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We waited amongst strangers, cheap paper banners, and protests in the scorching heat as the clock struck a minute closer to noon. The news channels had set up their cameramen before the crowd, accompanied by news anchors with their microphones on the ready, set for live news coverage to be aired precisely at midday. Between the chattering crowd and the highlight of the day stood a steel gate more than ten feet tall, armed with barbed wire at its ridges. Behind the gate stood uniformed guards – some armed with rifles, all armed with handguns. They paced back and forth alongside the metal fencing, expressions stoic and movements well-rehearsed, as though all of this was just business as usual.

I shuffled my feet as the gravel sank uncomfortably between my toes, and wondered if I should have just worn my flats instead of opting for sandals. I bent over to remove my sandal, shaking it vigorously to unearth the loose fragments of gravel still entrapped between the ties and folds, when I heard excitement flush through the crowd in the form of shouts and cacophonous chatter. The policemen were holding back the vigorous crowd as they struggled forward, and I saw the blinking lights of the news cameras flash on as the respective news anchors began their practiced monologues. I caught onto what some of them were saying – it came out in the form of clear, but hurried speech, as though they had waited in bated breaths for a long time for this moment to take place.

"It is on July 21st, at exactly twelve noon, that the shocking release of Silvio Bianchi, widely-known as the man allegedly responsible for the infamous President's Day Massacre twenty-three years ago–"

"–murder of ten members of rival Italian mafia under the leadership of the prominent Cavalcanti family–"

"–Bianchi was the right hand man of Manhattan-based Italian mafia leader Sergio Moretti, who–"

I glanced over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of two black cars pulling up behind the sea of people. The windows were darkened, but I could easily discern the figures behind the glass. After all, who else could it be? They stepped out, one after another, pinstriped suits and matching ties – some tall, some lean, and others plump, distinguishable by appearance but they each harbored a presence that was precisely the same. They stood by their cars, never stepping beyond the wave of people and politics between them and the prison gate.

I could tell that mamma was nervous from the way she clenched my hand tightly between hers, our fingers barely intertwining as she kept her gaze forward, fixed on the fences that separated us from what was to come. It wasn't long before a single man perforated our line of sight; an overcoat tossed over his shoulder as he nonchalantly approached the gate, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. His hair was a light shade of salt and pepper, no longer the light brown the papers from twenty-three years ago portrayed him to have. He said something to the guards who unlocked the gate; a chuckle in his laugh as he stepped out, now a man undoubtedly free. The cameras flashed as he raised a hand, waving to the media who breathed ecstatically into their microphones before his eyes fixated on mamma and me.

"Gisella…" I heard the syllables leave his lips as soon as recognition glazed over his features, eliciting a cry of joy from my mother – who burst into tears. I could only watch as she released my hand, pulling away as she stumbled forward into his embrace. She sobbed, fists pounding against his chest as a stream of mutterings escaped her lips – it was half Italian, half in English, and indiscernible from where I was standing. I kept my distance, my arms folded rigidly across my chest as I watched their long embrace. The cameras flashed and I knew that we were on national television – a familial reunion was always temporarily captivating to the public. As mamma drew back, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she turned to me and it was then that his eyes met mine.

"Silvio," she spoke gently, "this is–"

"Allegra?" he asked, as though pronouncing the name aloud for the first time. "Is… is that my baby girl? You're so much older than…" He drifted off, scratching his chin with a nervous chuckle. "Come here and give your father a hug, won't you?" The awkwardness barely eluding him a moment ago phased away into his aging smile as he extended an arm towards me, as though expecting me to dive into his arms the same way my mother dove into his.

I saw one of the reporters sneaking up towards us for a clearer angle, her cameraman in tow as she leaned over, describing the scene before her as "a long awaited reunion". I wanted to correct her then – I wanted to tell her that this man was a stranger to me. I wanted to tell her that this was my first encounter with him, in the flesh. There was nothing sentimental about this for me. All that stood before me was just another man – one that my mother adored. I turned towards the reporter, my hand extended as I yearned to block the live feed from shooting anymore of my facial features, or any of the expressions I might display.

