"Ridiculous, isn't it?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "The heir apparent to the Volpe Crime Family, the Young Don who will one day command half the Eastern Seaboard—and he can't speak a word to his own blood wife. But don't worry, dear. No matter what happens, I'll keep that boy in line. Massima Gallo is nothing but common trash dressed in designer clothes. She will not destroy this Family."
I don't remember hanging up. I don't remember how I survived that long, lonely night, staring at the shadows that crawled across the ceiling like accusations.
Back then, when I first learned of his condition, I had researched everything I could. I'd pulled medical journals from the Family's underground archives, consulted with physicians on the Volpe payroll, read until my eyes burned. One line under "causes" had stood out like a brand:
Severe external trauma.
I didn't understand. I asked around the Volpe compound, approached capos and soldiers and household staff, but no one would give me a straight answer. Omertà extended even to this—the silence protected him from his own wife.
So I tried everything.