Chicago Sin Duet

Armando

My whole body goes rigid, my instinct to fight for my life activated before I can turn it off. 

“Bentornato!” Welcome back. Cheers of celebration follow.

Fuck.

Bentornato, Mando, the giant banner spanning the private room reads. 

Everyone shouts and claps around me as I struggle to exhale the breath lodged under my ribs. They’re focused on me with welcoming faces, but I can’t make my face crack even the semblance of a smile for the assholes. 

“Cristo, you coulda warned me,” I mutter to Marco. We’re six months apart, me and him. Raised together. Fought together. We became Made Men together. We’re tighter than brothers.

And for a split moment… I thought we were going to die together.

He cuts a look at me, taking in my balled fists. The muscle ticking at my jaw. “Surprise,” he says sardonically. “Sorry. I’ll get you a drink.”

My ma throws herself at me, her thin arms strangling my neck. I have to force my fingers open to hold her. I feel too many ribs on her back. Adrenaline’s still pumping from the unwelcome fucking surprise.

Seriously. Who gives a new prison-release a surprise party? I coulda killed one of them if they were within swinging distance. Thank God Marco didn’t give me a gun when he picked me up.

I scan the room filled with familiar faces. 

Don Pachino sits in the back, chewing on a cigar and sipping whiskey, his capos and son-in-law beside him. I lift my chin to him across the room to show respect, and he raises his glass.

It’s a soldier’s welcome: the hero’s return.

Except only the people in this room will treat me like a hero. To the rest of the world, I’m forever marked by my felony conviction.

A criminal.

“You’re too thin, Mando,” my mother chides when I finally get her to loosen her hold on me. 

“So are you, Ma.” I kiss her cheek. She’s much more bony than when I left. Her hair’s going grey, too. It kills me to see how much my stint in prison aged her.

I stare down at the cross around her neck and wonder what she must think of me. It’s not often that the son of a devout Catholic ends up in prison. I know I’ve disappointed her in a way that can never be made right again.

The cross around her neck only serves as a further reminder of how far I have fallen from the altar boy with dreams of one day becoming a priest like my childhood hero, Father Fantoni. The faith he had always preached to me about seemed to have no power in saving me from my own demons and family ties.

My mother stares at me with a mix of love and uncertainty. I can see the fear in her eyes that I could end up back where I just came from, but still she welcomes me with open arms. She loves me despite what I do and who I surround myself with, and for that I am grateful. She’s a mother in the mafia, and that comes with a certain amount of baggage but also understanding. But no mother wants to see her son go to prison. I’m supposed to keep what I do secret from her church and the ladies she does lunch with. I’m not supposed to mess up. 

I do want to tell her that I’m sorry for letting her down and that I will try to do better, but it’s hard to find the words.

I don’t know why stepping into the old place feels like a punch in the gut. This party is for me. I should be celebrating. But I don’t remember what joy feels like. 

I don’t even remember what it means to feel.

Father Fantoni approaches, and though I’m surprised to see him at the party, I know he’s no stranger to the Outfit. He’s seen us all grow from children and is just as much family as anyone else in this room.

“I hope to see you at Sunday Service now,” he says as he places a welcoming hand on my shoulder. “Welcome home.”

There is no judgment in his eyes. No condemnation.

“Yes, Father. As soon as I get… settled.”

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, he nods and continues making his rounds in the room.

“Good to see you, Mando.” A sweet feminine voice murmurs at my shoulder.

I turn to take in the practiced beauty of my ex. Her perfect makeup, straightened hair. Big green doe-eyes.

Fucking Grace.

Oddly, I feel nothing. Not rage. Not pain. Not betrayal.

I flatline on any response, so I turn and hit her with full eye contact. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Course I did.” Her fingers tangle and fight each other in front of her waist. She’s in high heels and a blue polka-dot wrap-around that shows off her perfect tits, with a diamond heart necklace dangling above them. A necklace I sure as hell didn’t give her. Ten feet behind her stands Emilio, her new conquest. Or maybe he conquered her—what do I know?

