Chapter 11
Winifred finally said what she believed.
“Sofia was ruining him.”
I stared.
“She was loving him.”
“She indulged him.”
“He was one.”
“She let him cry until she picked him up.”
I almost laughed.
“That is parenting.”
“She made you weak too.”
There it was.
Always larger.
The child was never the only target.
Sofia softened me.
Theo softened me.
Loss was supposed to harden us back into whatever version of Armano masculinity Winifred respected.
“You wanted me grieving.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I wanted you focused.”
“And Sofia distracted me.”
“Yes.”
Honest.
Terrible.
“And Theo?”
“He will inherit everything.”
“Maybe.”
Her face tightened.
“He must.”
“No.”
I leaned back.
“He must be three first.”
That infuriated her.
“You sound like Sofia.”
I smiled without humor.
“Good.”
She stared.
“She thought family should adapt around children.”
“She was right.”
“Children adapt to family.”
“No.”
My voice lowered.
“That sentence ends with you.”
Winifred laughed.
“You think tenderness keeps a Mafia family alive?”
“No.”
I looked toward Theo’s room.
“I think terror creates men who confuse cruelty with discipline.”
She stared.
Maybe she heard herself.
Maybe not.
I continued.
“You taught me something too.”
Her expression changed.
“When I was ten, you took my father’s watch because I cried at my grandfather’s funeral.”
She went still.
I had not thought about that memory in years.
“You said I could have it back when I stopped acting weak.”
Winifred looked away.
Same method.
Same woman.
Same lesson.
I had forgotten because I adapted.
Theo should not have to.
I stood.
“You didn’t invent this for him.”
Silence.
“You’ve been doing it for generations.”
For the first time, Winifred looked old.
Not powerful.
Not matriarchal.
May you like
Just old.
And trapped inside rules she had mistaken for inheritance.
