The Capo’s Daughter Needs No Permission Chapter 12
Ms. Albright turned to my mother and father.
“I heard from Romy that you wanted her to give up her place at Westbridge to stay with Ava at a local college.”
Ava forced a smile.
“Romy’s always been impulsive. California is far away, and it’s outside the Family’s protection zone. We were all just worried about her safety.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Ms. Albright cut in sharply.
“She’s eighteen years old. She’s studying cybersecurity engineering. She has a scholarship, a work-study plan, and the ability to live independently.”
“The ‘protection’ you keep talking about has become nothing more than a cage for her.”
Ava’s grip tightened on her phone.
Ms. Albright took in her brand-new dress and the latest model iPhone, then shook her head slightly.
“You have the means to care for both girls.”
“But you gave one girl the money, the attention, and the freedom to choose, while you made the other prove she deserved even basic necessities with permission slips.”
My mother opened her mouth to speak.
Ms. Albright didn’t give her the chance.
“Last winter, the school’s heating system failed.”
“Other students brought thick blankets from home. Romy had two thin summer quilts.”
“She called home for help. Two weeks later, all that arrived was one of Ava’s old, worn-out blankets.”
“When she got sick, she couldn’t bring herself to spend money on medicine. She just clutched a chipped thermos full of hot water.”
“Her winter coat was secondhand.”
“When I asked her about it, I found out you only give her three hundred dollars a month. If she needs anything extra, she has to submit one of her father’s signed permission slips.”
My father looked at my mother.
My mother avoided his gaze.
The color drained from Marco’s face.
He was probably remembering the fifty-eight missed calls on the night of my surgery.
Ms. Albright lifted her glass of water, then set it back down.
“Vincent, you run one of the Ferraro Family’s crews in Newark.”
“Men follow your orders because they believe you understand what the word ‘protection’ means.”
“If you can’t even answer your own daughter’s calls when she’s on her way into surgery, how much weight does that word still carry coming from you?”
My father didn’t answer.
The coffee shop was utterly silent.
Ms. Albright stood up.
“I’ve said what I came to say.”
“The people who wound a child most deeply are rarely their enemies.”
“They’re the ones who keep promising to protect her, but never once show up.”
After she left, my family sat there in silence for a very long time.