He apparently is more forgiving of the men who shot him than the son who worked side-by-side with him from a young age. He knew it wasn’t normal, but it was his son who’d caused the accident. His son who’d disappeared the night it happened. His son who never visited him the entire six months while he lay in a bed at Cedars- Sinai.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” his medical team repeated. Shot fourteen times. Fourteen. “A miracle,” his wife whispered. He’d had his suspicions about her involvement. But his investigation ruled her out. Lucky her. Not so for his son.
His son. He sighed, couldn’t even bring himself to say his name.
“What? What is it?” His wife, Bernice, sat next to him on the banquette. “You’re not thinking about him again are you? Dominick, crissakes, it’s our 30th anniversary.”
He nodded, took a long pull of Taittenger’s. Poured a fresh glass.
“I’ve hired someone,” he finally said. Tinkered with his mustache.
“You what?” she almost shrieked.
The patrons at adjacent tables stopped eating. Stared.
“Keep your voice down,” he warned.
Bernice collapsed against the banquette. Her Dolce and Gabbana decollete trembled. “Why are you doing this, Dominick?” She stared down at her lap, unable to look at him.
“Why? You know perfectly well why. It’s time.”
She covered her face with shaking hands. “He’s my son,” she mumbled.
“He’s no son,” he growled, jaw clenched. “He hired those fuckers.”
“Isn’t there any other way?” she pleaded. Used her napkin to dab a tear.
He shook his head, signaled for the check. Glanced at his Rolex. “It’s done.”