Omertà Anthology - A Very Merry Mafioso Christmas

by V. Domino

  After half an hour they get bored and decide to put the cards aside. I walk up to the couch, opening my laptop once Aiden sends me this hopeful and pleading look. He wants to watch Prancer. I still can’t believe that he likes watching it. My brother, even though he’s young, is one of those rational kids who doesn’t let anyone talk him into believing something that just can’t possibly be true. The movie is exactly the opposite of rational. It surely inhabits the world of childhood quite authentically, it just doesn’t inhabit Aiden’s world.

  “Do you want popcorn?” I ask him before I press play. He shakes his head and finds his place on one side of the couch, wrapping his small body with the blanket. I know he probably doesn’t even realize what I asked him since his eyes are pointed at the screen with expectancy, so I leave him to make the snack anyway.

  Elio is waiting for me, sitting on the kitchen counter. He’s not a big movie fan. Especially one that is suitable for kids.

  I open the cabinet taking out the popcorn then turn on the stove, preparing the snack.

  “Thank you,” I hear Elio saying. He comes up behind me and presses his body against my back.

  “For what?”

  “Going to that Christmas dinner with me tonight,” He says. “I know I didn’t give you the time to really think about it but I thought that you wouldn’t agree and to be completely honest I didn’t know if I could make it there alone.”

  I turn around, facing him. My hand flies to his face, cupping his cheek. “I’d do anything for you,” I tell him even though the words coming out of my mouth terrify me to no end. To be so in love to look past any flaws is brave, but to look past Elio being in the mafia. Him being an Enforcer; a person who threatens, tortures and kills people for a living might just be the most careless thing I’ve ever done.

  I have doubts when I start thinking about it, but then I look into his eyes and everything disappears because I know I can’t be without him.

  He leans in and kisses me gently.

  “I love you,” he says for the first time. It takes my breath away to hear those words. Not because I didn’t know about his feelings. I was fairly sure it has been the case for a while now. Just to hear him admit it is a different thing. Something so powerful and vulnerable at the same time. And he fears being vulnerable more than anything.

  I feel my eyes getting wet with the tears gathering in them. I blink.

  Elio’s expression shifts.

  “What?” he asks, seeing tears running down my face. I can’t help it. “Savannah, what’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say, hugging him tightly. My eyes on his as I am taking in his tantalizing scent. “No matter how bad it got between us sometimes; with your father, Fabro, Noah and then this explosion, I still need to thank you. Because I needed it. I needed you in my life. I still do.”

  Elio smiles, tucking the strand of my hair back behind my ear. “Even if I’m an asshole?”

  I chuckle.

  He is an asshole alright.

  I kiss his lips. “You’re my asshole.”

  “Merry Christmas, Savannah,” he whispers.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  OMERTÀ

  #1 Innocent

  #2 Untamed(Noah’s book)

  #3 Inhibited(Flavio’s book)

  To be published:

  #4 Tainted

  #5 Sheltered

  RARISSIME DUET

  #1 Crossfire

  To be published:

  #2 Kryptonite

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  I’ve clung onto odd memories of that night.

  The taste of her rose and bergamot perfume lingering in the air of the hotel suite. The honey colored wisps of her hair flowing behind her. I think about her outfit, a pretty summer dress that moves with the breeze, she was very dressed up considering she was about to leap to her death.

  As soon as she goes over everything around me begins to blur, moving at a much slower speed and covered in a filmy haze.

  I remember my parents, both of them rushing forward as if they might be able to catch her, to stop her from plummeting to her death.

  They fail though, because a few seconds later I hear the crack of her body hitting the cement. I can’t tell if I heard it or if I made up the memory of her bones cracking. Either way, I know she’s gone.

  I had to think about what floor we were on. Eighteen. Nineteen. Something high. Can you hear a body hit the pavement from that far up?

  Regardless, I did. I heard the sound of her skull cracking whether it’s a figment of my imagination or not, I can’t tell.

  My back hit the pale pink painted walls of my sisters room as I slid down to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth in shock. I’d like to think I did something more as my sister took her last breaths, that I was more heroic.

  But I wasn’t.

  I often come back to this moment, wondering if there was something to be done. Some way I could have prevented this.

  But how can you prevent a suicide that you had no idea was coming?

  I remember the sounds.

  Crying, no wailing. It’s my mother, her thin arms flung over the metal banister, it’s the only thing supporting her weight as she cries out into the sky.

  My father says something but I can’t pull it out of my memory, can’t hear the words.

  Strong arms reach forward and I realize he’s shaking me. There’s ringing in my ears, sometimes I can still hear it if I relive too many of the memories at the same time.

  The memories I have are reserved for private moments when I’m tucked behind a locked door and it’s safe to let the tears flow. I can’t remember them all at once, my heart rate will spike, the tears will blur my eyes. Instead, I have to separate them, mourning small moments one at a time.

  It’s an audible click before all the sounds of the room come rushing in. I was in a haze.

