Total pages in book: 206
Estimated words: 192184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 641(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 641(@300wpm)
He shrugged and continued.
“She was a bitch and now I think about it, it wouldn’t surprise me. All the fucking car crashes, huh? All my life he had such high expectations of me and my brother. We work to earn his respect on a continuous basis; it has a short shelf life. He pushes and pushes us and is always testing our loyalty. I got to a point where I wouldn’t let him push me. I started to show him before he had to push. Now I have all this to figure out.”
He sighed before continuing. “If this is who he really is, how do I live with that? I know we’ve ordered people dead. But they’re enemies, not family, not innocent. I’ve practically run the business the last few years. I handle a lot of the legit stuff and some of the shadier shit, too, and Dare and I have plans on how to get shot of the shadier stuff because we just don’t need it. We have money, we have power, and we do well. We know where to focus to boost earnings even more and without the risk, without having to pay people off, without worrying that the house of cards’ll tumble down at any minute. When Pop retires, we have a plan, a good one. I know I’m not the ice cream shop guy you wanted, baby, but I’m planning for a better life for us.”
“You are better than the ice cream guy,” I told him. He looked so distraught right now. “You’re real, Tommy. You’re a man with many layers and the fact that you’re looking for the truth even if it’s not what you want to hear? That’s huge. The ice cream guy probably wouldn’t have rescued me from Mexico, probably wouldn’t have done a lot of the things you’ve done. He was two dimensional. I’m here with you, not him.”
“The shit I’ve done that’s hurt you. That’s hurt others.” He looked lost.
“I’m Thomas Ferrano Jr. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. I’m his son. It’s so fucking fucked up, baby. He goes from being a philanthropist to doing this fucked-up shit. He’s hiding behind the charity, the talk about family, about loyalty.”
I threw my arms around him and squeezed. I had an ache spread through me, an aching desire to help him. His pain was palpable.
“Will you tell me about the necklace?” I whispered.
He let out a big sigh and then finished my bottle of water. “It was my mother’s. One of the last lucid talks I remember with her she put it around my neck and told me that if I wore it I’d remember to be a good boy. Maybe she knew the apple wouldn’t fall far, too. Some of the shit she said, warned me about, it was all riddles to me but now I think she hated Pop when she died, and knew I’d probably turn out like him. Sometimes she screamed at me like I was him, told me why she hated me. I think she was afraid for me and what I’d become without her to guide me. When I have to make hard decisions that I know she wouldn’t have approved of, I can’t wear it.”
“You’ve been having a lot of epiphanies,” I said softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Never told anyone this shit, baby.” He shook his head, then rolled his eyes.
“You don’t have to be the apple. You are your own man. You already want to change the way that this family earns money; you can change other things, too.”
“I’m not giving you up.” He looked at me with ferocity.
“What?”
“I told you not to ever ask me to give you up.” His jaw muscles flexed.
I shook my head. “That’s not where I was going with that. I don’t want you to give me up, Tommy.”
He didn’t believe me.
“I don’t,” I assured him. And it was true. There was hope in me for him, for us.
“You don’t want to go home?” he asked and there was pleading in his eyes.
“I’m home. You’re my home.”
He shook his head like he doubted what I was saying, got up and walked to the bar and poured a drink. “Want one?” he asked.
I nodded.
He drank a shot of whiskey and then poured another shot. Then he reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine and poured me a glass.
I was surprised and a little hurt that my declaration had no apparent effect on him. “I just mean that you don’t have to let the darkness engulf you. You could go to therapy. Maybe you should.”
“Fuck that,” he said through gritted teeth and I stopped talking and accepted the glass of wine. I took a sip and then decided to try again.