Chapter 4: Short Hills

I didn't answer Santino.

I looked at Nate.

"Leave," I said.

Nate snorted.

"You're kicking me out? I'm the father."

"You signed a paper that says you want nothing from me," I said. "She's part of nothing."

Gianna tugged his sleeve.

She was still watching Santino.

"Nate. Let's go."

"Why? Who is this guy?"

"Let's go," she hissed.

Nate let her pull him out.

At the door he looked back at me and Santino and smirked.

"Enjoy him while it lasts," he said. "Guys like that get bored."

The door swung shut.

Santino stood very still.

"Say the word," he said.

"No."

"Mara."

"I said no."

He paused.

Then he picked up the yellow roses and handed them to me properly.

"These were for when she got here," he said. "I got stuck at the hospital in Livingston. Your father had another episode. I'm sorry I was late."

"You came," I said. "That's not late."

They discharged me that afternoon.

Santino carried the car seat.

A black SUV waited at the curb with a driver I didn't know.

We drove west out of Bayonne.

I watched the gas stations and diners turn into lawns and stone walls.

Short Hills.

The iron gates opened before we reached them.

The house hadn't changed.

Gray stone. Green shutters. My mother's rose bushes along the drive, cut back for winter.

I hadn't been through those gates since her funeral.

"He's in the study," Santino said. "He won't stay in bed."

Salvatore Albanese sat in the leather chair by the fire with a blanket on his knees.

He had always been a big man.

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