"Do you mind?" I asked the reporter, turning my back towards the camera as I gestured to my mother that we had to go.

"No hug for your father? No?" Silvio asked, and I thought I saw a hint of disappointment crossing his face as he continued to embrace my mother.

"Mamma, we should go home now." I said, nodding in the direction of the parking lot. "The crowd is starting to get wild. The cops can't hold them back forever." They were lined with cheap posters and signs; some of them approvals of Silvio's release, others protests against his 'abrupt' release. The latter were held back by an increasing row of struggling policemen; their rowdy vociferations increasing for the sake of the media, who now turned their attention on them.

"You two should head home first," Silvio declared, responding to my mother's surprise with a squeeze of her shoulders, "I have some things I have to deal with, but I'll be back for dinner. I promise." He wrapped his hands tightly around hers and drew them up to his lips for a kiss before pulling away.

   "Business with Sergio again?" I asked. I didn't see the need to hide my disappointment; I learned years ago that the business that landed him in jail was the only business he was accustomed to. Even now, family seemed secondary to him when placed up against the men in the black cars.

"See you at dinner," was all he said, lacking the joviality he so proudly endorsed only moments before, as he kissed mamma on her forehead before heading past us, past the police-enforced crowd, and towards the men in pinstripes and black vehicles. I saw them greet him endearingly – with hugs, pats-on-the-back, and loud exclamations in Italian, before leading him into one of the cars and taking him away.

-- && -- && --

Mamma made spezzatino for dinner that evening. I would've asked her why if it wasn't for the affection that reached the upturned corners of her eyes every time she added the right ingredient, or got the texture to taste just the way she wanted it to. I didn't have much of an appetite for it when it was finally served, and by the time we finished, the dash of hope lighting up her eyes had faded, and we cleaned the dishes together in silence – moving to the routine we were ever so used to.

He came in through the back around ten o'clock, a whimsical apology escaping his lips as he crept into the kitchen like a sorry schoolboy. "Do you still have any spezzatino left for me?" was all he asked, slipping behind my mother to embrace her as she withdrew the leftovers from the fridge. I turned away, disgusted, as I dropped my coffee mug noisily into the sink.

"So, Allegra, I hear you're almost just as good a chef as your mother, hey?" he asked, this time in full Italian.

I answered in English. "Who knows? I don't have as much time to sit around and savor my culinary skills as I'd like when I'm busy balancing both my studies and my full-time job."

"Our dear Allegra got into graduate school last year. She's going to be a big-time lawyer one day, you'll see." My mother cooed happily.

"I'm starting to doubt the limitations of the law these days, mamma. I wonder why." I muttered loudly as I worked on drying the dishes before me.

"Allegra!" she exclaimed, flabbergasted. She always disdained the slightest reference to her husband's incarceration.

"Tell me I'm wrong, then!" I replied, my gaze wandering between them. Mamma merely looked down, her thumbs fiddling at the dishcloth in her lap.

"Allegra–" Silvio started, as I turned away, chucking my dishcloth onto the countertop. "You shouldn't raise your voice at your mother like that."

I stared at him, more disgusted than surprised at his remark.

"Don't speak like you have some sort of say in this family," was my reply, "You may have married mamma, but by the time I was born, you were already put away. You have no idea how much you put her through, especially when those people you worked for decided to cut mamma loose because being affiliated to you back then was considered a bad thing!"

"Look, I'm sor–"

"Mamma had to work three jobs just to put me through college, and now I'm the one supporting this household. I barely get enough time to sleep, yet alone… do anything else." I collapsed into the closest chair, massaging my temples as I let off steam.

"Allegra," mamma placed her hand on my shoulder, "he is still your father." I hated the gentle absolution in her voice.

"I don't have a father," was all I said, pulling away from her touch as I stood up to leave the room.

I heard her sigh and felt their quiet gazes on my back as I exited the kitchen.

-- && -- && --

"Allegra, what do you have to say about your father's sudden release from prison?"

