Tony hears it before he sees it — that particular knock of Sonny’s engine that means everything’s about to get easier.
He’s out the door before Sonny cuts the ignition.
They don’t say much at first. They never really have to. Sonny leans against the fender, arms crossed, that half-smile already working. Tony drops down onto the running board. The farm stretches out around them — the fields, the silo, the sky going gold at the edges.
“How you holding up, Cuz?”
It’s a simple question. With Sonny, it never is.
Because Sonny Romano is the one person in Tony Keating’s world who sees everything and says just enough. The one who showed up when Tony was thirteen and the family had made home a war zone, pulled him close and said: “From now on, you’re safe with me.”
He meant it then. He means it now. He will mean it on every day that comes after.
Some people teach you survival. Sonny taught Tony something harder — that it’s okay to let someone in.
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.