Chapter 5
Mark blamed me.
That was the first honest thing he did.
“You raised me like this.”
The words landed.
I did not dismiss them.
“Explain.”
He pointed toward the fireplace.
“You taught me Bellacorte survives because weakness gets corrected early.”
True.
When Mark was young, I was harder.
Not cruel like my father.
But close enough to confuse discipline with emotional distance.
I expected silence at dinners.
Perfect posture.
No crying in front of capos.
I improved later.
Apparently not before the lesson settled.
“Did I put you barefoot in snow?”
“No.”
“Did I deny you meals?”
“No.”
“Did I tell you your mother was weak for comforting you?”
His face changed.
My father had.
And I had failed to correct enough of it.
Mark whispered:
“You never had to. Grandpa did.”
There.
The ghost.
My father died fifteen years earlier.
Still raising my grandson through habits nobody challenged.
I looked at Grace.
Then Noah.
Explanation did not excuse Mark.
But if I made him the single monster, the family would learn nothing.
I said:
“I should have broken more of what my father taught us.”
Mark’s eyes filled.
Then:
“You should have broken the rest yourself.”
Both truths.
May you like
He looked down.
Good.
