In that moment I realized I have violence inside of me. And selfishness, too. I wasn’t going to sacrifice my brother for somebody else. And I certainly wouldn’t sacrifice myself. I was willing to hurt or to kill. Or a whole lot worse.

It’s a strange thing to learn about yourself.

I look around the table at my siblings. They all have blood on their hands, one way or another. Looking at them, you’d never guess it. Well, maybe you’d guess it with Dante—his hands look like scarred baseball mitts. They were made for tearing people apart. If he were a gladiator, the Romans would have to pair him up against a lion to make it a fair fight.

But they all look happier than I’ve seen them in years. Aida’s eyes are bright and cheerful, and she’s flushed from the wine. She hadn’t been able to drink the whole time she was nursing, so she’s thrilled to be able to get just a little bit tipsy again.

Dante has this look of contentment, like he’s already sitting at some outdoor cafe in Paris. Like he’s already starting the rest of his life.

Even Nero has changed. And he’s the one I never thought would find happiness.

He’s always been so vicious and full of rage. I honestly thought he was sociopathic when we were teenagers—he didn’t seem to care about anyone, not even our family. Not really.

Then he met Camille, and all of a sudden he’s completely different. I wouldn’t say he’s a nice guy—he’s still ruthless and rude as hell. But that sense of nihilism is gone. He’s more focused than ever, more deliberate. He has something to lose now.

Aida says to Dante, “Are you gonna learn French?”

“Yes,” he grunts.

“I can’t picture that,” Nero says.

“I can learn French,” Dante says defensively. “I’m not an idiot.”

“It’s not your intelligence,” Aida says. “It’s your accent.”

“What do you mean?”

She and Nero exchange an amused glance.

“Even your accent in Italian . . . isn’t great,” Aida says.

“What are you talking about?” Dante demands.

“Say something in Italian,” Aida goads him.

“Alright,” Dante says stubbornly. “Voi due siete degli stronzi.” You two are assholes.

The sentence is accurate. The problem is that Dante keeps his same flat Chicago accent, so it sounds like, “Voy doo-way see-etay deg-lee strawn-zee.” He sounds like a midwestern farmer trying to order off a menu in a fancy Italian restaurant.

Aida and Nero burst into laughter, and I can’t help letting out a little snort myself. Dante scowls at us all, still not hearing it.

“What?” he demands. “What’s so damn funny?”

“You better let Simone do the talking,” Aida says between giggles.

“Well it’s not like I actually lived in Italy!” Dante growls. “You know, I speak some Arabic too, which is more than you two chuckleheads.” When they won’t stop laughing he adds, “Fuck you guys! I’m cultured.”

“As cultured as yogurt,” Nero says, which only makes them laugh harder.

I think Dante would have knocked their heads together in the old days, but he’s above their nonsense now that he’s a husband and father. He just shakes his head at them and signals the bartender for one more drink.

Becoming a mother hasn’t made Aida above anything. Seeing that Dante isn’t going to respond to her teasing anymore, she looks across the table and fixes her keen gray eyes on me.

“Seb has a gift for languages,” she says. “Do you remember when we were coming back from Sardinia, and you thought you were supposed to talk to the customs officers in Italian? And they kept asking you questions to make sure you were actually an American citizen, and you wouldn’t say anything except ‘Il mio nome è Sebastian?’ ”

That’s true. I was seven years old, and I got flustered with all those adults staring at me, barking at me. I was so deeply tanned from my summer in Italy that I’m sure it looked like my father had snatched some little island boy out of Costa Rei and was trying to bring him back across the Atlantic.

The customs officers kept demanding, “Is this your family? Are you American?” And I, for some reason, had decided that I had to respond in their native language, even though they were speaking English. In the moment, all I could think of to say was “My name is Sebastian,” over and over.

Damn Aida for even remembering that—she was only five herself. But she never forgets something embarrassing she can bring up later at the most inopportune time.

“I wanted to stay on vacation a little longer,” I tell Aida coolly.

“Good strategy,” she says. “You almost got to stay forever.”

I am going to miss Dante. I miss all my siblings, the more they branch out into their own lives.

They can be infuriating and inconvenient, but they love me. They know all my faults and all my mistakes, and they accept me anyway. I know I can count on them, if I really need them. And I would show up for them, any time, any place. That’s a powerful bond.

“We’ll come visit you,” I say to Dante.

He smiles just a little. “Not all at the same time, please,” he says. “I don’t want to scare Simone away right after we finally got married.”

“Simone loves me,” Aida says. “And I’m already bribing my way into your children’s hearts. You know that’s the path to becoming the favorite aunt—giving them loud and dangerous gifts that their parents wouldn’t allow.”

“That must be why you liked Uncle Francesco,” I say. “He gave you a bow and arrows.”

“That’s right,” Aida says. “And I always adored him.”

So did I. But we lost Uncle Francesco two years after that particular gift. The Bratva cut his fingers off and set him on fire while he was still alive. That sparked a two-year bloodbath with the Russians. My father was in a rage like I’ve never seen before. He drove them out of their territory on the west side of the city, killing eight of their men in revenge. I don’t know what he did to the bratok who threw the match on Uncle Francesco, but I remember him coming home that night with his dress shirt drenched in blood to the point where you couldn’t see a single square inch of white cotton anymore.

I still have my favorite gift from my uncle: a small gold medallion of Saint Eustachius. I wear it every day.

Uncle Francesco was a good man: funny and charming. Passionate about everything. He loved to cook and to play tennis. He’d take Nero and me to the courts and play two-against-one, smoking us every time. He wasn’t tall, but he was compact and wiry, and he could fire a shot into the very back corner of the court, so the ball touched the lines while still remaining inside. It was impossible to return. Nero and I would be sweating and panting, swearing this would be the time we finally beat him.

I sometimes wish we could have him back for a day so he could see what we all look like as adults. So we could talk to him as peers.

I wish the same thing about my mother.

She never saw who we turned out to be.

I wonder if she’d be happy?

She never liked the mafia life. She ignored it, pretended to be ignorant of what her husband was doing. She was a concert pianist when my father first spotted her playing on stage. He pursued her relentlessly. He was much older than her. I’m sure she was impressed that he spoke three languages, that he was well-read and well-spoken. And I’m sure his aura of authority was impressive to her. My father was already the head Don of Chicago. One of the most powerful men in the city. She loved who he was, but not what he did.