The Last Cigar

The dim light of the city filtered through the dust-coated blinds of Room 412. Smoke curled lazily toward the yellowed ceiling as Vincent Moretti, a retired mob enforcer, sat hunched over a small table, holding what he knew would be his last cigar.

He hadn't touched one in twenty years—not since Maria left. Not since his daughter Rosa stopped calling. But tonight, Vincent figured he earned it. Terminal lung cancer gives a man a kind of twisted permission to break old promises.

He coughed violently into a stained handkerchief, the crimson flecks blooming like roses on snow. The smell of tobacco reminded him of the old days: smoke-filled card games, blood on silk shirts, cold marble beneath his knees after late-night confessions in stained-glass churches.

Across the room, the silence was broken by a knock. Three short raps, deliberate. Not a neighbor—none of them dared approach him. Not anymore.

"Come in," he rasped.

The door creaked open, and in walked a woman—mid-thirties, hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail, trench coat soaked with the New York rain. Her face was familiar in a way that struck like a gut punch.

"Rosa," he whispered.

She stood silently for a moment, her eyes scanning the room like she was searching for a body. Maybe she expected one.

"You finally dying?" she said, voice flat.

Vincent chuckled. "Always had your mother’s charm."

"You don’t get to joke. Not after what you did."

Vincent nodded slowly. "I know."

"You think I came here for some teary reunion?" she asked. "You think I want to hold your hand while you wheeze out apologies?"

"No," he said. "But I hoped."

Silence stretched between them. Outside, a siren wailed, then faded.

"You know I used to tell people you were dead?" Rosa said, stepping into the room. "Made it easier. Said you were shot in a botched robbery. Thought it sounded cleaner than 'he broke kneecaps for a living and killed three men over a poker game.'"

Vincent didn't respond. The truth needed no defense.

"Why now?" she asked.

"I figured dying was as good a time as any to stop lying."

She looked around, at the peeling wallpaper, the forgotten photos in crooked frames. One showed Maria, young and smiling, unaware of the darkness blooming in her husband’s eyes. Another showed Rosa, six years old, on his shoulders in Central Park.

"I didn’t just hurt people for money, Rosa. I hurt people to feel alive. That thrill? It’s poison. And once it’s in you, everything else fades."

"You hurt us."

He nodded, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "And I’d give anything to undo it."

"But you can’t."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a dusty envelope. Inside was a deed—to a small house upstate—and a bank account holding nearly a million dollars.

"Clean money. What I made after I left. Security contracts. Consultations. I tried to change."

She didn’t take it. Not right away. But her hand trembled.

"You think this buys you forgiveness?" she asked.

"No," Vincent said, eyes soft. "But maybe it buys you peace."

Rosa stared at him for a long moment. Then she took the envelope.

"I’ll take the house," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "And the money. But not because I forgive you. I’ll take it because Mom would’ve wanted me to have something good in life."

He nodded.

"Goodbye, Dad."

She turned and walked out. The door clicked shut. Vincent sat back, took one last drag of the cigar, and smiled through the tears.

He died two days later.