Monday morning, and bad coffee, and Lieutenant Welsh's voice bellowing through the bullpen.

"Detective Vecchio, a word, please."

Ray felt his stomach clench. Although he had surprised himself by sleeping well, with no bad dreams, the memory of Sunday morning's nightmare had left a nasty taste. He'd felt slightly sick when he arrived at work. Probably his own fault, he'd not been eating well for days now. Blood sugar or something; he should make himself eat. Everyone was milling around the bullpen as usual, and not one of them looked at him with disgust or amusement, as they had done in his dream. Even so, the shame of it remained.

Welsh stood in his office door, and crooked his finger. He was wearing a suit, not a cassock, and Ray had all his clothes on, but still…

His face flushed, and his palms sweated, and he walked across to Welsh's office with the grim determination of a man marching to his execution.

Welsh shut the door behind him, and Ray closed his eyes. For a moment, in the darkness, it was Father Curry standing in the room with him. He snapped his eyes back open, trying not to hyperventilate. It was only Lieutenant Welsh.

"Detective. Are you feeling okay?"

"Sorry, Sir," Ray lied smoothly. "I'm fine."

"Alright," the Lieutenant said, doubtfully. "Well then. Take a seat, Detective. It seems we have something to discuss."

Ray sat, and didn't say anything. Welsh looked at him, and didn't say anything. Great, thought Ray. A staring contest. A childish urge rose up in him, and he decided to assert some control over the situation. He knew it was petty, he knew he wasn't going to win anything from it, but… dammit. He wasn't going to say anything. Welsh could speak first.

Eventually, he did.

"So," the Lieutenant said. "I understand that you've been approached by the FBI for an undercover job."

Ray flinched. Welsh nodded, grimly.

"Is there any reason you didn't tell me about it?"

"Well, Sir," Ray spoke as calmly as he knew how. "I didn't realise I had to. I have no intention of taking the job."

"Really?" Welsh leant back on his chair, and folded his hands. "The FBI seem to think otherwise."

"Yeah?" Ray felt his patience snap. "Well the FBI can go hang themselves. What do they know about it?"

"I don't know, Detective. You tell me."

Ray shook his head. "They're just messing with me," he said. "I don't want to leave my family, I sure as hell don't want to go undercover with the mob. Besides," he tried for a laugh. "If I go undercover, who's gonna look after the Mountie?"

Welsh smiled at that, and Ray hated himself, quietly, for making a joke of it. He really didn't want to leave Benny in the lurch. He knew Benny had other friends in Chicago now, that his family would keep an eye out for him, but… Benny was such a babe in the woods. What the hell would his friend do, what would he think if he came back from vacation, and Ray had vanished into thin air? Who would watch Benny's back? Ray felt a little clutch of fear. Okay, Benny was a grown man, a police officer in his own right, a mighty good one… one of the best. But still… When Ray looked at him all he could see was his kid brother. Not Paulie, not his actual kid brother… but still, somehow, famiglia.

And Benny needed famiglia. Somebody needed to care for him, because, God knew, everyone else had abandoned him or died. He didn't want to be another one in the long line of Benny's 'disappeared.'

"I'm not going anywhere, Sir," Ray said, in a low voice, looking his boss straight in the eye. "They might be the FBI, but they're not the boss of me, and I won't do it."

Welsh nodded, thoughtfully. "Well, I must admit, I'm glad to hear it. You've been working very well recently, and I'd hate to lose you. And Big Red would certainly miss you . . . But I gotta be straight with you. The FBI made a very compelling case that you're the only person who can do this job. Have you really thought what it might mean?"

"You think I care about promotions?"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Vecchio. But, if you could get in there, really get in, then you could help bring down one of the biggest crime families in the country."

"I know, Sir," Ray said. "Not to put too fine a point on it though, I'm a bit of a coward."

Welsh looked at him, disapprovingly, and raised an eyebrow. "You know that's not true, Detective. Don't put yourself down. You've taken a bullet for your partner, jumped on a moving train with a nuclear bomb on it for goodness sake. You might be pig-headed, disrespectful of authority, and a king-sized pain in the butt, but you're not a coward."

"Jeez," Ray rolled his eyes. "Thanks..."

"You're welcome."

"I just… I don't wanna leave Ma and Frannie, and Maria and her kids."

