(FLASHBACK TWO)

The memory flickers to life to the day my father told me about the arranged union with santino, bathed in the garish, over-bright light of my father’s dining room. Even then, I hated that chandelier. It had hundreds of glass pieces that made everything shine with a fake, aggressive brilliance. My father liked it that way. He thought light showed power, but I knew better. Light just makes it easier to see the cracks in the foundation.

I sat at the far end of the mahogany table, ...