Turning Point||Book 2

26: Xenia.

The car was enveloped in a silence redolent of a cemetery as both entered. He and his high-status whore. Romano's previous tension had waned, only to be replaced by a newfound, unmistakable intensity, perhaps hatched from vagueness and insecurity.

I sensed a severe unease lurking, but daring to interrogate it with the potential culprit lurking nearby promised a descent into chaos. So, I sealed my lips tight, hoping to speak freely once we reached the shelter of our hotel.

Romano's phone incessantly interrupted the silence three times during our journey. The first call, from Angelo, he ignored. The second, from Santo, received the same treatment. But by the third, his hand darted for the device so swiftly I flinched.

Though I didn't catch a glimpse of the caller's name, as the phone fled the cupholder too quickly, Romano's demeanor upon answering revealed the identity.

His mother.

"Hello, Mother," Romano greeted, followed by a brief pause. "I'm surprised you called."

His mother's voice, though muffled through the tiny speaker, carried a tone laden with anger and complaints, conveyed through the cadence of her Italian consonants. I watched as Romano's jaw tightened in response.

"Non vengo per il funerale," he retorted, switching to Italian, perhaps to shield the conversation from my ears. The mention of a funeral piqued my curiosity; I had spent more than half my life in Italy, but my social circle had been largely English-speaking, leaving me unable to fully decipher Romano's emotions or the depth of his grievances.

Romano's jaw clenched once more, his focus solely on the road ahead, his lip bitten in concentration. "I didn't do it to be like him, Mamma," he asserted firmly. Then, with heightened intensity, "Stop comparing me to him!"

As his mother's responses poured through the phone, Romano's grip on the wheel tightened.

"I've got business here, as Ottavio surely mentioned. I need time. Angelo has made a mess of things," he added, a knot forming in my throat at the mention of my own predicament. "Uncle Santo's discontent with his current position. He needs a close eye on him."

More words from his mother followed.

"I won't yield my position for him, Mother, don't even suggest it!" Romano snapped, his determination palpable as he executed a sharp U-turn. "Santo cannot reign while I draw breath."

My jaw plummeted, figuratively hitting the floor, necessitating physical intervention to lift it back into place, stifling a gasp in the process to avoid detection.

His subsequent words sent my stomach into a tumultuous whirlwind. "Okay, let's entertain the notion that I am truly my father's son. Let's assume, for a moment, that I agree with you. Would that change anything? Would it temper the way you speak of it?" He scoffed lightly. "Look, mother, I comprehend your sorrow. I understand that neither you nor my sisters will ever forgive me, but it changes nothing. He's gone, I won't attend his funeral, and Santo cannot, and will not, ascend to the position of Don. Goodnight, Mamma. Pass on my regards to the ladies."

With a decisive click, he terminated the call, hurling the phone aside in a fit of frustration. It lost its precarious perch in the cupholder, landing abruptly on my lap.

The lingering warmth emanating from the device served as a soothing balm, gradually calming the frenzy in me. My mind churned relentlessly, grappling with the realization that I knew so little about him, and the likelihood of ever bridging that gap seemed slim, marred by my own foolish missteps.