"Yeah, I know." Welsh sighed. "You've gotta lot of responsibility."

"Don't get me wrong, Tony's a good guy. And he works his guts out. But… he's not so good at keeping jobs."

"You do realise that your family would be looked after while you were undercover, that you'd be paid a considerable bonus for the danger you were taking, and that…"

"Yeah, yeah. In the case of my unfortunate demise there'd be a big pay-out, and my family would never need for anything again. Yada yada yada."

Oops, Ray thought, the moment the words were out. That's too cheeky, even for me…

Welsh glared at him, but, surprisingly, didn't call him out for his insolence. "Well, I'm glad to know that you've thought this through, Detective. However," he paused. "This goes way up the food chain. The Deputy Director of the FBI called and personally asked me to appeal to your sense of justice. They informed me that I should remind you that there is nobody else as well qualified for this assignment as you are, and that, in fact, you are the only person who could possibly do it."

"Yeah? And why's that, Sir?" Ray couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. At times it felt like all his life somebody had been making him do things he didn't want to. Welsh was just doing his job, passing on a message for the FBI, but in this room he was the guy with authority. Right now, Ray had no patience with authority at all.

Welsh ignored Ray's tone of voice, and carried on talking as though his detective wasn't in danger of insubordination.

"Well, you understand the Italian-American community, you've grown up in a neighbourhood with heavy Mafia activity and know the scene, you speak the correct dialect of Italian. On top of which, you look so much like this Armando Langoustini that you could be the man's twin."

That did it. Agent Cash's voice came back into his head, loud as a hammer, and Ray leant forward, covering his mouth with his hand. Swallowed.

And perhaps… perhaps the FBI weren't lying at all. Perhaps it was all true. Perhaps his father, Pop, Joseph 'Giuseppe' Vecchio, really was what they had said he was. A man with no honour, no heart, no faith at all.

If that was so, if it was all true . . . He couldn't imagine what it must have cost Ma, how much pain she must have been in all these years. He'd do anything, anything to keep her from knowing the truth…

"Detective. Are you alright?"

"Sorry, Sir," Ray said, vaguely. "I think I'm gonna be…"

He stood, trying to make a dash to the men's room, but didn't get as far as the door. Barely made it to the wastepaper basket.

There wasn't actually much to bring up, other than coffee. Ray realised, with a strange sense of detachment that Ma was right: he really hadn't eaten much recently.

When he'd finished throwing up, Welsh was standing next to him, big meaty hand on his back. Ray found, to his surprise, that he didn't mind. After all, in real life, Welsh was just his boss. A good guy, nothing at all like Father Curry.

"I'm sorry, Sir," he said, feeling guilty for his dream as much as for the mess. "I don't know what came over me."

"Are you alright now, Detective?"

"Yeah. I'm… I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind."

Welsh nodded, a serious expression on his face. "Well," he said. "I've finished for now anyway. The FBI wanted me to talk to you, to make their case, and I've done it. You've obviously thought about it, you obviously have good reasons to turn them down, and that's your right." The man squeezed Ray's shoulder reassuringly. "And for what it's worth, I don't blame you. I'll be glad to keep you on the team. Don't let them bully you into anything you don't want to do."

"No, Sir. I won't."

"You wanna take the rest of the day off?"

"No." Ray squared his shoulders. "I'm fine, Sir." He couldn't have Welsh sign him off sick now… he needed to work. "Really," he repeated for emphasis. "I'm absolutely fine."

"You've been looking a bit peaky for days," Welsh said. "You sure you don't need time off?"

"I said I'm fine." Jeez. Ray closed his eyes. Stop barking at the man, you'll get yourself fired.

Welsh was surprisingly mellow and didn't react to Ray's tone. "Okay. But if you do decide you need the sick days, that's fine too. I might be a hard task master, but I prefer not to work my detectives to death. Looks bad."

"Thank you, Sir, but I'd sooner work."

Welsh laughed, still trying to break the tension. "If only more of my detectives took that attitude, Vecchio, this place would be much more productive."

Ray laughed back, obediently. "Yeah, we'd clean up Chicago." He grimaced a little, and stooped, apologetically tying up the bin bag he had just thrown up in. "I'll get rid of this, Sir."

"You do that," Welsh said. "And Detective?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Just remember, you don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"Thank you, Sir."