"Word on the grapevine is that there was hush money involved in your father's untimely release–"

"Do you believe that this has anything to do with both your father and Sergio Moretti's friendship with the new mayor?"

I can't say that I wasn't prepared for the intrusion of the press into my family's life – and more primarily, mine. I had expected it from the start – the hounding of needless questions by the media and the live updates about Silvio or anything remotely related to him bombarding the news channels and their ticker feeds. But I had never imagined it to be as intrusive as this – sometimes I even found myself approached by strangers who had a comment or two to share about Silvio's release. I found myself dodging their questions the way a hunted animal seeks to dodge bullets from a gun. It wasn't long before I found myself finding new ways to travel to school, to work, and back home again. None were quiet, or easy.

I forgot how many days had passed before I saw a stretched car, tinted black, waiting for me beyond the entrance of my workplace one afternoon. A lone figure stood beside the passenger's door, hands in his pockets, a dark fedora on his head. He wore no pinstripes, but I recognized him anyway.

"Aurelio," I mouthed; curious as to why he was here. He had been placed in charge of several of the businesses Sergio Moretti owned in the area soon after Silvio's incarceration. His specialty, however, had never been in the trading of goods; it served as a front for what he really did. He was a man who knew things, who picked up information much more quickly than anybody else. If you found out something on the grapevine, it was because he put it there for you to find.

"Hello, Allegra. Been a while." He tipped his hat and opened the back door, a gesture to get inside. He was the only person under Moretti's charge who dropped by to check up on mamma every few months or so after Silvio was put away. I presumed that he did so mostly for his own benefit, rather than actual concern – he had taken over Silvio's territory, after all.

"What do you want?" I asked, eyeing him warily.

"Just figured you might want to see this," he said coolly, withdrawing a brown paper envelope from inside his coat. I paused, eyeing him hesitantly before taking the envelope and removing its content. It was a single sheet of paper, marked with a clear image, bordered by a few words, and an impressive sum of money below. I recognized the purpose of the document almost immediately, and let out a sigh.

"Changes things drastically, doesn't it?"

"When was it issued?" I asked, and he tilted his head towards the open door.

"I won't discuss it in public – bad for business. Get in." I bit my lip, hesitant as I glanced down at the paper once more. "Your choice, Allegra."

  "This had better not be a waste of time," I told him, irritation marking my words as I stepped inside. He stepped in after me, slamming the door tightly behind him before signaling to the driver to go. We sat face-to-face, toe-to-toe, his arms drawn back over the leather linings of the couch, while my arms remained tightly folded across my chest. I leaned back, beholding the city through tinted glass. It felt like I was seeing another side of Manhattan – the part that buried its secrets the way others hung their mistakes, the one that advocated a different sense of justice, paved by connections that transcended beyond six degrees of separation, beyond blood bonds and secretive societal meetings. I knew that the people on the outside couldn't look in – no-one could see beyond these enclaves of tinted glass.

I returned my attention to Aurelio, whose eyes were already fixated on mine. The unwavering intensity of his gaze left a shudder down my nerves. He seemed almost inhuman as he stared straight ahead at me, and I tore away from his gaze as quickly as I could. It felt odd, sitting before him – always a stranger in every function and form, he showed up only on whim, and the last time I saw him was when I was twenty-one. That was more than two years ago.

"You about to tell me the reasons behind his early release?" I asked. There was no need for me to use names – there was only one individual on everybody's minds as of late.

"You know I won't." Aurelio replied, lighting up a cigarette.

"Can't or won't? I know you take orders, no matter how independent you claim your business to be." He only chuckled, expelling the smoke from his mouth as he did so.

"I didn't invite you here to talk about the conditions of your father's release."

"Then tell me something."

"It was Cavalcanti who put the hit out on your father," Aurelio elaborated, "It was expected, after we took out so many of his men – including his brother-in-law. Anyhow, I've paid off some of the cops to keep an eye on your house for the meantime – Cavalcanti isn't the kind to instigate a public war with us, so you and your mother should be relatively safe. Your father, on the other hand…" He turned to look out through the darkened windows.

