“What’s your deal?” Jace laughs. “You training for the Olympia?”

“Yeah.” I grin. “Gonna make Arnold look puny.”

Jace isn’t the biggest of my lieutenants, but he’s the most loyal. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and I’d trust him with my life. He’s not even Italian—he’s a redheaded European mutt. His parents are schoolteachers. Still, he wants to be a made man.

He’s helping me pick up the slack left by Dante’s departure. With a couple of my favorite soldiers, including Jace, I take a shipment of guns from Micah Zimmer, exchange them for what we call in the business “a metric fuck-ton” of cocaine out of Florida, and then I split that up amongst the Marino and Bianchi families, because they handle distribution. I supervise the underground poker ring, including the monthly high-roller game in the Drake Hotel, and I deal with a petty squabble between the Carmine and Ricci families.

I handle it all, to the point that even my father seems surprised that nobody had to bother him all week long.

I meet him for dinner on Friday night. Nero was supposed to come as well, but he’s tied up down on the South Shore, closing a deal for an entertainment complex on one of the last available patches of land.

I had planned to take my father out to The Anchor, which used to be his favorite restaurant. At the last minute, he said he’d rather eat at home instead.

I’m concerned how little he leaves the house these days.

I drive over to see him, dressed nicely in a button-up shirt and slacks, to show respect to him. In return, my father is wearing one of his custom-made Italian suits, straight from the Zegna mill in the Alps, with a short stop in Savile Row for the actual tailoring.

My mother designed every one of his suits. She selected the silk lining, the thread for the pick stitching, the cut of the jacket, the positioning of the pockets, even the color and material of the buttons. My father hasn’t bought a single suit since she died. He just re-tailors the ones she chose to fit his shrinking frame.

Today he’s wearing the navy notch-lapel with the horn buttons. His dark hair, with its stark streaks of white, has grown long enough that you can see it’s not really straight—more wavy, like mine. His heavy brows hang so low that they half-cover his eyes, like an old basset hound. His beetle-black eyes glimmer underneath, still bright and fierce, no matter how tired the rest of him looks.

I can smell his aftershave, the same Acqua di Parma he’s been wearing all my life. Made of cypress and sage from the sunny slopes of Tuscany, it’s a scent that makes me feel like a child again—awed by my father, and feeling like I’ll trip over my own feet if he looks at me.

All boys are frightened of their father to some degree. To me, he was a god-king. Every man I saw paid homage to him. You could tell by the way they bowed to him, the way they barely dared to meet his eye, that he was feared and respected.

He was a large man and a stern one. He spoke slowly and carefully. The only person he deferred to was my mother. And even then, we still knew he was the boss.

It’s strange to look down on him now that I’m taller. Strange to see his hand tremble when he picks up his glass of wine.

Greta is eating with us. She eats most meals with my father these days. She’s been his housekeeper for as long as I can remember. I wouldn’t say she’s like a mother to me—nothing can replace your actual mom. But l love her like family, and she certainly helped raise me.

Greta is one of those people who looks almost the same at sixty as she did at thirty. She was a mature young woman, and a youthful older woman. Her hair is more gray than red now, but her cheeks are still ruddy, and her eyes are as bright a blue as ever.

She used to make feasts of all the traditional Italian foods my father loves, but under the repeated nagging of Dr. Bloom, she’s tried to cut down the fat and salt in his food, so he won’t die of a heart attack too soon.

Tonight she’s made a poached salmon salad with raspberry vinaigrette. She’s poured a small glass of wine for each of us, and I see her watching the bottle, ready to scold Papa if he tries to take more.

“You handled the Carmines and the Riccis very well,” my father says in his low, gravelly voice.

I shrug, taking a bite of my salmon. “I just did what you always said.”

“What’s that?”

“You said a Don has to be like King Solomon—if either of the parties leave happy, then the compromise wasn’t fair.”

Papa chuckles. “I said that, did I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you listened, mio figlio. I meant to instruct Dante. I always thought he’d take my place.”

“He will,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

“Perhaps,” Papa says. “I think he places love over family or business. His love is taking him in another direction.”

“He’ll come back,” I say. “Like he came back from the army.”

Papa lets out a long sigh. He hasn’t touched his food.

“When he enlisted, I knew he would never be Don,” Papa says.

“Nero will, then.”

“Nero is brilliant. And ruthless,” Papa agrees. “But he was born on an island. He’s always been that way.”

I would have agreed with that before—that Nero was meant to be a lone wolf. Until he surprised me by falling in love.

“He seems pretty wrapped up in Camille,” I point out.

“Camille is an extension of himself,” Papa says. “Anime gemelle.” Soulmates.

I eat more of my salad, so I don’t have to look directly at my father.

I’m afraid of what he’s trying to say.

We’re sitting up on the rooftop, under the fragrant fox grapes that hang down in heavy bunches. Their thick leaves keep the table beneath shaded and cool, even at the height of summer.

We’re eating off the heavy pewter plates my great-grandmother brought from the old country. Poor Greta has had to haul them up and down the stairs for countless meals on the roof. But she never complains. She just rolls her eyes at us when we try to help. She says sloth is the only sin, and work keeps you young.

Maybe that’s why my father is getting so old.

“I built this empire,” Papa says quietly. “As did my father, and his father. Each generation has added to it. Increased our wealth and power. We own this city now, along with the Griffins. Miles is the link between our families. The assurance that our futures will be entwined.”

He pauses to catch his breath. Speaking too long makes him winded.

“But never think we are secure, Sebastian. All dynasties seem invincible, until they fall. There is always a challenger digging at the foundations. Clawing at the walls. You don’t know how much your fortress has eroded. Until it comes tumbling down around you.”

“We’ve beaten back plenty of challengers,” I say.

My father reaches across the table to lay his hand over mine. His fingers are still thick and strong, but his palm is cool, without any warmth radiating from within.

“There is no going back,” he says, his glittering eyes burning into mine. “There is no retrenchment, and no retirement. We keep our power. Or we’ll be destroyed by our enemies. If the fortress tumbles . . . there is nothing to protect us anymore. The jackals will come to pick us off, one by one. Every old enemy. Every old grudge. They will return to find us.”