  I don’t remember when he enters her room. Dressed in all black with shiny leather loafers crossing the floor. He looks over the balcony, presumably for Lily’s mangled body. I watch his face, he doesn’t even grimace when he sees her there. I often wonder what he saw and why he’s so accustomed to seeing blood and mangled bodies.

  “Well then…” He purrs, his voice just slightly annoyed by the situation at hand. “Guess that won’t work.”

  “Is she okay?” It’s a new voice that assaults my senses now.

  This is the memory I hate the most. Because while my sister had just died, my eyes are locked onto this stranger. Taking in his tanned skin, the flecks of black ink peeking beneath his button down shirt, the light stubble covering his jaw. He’s wearing a gold saint pendant, not all that odd for Italian men, but his looks worn and dirty, as if his fingers had been rubbing over the charm for years.

  “I don’t know.” My father hisses, the cool air of his breath hits my cheek and like a reminder I suck in my own breath of air.

  “Jesus, Lana!” His eyes close for a second, like he’s relieved to see me respond, breathe.

  The other man has his hand on my shoulder and his warm brown eyes are peering into mine. “Are you okay?” he asks, a slight drawl to his words.

  “I don’t know.”

  I’ll repeat this answer for the next few years to everyone who asks.

  I think I’m okay. My body is here. My heart is beating, my lungs are sucking in air. Physically, I’m fine.

  Mentally, well, mentally I saw my sister take her final leap.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be “okay” again.

  The day my grandfather dies I know my protection will be buried with him.

  I want to sit and cry, to wallow in the pain of losing my favorite person, my biggest supporter, but my parents have a gleam in their eyes and the whispering has started. I’m certain they have a plan, and I’m just as sure I won’t like it. Knowing my pare
nts, they won’t stop until they get what they want.

  And what they want is an alliance.

  Even at my grandfather's funeral my mother is plotting. A symptom of growing up in the Costello Famiglia, I assume. For the past three years Carlotta Costello has been a tigress, lying in wait until the moment she sees a weakness in her prey. She walks into her father’s funeral with the confidence of a man in a suit. Despite being raised by her, I’ve never spent a day with the prowess my mother has.

  Suddenly my black dress feels suffocating. It’s a warm day for December in New Orleans, the temperature reaching the low seventies. The French Quarter is lit up, holiday decor dons every building, lights are strewn across the streets. But inside the walls of this funeral home, all festiveness ceases to exist.

  Funerals and I don’t do well together. Memories of Lily’s float through my head, making me dizzy. The thoughts don’t bode well with me as I recall the screaming matches between my mom and her siblings. The only one to end the commotion was my grandfather. I spare a glance at his coffin, I guess he won’t be here to help now.

  The Costello siblings have a rocky history of getting along. Mostly, they conspire with whoever has their back at the moment. I glance at my parents huddled with Aunt Caterina, this tells me she’s their current ally.

  Of the four Costello children, my mother has always been the closest with her older sister. The younger two, Aunt Cosetta and Uncle Carmine tend to leave out their older sisters. It feels like a civil war divided the two pairs, forcing the four siblings to constantly be at odds with each other.

  The only time they tolerated each other's presence was around my grandfather, Carmine Costello Sr.

  Grandpapa had a low threshold for fighting between siblings, whether it was my mom and her siblings or me and Lily. His view was that family should stick together. If only he knew that his children were just sitting around waiting for him to die in order for them to start the final battle.

  They can’t even wait for him to be buried.

  Each of them is dying to take over New Orleans and if there’s one thing the four siblings have in common, it’s not letting anything get in their way. Even each other.

  As if on cue, Uncle Carmine, the chosen successor, walks through the wooden door leading into the funeral home. Dressed impeccably in a black three-piece suit and his salt and pepper hair slicked back, he looks like a younger version of my grandfather. Behind him is his son, Sam, the spitting image of his father.

  Despite the plotting currently happening in the corner of the room, Uncle Carmine has been running La Famiglia for a while now since before Grandpapa’s diagnosis, before the chemo, and before the month of hospice.

  Uncle Carmine’s eyes immediately find my mother and Aunt Caterina in the corner and both straighten their spines as he approaches. I stand on the balls of my feet, clutching the paper cup of water I’m holding, ready for the shouting to start.

  I think everyone in the room is bracing themselves.

  It’s well known in the family that Uncle Carmine doesn’t care for his two older sisters and now that Grandpapa is gone, he has no reason to support them.

  I swallow hard as he approaches, looking my mother and Aunt Caterina up and down. I can’t hear what he whispers, but the scowl on Aunt Caterina’s face tells me she’s not thrilled.

  My mother straightens her spine, her tell that she’s feeling defensive, and my father has his lips pursed into a thin line.

  Despite my mother's lifelong goal of pleasing her father, she married a man that he didn’t like. Maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t like him as much as he saw through his motive. Hell, half of New Orleans can see through Damien Romano’s motives. He’s transparent, and it’s clear his intention is to take the boss's seat.

  “You look nervous.”

  I turn my face quickly to lock eyes with Sam, I was so focused on my parents’ body language that I didn’t notice him creep up on me.

  “I’m not.” I spit out with more venom than I mean to.

