," he says. "You think someone like Raymond Angelo respects rules? He makes it all up as he goes to suit his own needs. Because that's all he cares about: himself. He doesn't care about this neighborhood or these people, and he doesn't care about you. You think these police don't care? Take a look at who's around you, because they don't care, either."

Months ago, I would've come to Ray's defense, but I don't have it in me at the moment. My silence doesn't slip past my father, who laughs to himself as he climbs to his feet. Without saying goodbye, he starts to walk away, making it a few feet before turning back to me.

"You want some advice, Ignazio?"

Hesitating, I nod.

"People make mistakes. They do things sometimes that you don't like, that you wouldn't do. But that doesn't mean you should give up on them, that you should write them off. Because nobody is hopeless as long as they're still breathing."

"That's good advice."

"It's something your mothers been telling me for years," he says. "I haven't been able to listen, myself, but maybe you'll prove to be a better man than me."

"Unlikely."

He laughs. "Yeah, you're right. But Ignazio? Make your choice, not Angelo's. Because I guarantee Angelo's choice only benefits him."

I stand there, watching as he disappears down the street. Once he's gone, I head toward my car, wanting to be gone before my mother wakes. I drive back toward Brooklyn, considering my father's words.

What would I do if it were my choice?

I'd do everything in my power to make Karissa happy. I'd walk through fire, burn every broken bridge and sever every tainted tie to give the woman what she deserves. I'd give her the world, not take it away. I'd protect her life, not end it.

If it were my choice, I'd say fuck Ray.

Fuck his rules.

Fuck his plans.

The sun is starting to rise when I make it to my neighborhood, a strange sort of resolve settling through me, like my choice has been made without me even having to make it.

Like there wasn't even a choice at all.

My father was right, as much as I hate to admit it.

I feel relief, but the sensation doesn't last. The second my house comes into sight, my stomach bottoms out, my insides plunging.

The police are here.

A car sits in my driveway, in my usual spot, while another is double parked at the curb. I swing into my driveway, nearly side-swiping the unmarked cruiser, the back of my Mercedes sticking out into the street. Climbing out, I slam the door, rushing toward the house, my heart racing.

Not good.

Not good at all.

Not fucking good.

The front door is unlocked, the knob turning smoothly. As soon as I shove it open, I nearly run into the back of a man. Before I can say a word or even get a good look at my surroundings, the sound of hysterical sobbing slams right into me. My eyes dart toward the source, seeing Karissa. She sits on the couch, hands covering her face, crying as a familiar man sits beside her.

Jameson.

In my house.

On my couch.

With Karissa.

"What's going on here?"

The second I speak, Karissa chokes on a sob. She lifts her head up, meeting my gaze. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is splotchy, distress weighing her down. She opens her mouth, her words cracking as she forces them from her lips. "My mom," she cries. "She's dead."

I don't react for a moment, trying to force down the anger that rushes through me. It mixes with the unexpected swell of regret inside my gut, making me feel sick. They came to notify her. They put together the pieces.

"Get out of my house," I say, eyes darting between the officers. "Now."

They try to argue, but I cut them off.

"I'm asking you nicely to leave my property," I say. "It's within my right to remove you."

"Remove us?" Jameson asks, slowly climbing to his feet as the others walk out. "Is that a threat, Mr. Vitale?"

"No, it's a fact."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

He nods, strolling my way, and pauses right in front of me. He stares dead in my eyes, unwavering, unblinking, not an ounce of apprehension in his expression. He has me this time, he thinks. He's got me all figured out. But he doesn't know me like he believes he does, or he'd know there's no way I'm ever going to be taken down by a man like him. We're enemies.

Men like me?

We see the end at the hands of a friend.

"You want to know what I think?" he asks.

I don't respond. I don't move. I don't care what he thinks about anything.

"I think it's curious," he continues, not needing any urging, "that you don't seem the least bit surprised. A woman you grew up with, your fiancée's mother, is dead, and you're not surprised at all, are you?"

Again, I say nothing.

"Curious," he says again. "It's almost as if you already knew."

He slips past me, and I watch as he makes his way out the door, closing it behind him. The crying has quieted, strained silence overtaking the room. I turn back to the couch once we're alone, meeting Karissa's gaze.

Horrified eyes regard me.

She heard what he just said.

"You knew." Her bottom lip trembles as she tries to hold herself together, but she's failing horribly. She's a flimsy house of cards that's about to collapse under her own weight. All it'll take is a single breath, the force of a few wrong words, to sending her crashing down. "You… Oh God, no… you didn't. Tell me you didn't!"