"I'm real sorry, Da."
Il Duce looked up at his son, standing there with his head hung, dark hair nearly long enough to brush his closed eyes.
"Aye? What fer?"
The boy shook his head, sat on the bed and stared at his hands. The long, neat surgery scar down his left thumb a puckered pink mark that his right thumb absently stroked.
"Boy?"
"It's so different now. Ye can't imagine, jus' the two o' us. And... I know ye don't think Rocco was much, but we loved 'im. He was family t' us."
Il Duce struck a match, shook his head when the boy flinched at the movmment. Lit his cigar and shook out the flame. "D' ye have a point, Murphy?"
He nodded. "Even with Rocco, it were the two o' us. Y'know, me and Conn. No man about the house, jus' us and Ma. An' here... no real different. Jus' us and McGinty's and Rocco, but... Now we got you." He looked up, his lips tight. "And... I don't know ye. Ye like an angel sent from on high, flamin' sword and holy vengence and all. Not real."
"Murphy-"
"Please, Da." He pleaded with his eyes. "Lemme finish."
"All right." Granting permission by relaxing into his chair.
"Connor, he fuckin' idolises ye. He thinks ye come with God's blessing. He loves ye so much, he'd follow ye ter the gates of Hell and back.
"He would'a done that for me, once. But..." Murphy stood, turned away and paced angrily. "Ye don't see it. Not fer what it is. It's a blessing more precious than anythin' aside from God's own grace, and ye don't get that, Da. Ye don't know what it's like to be replaced by ye own fuckin' twin."
Age and injuries slowed him that moment too much. He'd become slack, trusting in his sons too much.
Murphy stared dispassionately. Walked back to the door, opened it and screamed.
When Connor came running, he found his brother screaming and sobbing over their father's cooling body, fell to his knees and clung to his twin like he was the only thing left in the world.
Murphy kissed his forehead and held him close.