That's right, he thought, washing his hands after disposing of the garbage. I don't have to do anything I don't want to. I'm not nine years old anymore.

The FBI could go screw themselves. He was turning his back on the whole damn thing.
~ * ~

One good thing about breaking down around Maria. She didn't treat him like he was made of glass. Not only that, she didn't go blabbing to Ma, or Frannie, and she didn't keep pushing him to 'talk about his feelings,' or get counselling. She just carried on, as though nothing had happened. He was no sooner back from work than his sister had deposited Vito upon him. "Watch him," she said. "I gotta help Angie with her homework."

"Can't she do her homework with Willie?"

Maria rolled her eyes. "You expect me to leave Angie alone doing 'homework' with her boyfriend? You think I'm that stupid?"

"It's… Willie," Ray stuttered. "They're just kids…" But, actually, Maria had a point, now that he thought about it. He'd been about Willie's age when he'd first started sneaking kisses with Irene. Willie and Angie were growing up, and Willie was definitely following Angie around like a love sick puppy… "Yeah, okay," he conceded. "You go keep an eye on Romeo and Juliet."

Maria smiled, dropped a kiss on his cheek, and went upstairs to bang on her daughter's door.

Ray settled at the kitchen table, with Vito on his knee, relieved that his sister still trusted him with her baby.

"Hungry? You want something to eat, Vito?"

Vito nodded enthusiastically. He was a bright enough kid, but he didn't really talk much. Like most young Vecchios he seemed to be biding his time, waiting till he could figure out whether it was worth speaking Italian or English first. Technically, of course, as Tony was all too keen to point out, Vito was a Greco, not a Vecchio. Ray grinned at Vito's solemn baby face. Yeah, well, Tony was fighting a losing battle. The whole clan, for better or worse, were Vecchios, whatever their paternal name, in honour of Ma. That was a good thing, Ray thought. A very good thing. So what if Vecchio meant, literally, 'old man'. His old man had nothing to do with it anymore. His Ma was the Matriarch these days, the true head of the family, no matter what the lease on the house said. Ray just owned the place. She was the heart of it.

"Here you go, kid." Ray pulled a dish toward the youngest Vecchio, and held up a peeled grape. "You want one?"

Apparently the answer was yes. Vito sucked the fruit greedily from his fingers, making slurp noises, and giggling as pink juice ran down his chin. Ray kissed the little curly head. Vito tipped his head back, grinning upside down, and made a 'kiss kiss' face. "You forgive me, don't you Vito," Ray said, softly, still ashamed of his outburst the day before. Vito grabbed a grape, and shoved it in his uncle's mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Nunc nunc zio," Vito said, solemnly, and bilingually, before shoving a second grape at Ray's nostril.

"Yeah, I know, kid. I gotta big schnozz. Don't knock it, you got one too."

"Raimondo," Ma's voice broke into their conversation. "Phone for you. I think it's work."

Ray stood and handing Vito to his mother took the handset. "Detective Vecchio," he said.

"Detective. Have you thought about what we discussed?"

The handset slipped in his hand, and he damn near dropped it. The Feds.

"What the hell are you ringing me at home for," he hissed when he had the door shut between him and Ma.

"We had a meeting scheduled for today which you didn't attend."

"Yeah? Well, newsflash, I'm not attending anymore of your goddamned meetings. You got me? I ain't doing it. I'm a cop, I've got real work to do."

"This is real work, Detective. This is real police work. Any cop can do the sort of work you're doing now. But you're the only one who can do this job. And you owe it to your family…"

"You leave my family out of this." His hand ached on the receiver he was clenching it so hard. "You know nothing about my family. You don't talk to them, you don't touch them, and you never, ever ring me here again." He slammed the phone into its cradle, and covered his face. "Shit."

The phone rang.

"Caro," Ma called from the kitchen. "Could you get that?"

Maybe it's Ma's sister. Maybe it's one of Maria's Mom brigade phoning about the charity bake sale. Maybe… maybe it's Benny.

He knew who it was going to be though, even as he picked up the phone.

"Detective Vecchio," the voice said. "It's not very professional to hang up in the middle of a conversation."

They're never going to let up, he thought, bleakly. "What," he said, tightly, keeping his voice down. "What the hell do you people want from me?"

"We'd like an answer."

"I've given you my answer. It's 'no.'"

"Really? Even after everything we've told you?"

