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CHAPTER 17

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO,

Antonio Dante's pov,

“Antonio.”

“Antonio.”

“Antonio.”

My

father

is

part

of

the

mafia.

My father is a Mafia.

A boss.

A Mafia Boss.

“Open the door,” I might have been behaving like a child locking myself in the room but I needed time to think.

“Antonio, please."

My father is a murderer.

“Antonio, please let me explain.”

He kills people.

“Please open the door.”

For business.

It was my mother's voice. Begging me to open the door.

So she can explain.

Explain what?

What exactly?

That my father didn't mean to be in a Mafia?

Or that he didn't mean to kill people?

I was angry at her.

Angry at her for keeping this to herself.

Angry at myself.

Because I kept being stupid.

And foolish.

I was in no mood for sympathy from the pleas that came out of her mouth. I was worried that I was this calm.

I sat on the bed, then got up. I paced the length of the room before deciding against my best wishes. My hand found its way to the knob of the door and I twisted it open.
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