All I know is she didn’t even bother showing up in person to return my engagement ring.

“No. You really didn’t.” I say it pointed-like, and color leeches from her face.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” she whispers, lips trembling.

There was a time seeing those green eyes shining with tears would make me move mountains to comfort her. Now, I feel nothing at her distress. I just shrug. “I don’t give a shit either way, doll.” 

I push past her and make my way to the don. His salt and pepper hair has also grown more salty, but he still looks every inch the reigning king. The godfather of the Outfit, if you will. 

He’s the only one I have to respect here. The one I owe my loyalty to. The rest of these stronzos can fuck themselves.

Aside from my cousins, no one in this room bothered to visit me during my stay in the pen. Why are they acting like they care now?

“Mando. Sit.” Don Pachino pats the barstool beside him. I’m not sure if I should be offended that he didn’t stand up to embrace me. I drop into the seat and offer my hand. He tucks the cigar between his teeth and squeezes my palm too hard, like he used to when I was a teen. Showing me who’s boss.

Alex, his son-in-law, moves away to give us privacy.

“Care for one?” He slides the cigar box in my direction. I should take it. I should light up and smoke with the don. Show I’m still his trusted lieutenant. Prove my loyalties haven’t changed.

But the smell turns my stomach. “No thanks.” I rub my nose like that will clear the stench. “Too early.”

Marco presses a high-ball glass of Maker’s Mark into my hand and disappears again, slick-like, before I remember to thank him. I throw it back, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. 

“So, you’re out.” 

“Si signore. Glad to be back.”

It’s not true. I’m not glad to be anything. Glad isn’t an emotion I’ve known for a very long time. But it’s what I’m supposed to say.

Don Pachino pulls a thick envelope from the inner pocket of his five-thousand-dollar suit and hands it to me. “This is to get you on your feet again.”

I tuck it in the pocket of the jacket Marco brought me when he picked me up. The one that feels so foreign on me, even though it was my favorite.

“Thank you, Don Pachino.”

He takes a puff of the cigar. “I got you a no-work construction job. Pays six grand a month. You’re taken care of, Mando.”

I bow my head, the gratitude I should show not surfacing. I have to fake it. “Thank you. I’m so grateful.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? You’re family, Mando.”

“I appreciate that. So much.” Jesus, I hope my tone doesn’t sound as flat to his ears as it does to mine.

I don’t mean to look, but somehow, I find myself staring across the room at Grace, rubbing her tits over Emilio’s chest. 

“You were gone,” Don Pachino says with finality. He’s making it clear where he stands on the issue in case I’m gonna make waves. 

I don’t answer because what the fuck am I going to say? Yeah, it’s cool he stole my fucking fiancé while I was doing time like a good soldier. Sorry if I don’t go kiss his cheeks and let him fuck me in the ass some more while he’s at it.

Don Pachino doesn’t take kindly to my silence. His casual air evaporates, and he looks me square in the eye. “There will be no retribution for it. Capisce?”

I only hesitate a moment before I nod. One thing I always respected about Don Pachino—he’s damn clear about his expectations. “Understood.”

“Do not test me on this.”

“I won’t.”

“We’re Family. All of us.” He gestures around the room with his cigar. I wait for him to finish his point, but all he mutters is, “And you were gone.”

Yeah. 

Got the memo.

I was gone. My girl was fair game. 

Now I know how things get played.

I definitely feel disrespected by both of them, but the truth is, no hearts were broken.

I may have thought I loved Grace when I left, but that shriveled and died long before I got the news about her new engagement. It died that first year in prison when she stopped writing and never came to see me. 

“I want you to stay clean while you’re on parole. You ride that no-work job and build your life again. Don’t carry a piece or drive a car or violate the other terms of parole. I don’t want you getting sent back for something stupid.”

“I’m not going back,” I agree.

No fucking way.

Not because I’m so goddamn happy to be out. I still can’t dredge up a single lick of emotion. 

But I’m damn sure I won’t go back. 

I’d rather take a bullet to the head.