"I don't believe what you told me," he said, even though, in the pit of his stomach, he was beginning to realise that he did believe it after all.

"Well, Detective Vecchio. It's not a matter of taking us on blind faith, after all. You're an experienced investigator. If you honestly think that we're lying, you should be able to prove it. Follow the evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Do some detecting of your own," the voice said, dryly. "When you've proven to your own satisfaction that we're telling you the truth, then you can make your mind up."

"I won't change my mind."

"Are you sure?" The voice sighed, as though disappointed. "It would be a real shame if the story ever got out. I'd hate for your mother to have to hear…"

Ray's hands clenched around the receiver. "Leave my mother alone."

"That's really up to you, Detective."

And then Ray found that he couldn't speak at all. The silence on the phone line hissed through his head, and then the voice returned, completely professional and cool.

"We'll give you time to conduct your own inquiries, then call you back. Until later, Detective."

There was a click, and the line went dead.

"Fuck," he muttered, staring at the receiver. "Fuck."

"What does that mean, Ray? 'Leave Ma alone.'" Frannie's small voice floated down the stairs. "What does that mean?"

Ray started, and turned, looked up at his sister. Frannie was standing, part way down the stairs, fresh from the bath, wearing a huge purple gown and mismatched slippers. For some peculiar reason Ray fixated on the slippers… one pink, one brown. She stepped down toward him, cautiously, and he looked up at her face, feeling caged. Her hair was mussed up from shampooing, her face devoid of makeup, and she looked younger than her years. Like the child she once was, the little sister he had fought so hard to protect, from the day she toddled into their father's shins one Thanksgiving, and made him spill his drink. Not much older than Vito.

A lump rose in Ray's throat.

"Jesus, Frannie." He dropped the phone for the second time into its cradle, and blustered, forcing gruffness into his voice in an effort to distract her. "Sneak up on me, why don't you?" It didn't work. Cautiously, she continued her descent of the stairs, keeping her eyes trained steadily on his face.

"Ray, are you in any trouble?"

Oh Christ, he thought, you can't keep any secrets in this house. He winced as soon as he thought it. He knew better than that. Yes, you could.

"No," he lied, "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine." She was at the bottom of the stairs now, looking up at him, chewing her bottom lip anxiously. There was an odd look on her face, and for a moment he couldn't place it. Then it hit him, sharply, in the heart. He'd know that expression in any other context. He'd just never seen it on his sister's face before… at least, he had… but never when she was looking at him.

She was afraid. She was looking at him like he was Pa, or that shit of an ex-husband of hers, or any other guy who'd ever tried to beat up on her. She was looking at him like she was afraid of him. Oh, God, Frannie… and despite all that, she was still screwing up her courage to ask him if he was alright.

He must have scared the shit out of her, he thought, when he threw that stupid plate. Poor Frannie. He'd never, ever wanted to be that man.

"Aw, Sis," he said, and dropped a kiss on her damp hair. If there was ever anything he could do to get rid of that fear, he'd do it. If he could take back everything anyone had ever done wrong to her he would. "I'm sorry. I wish… it's just work stuff. I wish I could talk about it, but, you know…"

"Ray," she said, very carefully, and very quietly. "If it's, uhm… if it's family stuff. I mean…" she nodded her head significantly, and made quotation marks with her fingers, "I mean, 'Family' stuff, you can tell me."

Ray looked at her for one beat, and heard himself, distantly, starting to laugh.

Frannie thought he was a crooked cop. His little sister was walking around thinking that he was mobbed up. Jesus Christ, he really had fucked everything up, hadn't he, if his own sister thought so badly of him.

When he stopped laughing, he was sitting on the bottom step, rubbing tears from his face. Frannie was sitting next to him, patting his back clumsily, looking confused.

A voice came from upstairs. Maria.

"Ray," she called down. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." He was surprised to realise that he was hiccupping. "Fine."

"Frannie," Maria's voice sounded sharp. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing!" Frannie's voice sounded just as sharp back, and Ray put his hands to his ears. Battling sisters, just what he needed. At the best of times they drove each other up the wall. Last thing anyone needed was them fighting over him.

"Raimondo," his mother's voice broke in, as the kitchen door opened. There she was, with Vito on her hip, and concern in her eyes. He groaned. "Is everything alright?"

