Genevieve

I’m stunned beyond words, my initial fury run dry as I watch my father collapse. Tears drip between the cracks of his fingers and soak the carpet in small puddles, yet he sobs silently, almost imperceptibly, except for the slight tremble of his shoulders and the redness in his forehead and cheeks. Holden hovers behind my father, concerned and unsure and entirely out of his depth, because he has never seen a man like this before, sobbing shamelessly and helplessly like a child. And suddenly, as we witness my father in his most vulnerable moments, something changes.

“Dad,” I whisper, even before I realize I’m speaking. “Dad, it’s okay.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me, but the trembling stops, and the tears slow to a trickle. I step forward and tentatively place a hand on his shoulder, trying to think of something to say, as Holden watches me with wary eyes. My father’s face remains in his hands, but he stills when I touch him.

“I thought you’d left us in New York, and I… I thought you knew what we were going through, and I thought you didn’t care. Mama never spoke of you, so I assumed…” I trail off, hoping this explanation will suffice, knowing I’ve never been good with words. There's a part of me that begs to resent him as I always have, to hurt him like I believe he hurt me, but today we are face-to-face and I can see that he is not the heartless beast I’d dreamed him to be but instead something flawed, and beaten, and human. He is not a monster.

He has done terrible things, but he is not a monster.

“So if what you said is true, about her leaving, and you not knowing about where we were or what was going on… Then I forgive you. For leaving us. Not for hurting Gina, because I can’t forgive you, ever, for hurting her… and I don’t understand why you would want to hurt your own daughter, for Christ’s sake… but I do, uh, forgive you for the other thing…”

“She’s not my daughter,” he says abruptly, his voice still muffled by his hands. He stopped crying sometime during my speech, although his voice sounds strangled and raw, and as he folds his hands in his lap and peers up at me I can see that his eyes are still red and swollen. “Gina Gilles is not my daughter. That’s why I brought you here, and not her.”

I stare incredulously at him. “Then who is-”

“I don’t know. I don’t know where she came from. I assume your mother took her in when you were very young, but she is not your mother’s, nor is she mine.”

“But she... She told me she was my sister,” I reply, my voice cracking in confusion. “They said she was my sister, Mama and Gina both. Why would they lie about something like that?”

My father sighs, and wipes his nose with the sleeve of his suit. “I don’t know, maybe so you’d trust her better, so you could have someone to protect you when your mother passed. That’s my assumption.” He shrugs his shoulders helplessly, then glances up at me with glossy eyes. “And by the way, thank you, my precious Genevieve, for your forgiveness. I’ve waited a lifetime to hear those words.”

He places his hand on mine and smiles, a genuine and heartfelt smile, and although the softness in his expression makes me feel somewhat better I still can’t accept his explanation.

“Still, why did you tell them to shoot her?” I ask, my brows furrowed in suspicion.

He blinks, momentarily confused. “I didn’t,” he replies immediately, simply. “All of our gunmen were focused on Mr. Benucci, and she was caught in the crossfire. It was a simple mistake.” My father sees my expression and backtracks, his eyes widening. “Forgive me, a horrible, horrible mistake. And I will have the man responsible for her injury fired immediately.”

I roll my eyes and step back, collapsing into the armchair across from his. Holden is still standing silently behind my father with his hands clasped behind his back, visibly uncomfortable, but my father ignores him completely.

“I never fully explained how you came to be here, did I?” My father asks, his voice settled to its normal pitch. I shake my head in reply.

“Let me summarize. As I tried to explain before, Mr. Ernest Benucci is - well, was - my main branch in the Brooklyn, New York area. About a year ago he announced he was breaking away from the corporation to direct his own network, and as a man of highest reputation, I simply could not allow him to disrespect our business like so.”

“Excuse me,” I interject, “but what is your business exactly?”

My father looks momentarily baffled, then smacks his hand to his forehead as if he’s realized something. “Oh, heavens, forgive me, I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned it already!” He chuckles to himself before pausing a beat, then licks his lips uneasily.

“Well, ah, Genevieve… I am the, the Baron, as they say, of… Of a rather large and prosperous international cartel.”

I stare at him, processing his words slowly. “Like… a drug cartel?” I ask, tensely.

“Benzoylmethylecgonine and Diacetylmorphine, to be exact.”

“Aren't those the chemical names for cocaine and heroin?”

“Yes. Yes they are.”