  Sam smirks and shoves his hands into the pockets of his Armani slacks, he leans his back against the wall that I’m standing by. “You know what they want to do?” he asks.

  Despite our parents’ hatred of each other, Sam has been nothing but kind to me our entire lives. He’s five years older, the same age as Lily is. Or was. The two of them were protective of me since the day I was born, always keeping me under their wings and looking out for me.

  I look over at him, his features are serious, questioning.

  “I have an idea.” I tell him. “Same thing they tried to do to Lily.”

  He nods his head, confirming my suspicions while his eyes stay glued on our parents. “You want that?” he asks.

  I think of Lily, she tried to put on a brave face. I recall her wearing a royal blue dress and nude heels. Her hair was curled perfectly. “It’s gonna be fine, Little Lana.” She had told me with a smile. But whatever he did to her that day was not fine.

  It pushed her over the edge.

  I swallow the lump building in my throat and turn my gaze to meet Sam’s. “No.” I whisper.

  One hand leaves his pocket, coming up to run through the strands of his dark hair. “I didn’t think so,” he tells me. “You trust me?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” With that, he pushes off of the wall and leaves me.

  I feel like I’m suffocating beneath the fabric of my dress. Suddenly the funeral is too overwhelming, too stuffy. I break through the glass french doors pushing out onto the back patio, heaving in a breath. I suck in air like I haven’t breathed in years.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head without raising it to see who asked the question. It’s my least favorite one, of all the questions to ask, why that?

  The truth is, I’m not okay and I haven’t been for a while. Maybe since before Lily’s death. I’m not even sure okay is a possibility in this family. Most days I strive for fine.

  But how am I supposed to be? Should I be happy, a fake smile plastered over my face to appease everyone around me? I’ve attended too many funerals, more than I can count on a single hand, maybe even both hands, and still I’m expected to be happy. How can I be content with the life I’ve been given when I hate everything about it? How does anyone expect me to be content while death piles up around me?

  I hiccup a sob, my thoughts pulling the emotions from me and shedding them via water droplets rolling down my cheeks.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice asks again and this time I lift my gaze to see who it is.

  Gold pendant. Black ink. Stubbled jawline. Brown eyes.

  I look him over twice, it’s the same man from the hotel room on the night that Lily killed herself.

  Decidedly, I am not a good man because when I look at the Romano girl standing before me with her hands on her knees panting her way through a panic attack, the first thing I think is, she’s even prettier than she was three years ago. Which seems like a shitty thing to think, about a girl who is on the verge of crying.

  “Are you okay?” I ask and finally those hazel eyes rise to look at me. I see the flecks of gold dancing in her vision, fucking beautiful, just like that last time I saw her.

  Apparently, I have a penchant for finding her at the worst moments. I think back to the last time I talked to her. She was in the midst of a spiral, her arms wrapped around her knees, her breathing uneven. I asked her the same question then too.

  I felt stupid immediately after the words left my lips. She probably wasn’t okay considering the tragedy she had just seen, but still I asked the question.

  “Fine,” she breathes out. “I’m fine.”

  She’s not fine. Her eyes are glassy, there's a hand clenched to her stomach. I can tell through the look in her eyes that she’s still in the midst of her panic.

  “Here,” I gesture to the wrought iron table and chairs on the patio behind the funeral home. “Sit down.”

  Begrudgingly, she listens to
me, smoothing the skirt of her black dress and sitting at the patio set. I join her, silently, considering my words, unsure what the best thing to say to someone who’s grieving is.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, “for your loss.” I cringe at myself.

  Her eyes lift back up to study me, running over my features and settling on the charm dangling from my neck. I bring my hand to it instinctually, rubbing my calloused fingers over the round edges. I’ve worn the thing for half of my life at this point, using it as an anchor.

  “St. Jude.” I tell her. “The patron saint of lost causes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I didn’t mean to stare.” She averts her gaze from the charm quickly, instead staring at her hands, twisting her fingers together.

  “It’s fine.” I say. “I’ve had it a long time.”

  She nods, staying silent for a moment before she finally meets my eyes again. “Why Saint Jude? Why lost causes?”

  I chuckle, still running my fingers over the smooth edges of the charm. “My grandmother gave it to me.” I shrug. “It sounds bad, I know, but it wasn’t. She prayed that Saint Jude would bring me luck, help me out, ya know?”

  “Are you a lost cause?” she asks, the gold flecks of her eyes shining brightly at me.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  She smiles at that, the corners of her lips rising as she releases a small chuckle.

  “I’m Lana,” she says, extending a manicured hand for me to shake.

  “Naz.” I meet her hand with mine, shaking it gently.

  She looks better now, different than when I first found her. Her poise has returned, her spine has straightened.

  “You keep finding me at my worst moments.” She says with a soft smile.

  “I’m sorry about that.” I mutter the words, but I’ve already thought the same thing. Death follows this girl, and for some reason I’m always close behind.

  “Don’t be. Do you work for my father?”

  I cringe at the reminder that I’m just a soldier to her, beneath the ranks of her family. “Your cousin,” I answer, “Marcus.”