That was it. There was only so much feminine sympathy any man could take. He grabbed the bannister, hauled himself to his feet, and snatched his coat from the hook.

"Where are you going, Ray," Frannie asked, still in her slightly scared voice.

If he was Pa he'd go to a bar, but he wasn't Pa. If Angie hadn't left him, he might take her to a movie, or dinner, but that was years ago. If Irene…

Don't think about Irene.

And if Benny was here, well, it would be alright. He would have had someone to talk to, even if he couldn't tell him everything. He wouldn't feel so… so sick and helpless. Even if he couldn't have told him everything, and God knew, he couldn't tell Benny everything… at least he'd have someone to bum around with. If Benny wasn't in Canada he could just tell his family that he was going to see his friend. He could talk to the wolf even, but…

Benny and the wolf weren't there. There was nobody, not really. Nobody else he could tell without hurting them. Nobody he could trust with it, just relax around.

Where was he going? He didn't have a clue.

"Where are you going, Raimondo?" Ma repeated his question, as though she could hear his thoughts now, and he threw his hands up in the air.

"I don't know. Out. I'm fine. I just…" He fished around in his pocket, to make sure his keys were there. "I'm going for a drive." Before he could be further assailed by his family's concern, he swung open the front door, and ran down the steps.

Great one, Vecchio, he told himself as he made his escape. If that doesn't freak them out worse, I don't know what will. He felt his mouth curl bitterly as he started up the Riv. At least this time, he told himself, he hadn't thrown anything. Hadn't shouted. Hadn't made the baby cry.

It was small comfort.
~ * ~

He drove through the city, going nowhere in particular, and ended up parked outside Benny's apartment. He saw other tenants come and go, other lights go off and on, but Benny's window, of course, remained dark. After a long time, he started the ignition and turned the car home.

By the time he got back, he had a plan of action. He was going to quietly investigate the FBI's allegations about his father. Their telephone spokesman might be a prize shit, but whoever he was, he was right about one thing… That nasty, filthy story about Pa was the kind of thing Ray could easily check up on. He couldn't figure out why that hadn't occurred to him sooner. Maybe he was… maybe he'd been scared to look, for fear of what he'd find. But he had no choice now. He'd look into it, he had to… And if what they were saying was true, well then…

Well. He'd deal with it. Like he'd dealt with every other shitty thing his father had ever done.

Part of him was still scrabbling to avoid the issue though. 'They're the goddamned FBI, they could plant the evidence,' that voice told him. But, although the FBI were good, he knew they weren't that good. True, they might be able to manipulate public documents, but they wouldn't be able to alter everything… physical evidence, the memories of his family, their friends. So… it was possible that his parents really had kept this secret from him for all these years, certainly possible that his father kept an even bigger secret from Ma… But there must be an objective fact out there somewhere. An independent witness… somebody must have known something at the time. Nearly four decades deep, but at least one of his relatives must have some… clue. Something to prove to him, one way or the other what the hell had actually happened.

The first thing he had to do, obviously, was look at birth and death certificates, from the day that he was born. Easy enough to find those records. He'd do that once the offices opened in the morning. Nothing he could do until then…

He pushed his way through into the darkened hall, and ran into Ma.

Should have expected it. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she'd waited up for him past midnight. At least this time he didn't have a hickey…

"Hey, Ma," he said resignedly. "You didn't have to wait for me." Part of him wanted to argue with her, remind her that he was nearer forty than five… but right now, he felt about one hundred.

Ma put her hand around his elbow, and marched him into the 'company' living room. Jeez, he thought, and nearly laughed. Nothing changes. What's she gonna do, ground me?

"Sit down, Raimondo," she said. "We need to talk."

Oh God. "You're as bad as Frannie," he muttered, disrespectful, but slumping onto the good couch, obedient as always.

"Frannie has a point, baby boy," Ma said. "Something's been off with you for days."

Ray winced at her 'bambinoing' him, but it was just her way. "It's nothing… I mean… not nothing." He couldn't lie to her. Instead he told one of those truths that was a lie. "It's… a tough case at work."

Ma sank into an armchair with a sigh. "Tell me about it," she said. This was her tone that brooked no argument, not a request but an authoritative maternal command. Ray shifted on the plastic dustsheet, unable to meet her eyes. He hated this room. It was always too clean, except for that old, faded rug, with the patch that Ma's knees had worn bald through years of prayer. Instead of replying he found himself staring at the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Why Ma thought that was a suitable picture for guests, he had no idea. Oh, they had other sacred pictures in the house, but this one… this one had always upset him, even when he was too young to know what it meant. There the guy was… the Big Guy, with the heart peeled out of His chest, hovering on display like a slab of meat.