"Why are you doing this, really?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you going to such lengths to watch over us? Silvio's return should be a threat to you, no? I figured that you of all people would want him dead, or at least back in prison."

He chuckled. "Sergio Moretti isn't the kind of man who gives away territories the way a child gives away toys. Your father's domain was entrusted to me upon his incarceration, to keep the businesses alive, and I will continue to do so. What I'm saying is that your family's more likely to face relocation more than anything else at present. Silvio's name no longer has any hold to this area. Furthermore," he paused, winding down one of the windows to throw out his unfinished cigarette, "if your family dies on my turf, it's bad for my businesses." He signaled for the driver to stop. The car slowly pulled to a curb, and I reached for the door, only to see Aurelio reach for the handle before me.

"You'll have to break the news to her," was all he said, before pulling his hand away from the door.

"Mamma won't be able to take it. You of all people saw the pain she went through when he was put away. This… is just like asking her to relive that moment all over again." I scrunched the paper tightly in my fist, exiting the car as quickly as I could.

"I also know that she's stronger than you think." Aurelio replied through the open window, and I saw him light up another cigarette as the car pulled away.

-- && -- && --

I smelt roses as soon as I stepped into the house. Always my mother's favorite, I grew up attached to their scent, each stem freshly purchased from the local florist. Whenever she threw them out to make room for something new, the traces of the last bouquet never failed to linger in the air long after they were gone. I used to wonder if that was their method of clinging on to small semblances of existence – as though to say we're still here, so don't you forget us long after they withered away.

Upon entering the kitchen, I saw the remnants of a gigantic bouquet spread out across the table, the paper ribbon sliced open and hanging off the side onto the floor. Mamma was filling her vases with water, a look of genuine happiness crossing her face as she trimmed the long-stemmed flora and arranged them neatly into each vase.

"Expensive gift," I remarked, leaning casually against the kitchen counter as I watched her work.

"He hasn't forgotten, at the very least." She smiled as she pressed the tip of a rose against her nose, inhaling its scent. "He still remembers which store I like my roses from."

I remembered the labels on the arrangements she bought from time to time when I was growing up; they were only ever from Augustine's.

I watched as she gathered the roses into separate piles, tending to each flower delicately like they were her own children. She trimmed the edges with her customary scissors – reserved solely for the handling of her roses, as she removed all excess thorns and aligned each rose symmetrically to the next. Mamma loved these roses; that much I could tell.

Mamma smiled when Silvio returned a little earlier today; I heard the fumbling of keys in the front door and the uneasy jiggling of a lock to unfamiliar hands, followed by a string of curses in Italian. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, I saw no boisterous enthusiasm, no carefree demeanor – there was only a weakened smile tingeing his lips as he approached us, and he gave mamma a kiss before settling down by the counter. I merely stared, the sheet of crumpled paper still entrapped between my fingers, and I wondered if his lackluster personality today had anything to do with it.

Sensing this, mamma put down her tools, the rustling of roses coming to a halt as she rested them on the counter. I saw the concern in her eyes as she ran her fingers through his hair, drawing back a light fringe as she asked him what was wrong. He merely let out a sigh; caressing her fingers between his, declaring that nothing was wrong, but I knew that mamma couldn't be fooled by this. She had spent too long worrying in his absence – simple dismissals and feeble attempts at reassurance were things that she grew accustomed to disbelieving over the years.

"Silvio…" was all mamma said, her voice soft, as though a hundred disappointments had come and gone before this; to which he mumbled something about the family – the other family, Sergio Moretti's and the other boys he had known all those decades ago. Stepping around the counter, she placed her arms around him, and I couldn't bring myself to understand how she could still love him despite all of this. I hated the way he spoke of the mafia; it was as though it was the only life he truly thought of as his own – and I hated the way mamma abided by that logic. It was as if she accepted being of secondary importance to an organization that hung him to dry and took him away from her. I thought about the issued hit; of Aurelio's warning, and let out a sigh. I debated in my mind whether or not to let it slip.

