Somewhere in Connecticut
Marie could tell by the look in Johnny's eyes and his knitted eyebrows that he was in a bad mood. Making her way to the kitchen table she made sure not to disturb the piles of cumulating newspaper clippings scattered across the doorway to the cool linoleum floor.
"Uncle Jo?" The phrase still seemed unfamiliar, although she had called Johnny by the affectionate family nickname many times before. To Marie Johnny seemed more appropriate to the ex- hit man of the family business.
But he preferred Uncle over Johnny and today Marie sought to win his approval for the day.
"There's some eggs on the table and a letter for you from your father." He talked to the frying pan, unwilling to make eye contact.
Marie grabbed the letter on the table, leaving the eggs to go cold.
Johnny looked over his shoulder and out of the corner of his eye saw her breakfast lying still, greasy from the olive oil he had used. He sighed as he head the sobs from the living room.
An hour later Marie stepped back into the kitchen, her eyes puffy from the crying and shaky from the confusion. He wished he could've been fortunate enough to show his sadness at the age of seventeen. He was too old even back then.
He pulled out a chair next to him, signaling his niece to take a seat, he wept inside for the poor kid.
Marie hesitated before sitting down, eyeing the man and noticing his age as the grey hair along the sides of his head seemed like a stranger to an image of the Johnny she held in her mind. Tough, merciless, and cold by legend. But the reality of his shape betrayed his stories and "accomplishments". The wrinkled face now held a permanent solemn look, his eyes weary without wanting to express so. He licked his dry lips before opening his mouth to speak.
"He loved you. You know that? That man loved you to death."
Marie couldn't help but divert her attention to the empty plate. She wondered what sort of eggs he had cooked for her, most likely fried with olive oil, sunny side up, just the way she liked them. In a moment of excitement he had ignored his efforts to please her as well.
"He loved you. That's why he couldn't let you be a part of his life. You know that don't you?"
Funny how Johnny can make years of loneliness seem so rational, the loss of her childhood such an obvious sacrifice.
Marie, without looking up asked with a blank look on her face, "How did he die?"
"Heart attack. He went in peace. He left you with something, didn't he?"
She wondered if it was from habit that Johnny kept a mask of impassiveness in the face of death. She remembered in one of her father's letters, where in awkward humor he had pointed out that the wrinkles on ol' Johnny's face wouldn't be able to add up to the number of people he's killed.
"He left me something in a safety box in New York. Here, look." She dropped the paper on the table and leaned back on the chair crossing her arms and wiping her face.
"I don't wanna look," he replied calmly, "Know the address by heart and make sure you carry around the key he gave you in the envelope. Look kid, this is worth more than you think. This is your father's work."
Johnny paused, his finger still on the letter from emphasizing his point.
"This is... was your father's life." He pushed the letter away,
casually lighting the cigarette he had been fingering in his hand
during the conversation. He looked out the window letting the smoke
escape from his lips in a familiar manner.
"I don't want it." Marie declared indignantly.
"It doesn't matter its yours. You name, who you are, this is it, its yours."
Ignoring Johnny's comment Marie stood up and left, after a moment of silent contemplation, leaving the letter and key behind.