"Raimondo?"

He blinked. Ma was speaking.

"Raimondo, are you alright?"

"Jeez, Ma." He shook himself, trying to pay attention to the real world. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Raimondo," she said, firmly. "Look at me."

He looked.

"People keep asking how you are, Son, because you're not alright."

Ray squirmed, and protested. "I'm fine…"

"Don't lie to me."

"Ma…" His hands clenched on his lap. "I'm not lying…"

"You're not telling the truth."

He shut his eyes. She knew him too well.

"Ma, what do you want me to say?"

"Just tell me what's bothering you. The truth."

He smiled at her. Not sarcastically, not bitterly. A real smile, a happy warm smile bubbled up in him, unexpectedly. Because… wasn't that just like Ma? That was his mother, through and through. All she wanted was 'the Truth.' She never expected anything easy from any of her kids, always did expect the impossible. If Pa put them down, she'd pat them on the shoulder, and tell them, 'never mind your father.' The teachers put them down, 'never mind the teachers.' The whole damn world put them down, and there was Ma with the flag furled out, banner flying in the wind: 'never mind the world.'

God love Ma, he thought, with a rush of affection. She had no idea what she was asking him…

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong, Caro?"

What could he tell her? 'Your husband kept secrets, abused your trust in the worst possible way, a way that I would never in a million years have imagined. He destroyed your family, sold his soul for a fistful of silver, and allowed your heart to break.' He couldn't tell her that. He looked up at the eviscerated Christ on the wall, and shuddered. If he told Ma all of that, it would tear the poor heart out of her, all over again.

Or, perhaps he could tell her the other terrible truth that had been scrabbling in his brain ever since he'd seen the scaffolding at St Luke's, ever since they'd sat together watching meerkats on the Discovery Channel, Saturday evening, when all the kids were asleep..

'Hey, Ma,' he imagined himself saying, 'you remember Father Curry? Remember feeding him coffee and biscotti in this room? Remember kneeling with him on that rug to say your prayers? Well, did I ever tell you about the penances he set me on a Saturday afternoon, when you were working extra shifts at Jewel, and Pa was playing pool at Fanelli's?'

No.

He couldn't tell her that either.

She was still watching him.

"Son," she said gently, "you know you could tell me anything."

His heart was too big for his chest. He reached forward, took her hands in his, and kissed her fingers.

"Ma," he said, and his voice broke. "Ma, I love you, but…"

"But what?"

"I can't, Ma. I can't tell you."

Painful as it was, that was the only truth he could share.

"You know there's nothing," she said, her accent slipping, "nothing you could say, or do, or have done to you, that would ever stop me loving you? You know that, don't you?"

"Ma," he raised her hand to his lips again, touched her knuckles to his mouth. "If there's one thing on God's earth that I do know, that's it. Don't ever think… never think I don't trust you. If I could tell you, I would. But…" He reached out a hand and brushed her cheek, tenderly. "Some things we have to keep secret. You know that. Some truths, we all keep to ourselves."

As he said it, he saw a flicker of pain behind her face… recognition, perhaps. An acknowledgement that she knew what he was talking about. Oh, God, he thought, and blinked back tears. Splinters in his eyes. It's true. All true. What the FBI said, what Agent Cash said. What Pa did.

It's true.

Ma had her own secrets, her own hurts. Her own truths that she'd never told him. Lies that had been told to her. Truths that she had never known, never now could know.

"Ma." He slid off the couch, and knelt by her chair. "Don't be sad. It's not… it's not your fault."

Oh, holy Jesus, she was crying. He gathered her into his arms. "Ma, Ma, it's alright. Honest to God, it's gonna be okay."

"I know, Son. I know."

He squeezed her tighter in the hug, and Ma, being Ma, pulled herself together quickly.

"It's alright, Raimondo," she said, laughing a little, and patting his head. "You can let go now."

"Yeah?"

"Time for all good people to be in bed anyway. You have work in the morning."

Work, he thought. Oh yeah, he had work to do in the morning. He wondered what answers he'd find.