I couldn't decide. "So I'm guessing that what Aurelio wasn't kidding when he mentioned relocation? Us, I mean." Mamma's health was a priority in my book, though. Aurelio believed that she was strong, but I wasn't so convinced.

"You met Aurelio…?" Mamma asked, signs of worry creasing her forehead in wrinkles that shouldn't have been there. Silvio seemed surprised as well, and I twisted the paper back and forth between my hands, silently debating the words I would convey.

"He wanted to talk," I replied, before turning to Silvio, "And he left the impression that if it came down to it, you're the one Sergio would rather ship out of town." He let out a sigh, eyes closing as he clasped mamma's hands tightly between his. His lips drew into a tight line as he pressed his fingers against his forehead – all creases and disappointment. I thought back to Aurelio's inheritance of Silvio's territories and couldn't help but compare the two of them – Aurelio looked more like a man in charge than the Silvio at mamma's kitchen counter now. Maybe the twenty-three years away were what was necessary to bring him back to her. I found myself staring at mamma too and the frailty of her hands compared to all those years ago when she would take mine in her own, and tell me all the things she wanted me to know about the father I never met, the love of her life, and how she wished things were different then.

I eyed the roses on the countertop and wondered if our home would truly be our home without the scent of roses.

"Is it so hard…" I asked, "to pick this family for once?"

I reasoned that it was for mamma's sake that I said it. It was mamma I was worried about, after all.

-- && -- && --

"Allegra!" I turned to see Silvio walking my way as a familiar black car pulled away behind him, taking its leave. My grocery basket hanging over one arm, I waited as he crossed the street, his movements agile for his age and expression warm, while I nodded in response. During the last two weeks, I'd been told that he'd been travelling around, seeking to mend various business relations as he officially declared his resignation from Moretti's group. It had been a well-received announcement for the most part, though Aurelio informed me that Cavalcanti's hit still stood, regardless of Silvio's affiliation to Sergio Moretti. I often wondered if she knew about it, though I feared the consequences of bringing it up to her if she didn't.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, falling into pace as we headed down the market square. I don't recall saying yes, but I didn't protest as he walked beside me anyway.

"Does she know…" I asked, and he turned towards me, overcoat held loosely over his shoulder, waiting patiently for the question, "about the hit?" He paused abruptly where he stood, and I couldn't tell if it was apprehension, guilt, or surprise that claimed his features.

"Aurelio…?"

I nodded.

"Ah…"

"She deserves to know, and I don't think it should come from me." I said, and we walked on in silence, our feet trekking to the rhythm of the market square and roads that intersected with crowds and crossings. It wasn't long before we found our way across the street from Augustine's.

"One last stop, then." Silvio said, a smile crinkling his lips as he crossed the busy street, and I turned into a bakery further down the street – there were just a few more things on mamma's list to gather before tonight's dinner could be complete.

It was then that I heard the sounds.

It was metallic, fast, and loud, accentuated by the eruption of screams and gasps by the local crowd. I left the bakery at once, racing down the street in the direction the crowds flooded to, and a sense of déjà vu overwhelmed me. Loud chatter hung over the air, ecstatic and horror mixed like protests and news cameras as I saw the gathering crowds of those all-too-interested – role-playing all too familiar a scene.

I glanced up to see Augustine's on the signboard before me, and a chill curled my nerves. My ears straining for information, a flicker of recognition hit me as I pushed through the crowd, fighting my way to the front of the scene, hoping that it was only a coincidence and nothing more. That's all it had to be, right?

I pushed to the front, my eyes pinned open in disbelief as I saw the red roses strewn from his grasp, once wrapped in the style mother always adored, now scattered across the pavement in murky piles of crisscrossed red and green.

I recognized the salt and pepper hair, which took me back to the wistful light brown the papers once portrayed him to have, his obsidian overcoat, once proudly strung over his shoulder, now scattered across the concrete like a second shadow to his body, and that ever-familiar face, now drenched in red and scattered roses as I saw the single gunshot wound to his head.