A Record of Papa’s Death

Ever since my husband, the capo Rocco, began pouring all his attention into his brother's widow.

According to our daughter Tessy's diary, her father was already a dead man.

When the nun from her school called to ask, I calmly played along, telling her he had been gone for a long time.

On her Father's Day prayer card, Tessy wrote only two words: To Heaven. At the parent-teacher open house, she wrote that her Papa died in a shootout in the next neighborhood over.

Later, Rocco finally sensed something was wrong.

He dropped everything and rushed back to the estate to celebrate his daughter's birthday.

When he pushed open the door, he saw a new diary lying on the coffee table. The title read: If Papa Were Still Alive.

"Gwen, is this how you're raising our child?"

Rocco stared at the diary on the coffee table.

The childish scrawl was written in pencil: If Papa Were Still Alive.

The smile on his face vanished, his eyes widening and turning red.

"I'm standing right fucking here, and you're letting our daughter write that I'm dead?"

He snapped his head toward me, his voice booming as he tossed the couture ballet dress he had ordered for her onto the sofa.

"I didn't teach her to write that."

"Those are her words, not mine."

Rocco clenched his jaw, his hands grabbing the diary as if he meant to tear it apart.

But he froze, staring at his daughter's handwriting for a long moment before slowly placing the notebook back down.

He had no idea that this wasn't the first time Tessy had held a funeral for him in her diary.

Ever since he moved Salvatore's widow, Carmela, and her son into an apartment in Queens, her father had ceased to exist in Tessy's world.

I didn't say a word, just stared at him coldly.

Hearing the commotion, Tessy emerged from her bedroom.

Wearing a faded nightgown, she hid behind me.

She didn't throw herself into his arms crying "Papa!" like she used to, nor did she shrink from his roaring.

She just looked at Rocco quietly, as if she were looking at a stranger.

A look like that cut deeper than any hysterical sob.

Rocco's breath hitched, the anger in his throat dying as if smothered by something unspoken.

He pulled at his shirt collar in frustration, suppressing his temper, and picked up that gorgeous tutu.

"Tessy, come here."

He deliberately softened his voice.

"Papa bought you the Swan Lake ballet dress."

"Don't you have a showcase at the theater next month?"

"Come, let's see if the size is right."

It was the ornate lace dress Tessy had admired in a shop window for three months, the one Rocco had always brushed off, promising he would buy it for her next time.

In the past, Tessy would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him excitedly.

But now, she remained completely motionless.

Seeing this, Rocco sighed.

He knelt on one knee, spreading the hem of the dress to measure it against his daughter.

Just a second before his fingertips could touch her, the phone in his pocket rang.

The ringtone was soft and musical, but everyone in the family knew it was Carmela's private line.

Rocco's hand shot back as if burned. He stood instinctively, pulling out his phone to answer.

"Carmela, what's wrong?"

His voice, without him even realizing it, was tender and anxious.

A choked voice came from the other end. "Rocco, I'm sorry to bother you again."

"But a rival crew is circling the building, and Elio's having another panic attack."

"He keeps crying for his uncle to hold him. I can't calm him down by myself, I'm so scared."

I stood by and listened to her well-rehearsed performance, my stomach churning.

Rocco's expression changed.

Without a moment's hesitation, he tossed the expensive dress onto the carpet and grabbed his holstered gun and car keys from the entry table.

"Gwen, watch Tessy. Elio's in danger. I have to take some men over there now."

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if abandoning his own daughter to protect another man's son was the most natural thing in the world.

With a loud bang, the front door slammed shut behind him. He didn't look back at Tessy once.

The house was as quiet as a tomb.

Tessy stepped forward, looking down at the crumpled, haute couture dress.

Then, she bent down, picked up the dress, and stuffed it into the trash can next to the dining table.

"Mama."

Tessy looked up at me, her voice incredibly soft.

"Dead people don't give presents, right?"

A wound tore through my heart, so deep every breath I took tasted of blood.

I crouched down, holding my daughter tightly in my arms, kissing her hair.

"Right."

Once Tessy was fast asleep, I sat in the study alone and pulled open the bottom drawer.

Inside lay a letter sealed with wax. It was a top-secret acceptance letter from an international medical research institute.

I was an attending orthopedic surgeon. To accommodate Rocco's life as a capo, I had already given up three opportunities for advanced studies at top medical schools.

But now, I refused to wallow in this filth any longer.

I picked up a red pen and drew a thick circle around a date fifteen days away on the desk calendar.

That was the final day to report to the institute.

In fifteen days, my daughter and I would leave this city.

We would live as if Rocco Marchetti had never existed.