by Ivy Fox
Father Kirkpatrick goes on and on about the life that brought so much hope to the world. A woman who gave herself and her time to endeavors that will always be remembered by the people she touched. But as much as his pretty words are offered in comfort, none of them are successful in doing so.
Instead, the only consolation I find is cursing a god who thinks that a soul as pure as Anna Maria’s would best serve his interests by leaving this wretched plain, and yet leave a man as vile as Silvio Bianchi still breathing in my midst.
What kind of merciful God is that?
Not mine, that’s for sure.
I have lost faith in most aspects of my life, especially believing in a god that could offer me any kind of justice.
As the priest says the last words, I look over at the husband that should be suffering and find only boredom. Behind him, a grieving community sheds true tears, knowing perfectly well that today’s loss is a blow to our city. Sincere kindness like Anna Maria’s will not be felt again, and Chicago’s poor and forgotten will suffer immensely from such a fatality. Bianchi stands alone in front of such despair, while he, himself, is untouched from any feeling whatsoever.
“Look at that asshole. Can’t even fake a tear for her,” Dominic snarls beside me, never one to refrain from showing his distaste for The Butcher.
The years in the Outfit have shown my enforcer enough of what Bianchi is capable of, and blame has been laid on the devil’s shoulders for absences most felt today.
“Why should he fake anything anymore? Everyone knows what he is, so why hide the truth for appearance’s sake? No one would believe him anyway,” Gio snarks, cool and collected beside me.
Although his remark is filled with malice, Gio has learned to keep the fire inside him tempered until the right circumstances call for his rage. And Silvio—unapologetically showing he is done playing the attentive husband—is not worth the effort.
Dominic shifts on his feet, and from my peripheral vision, I see him scope the landscape.
“Anything wrong?” I question, alert, wondering if Dom has encountered an enemy close by, looking to take advantage of such a vulnerable moment to take us out.
In the past year, tension has grown high between the syndicate and the Cosa Nostra in New York. Apparently, they have taken issue with how fortunate our businesses have grown and wanted an alliance between both famiglias to get a piece of the action—an alliance I have no interest in. Still, the word ‘no’ isn’t something my competitors on the East Coast are used to hearing, and I wouldn’t put it past them to strike at us on holy ground. Cemeteries were built to welcome the dead, after all. If I’m not above such an attack, why should they be?
“No. Everything is fine,” he mumbles under his breath. His straying eyes beg to differ.
“If everything is alright, then why are you scoping things out like we are about to get gunned down?” Gio asks, picking up on our friend’s sketchy behavior.
“I just… Well, I was just looking around because… I mean…” Dominic starts, oddly apprehensive, running his hand behind his neck.
“Spit it out, Dominic. You’re giving me a migraine,” I order, annoyed.
“Well, I thought maybe she’d come today,” he replies, and my back stiffens at what—or better yet, at whom—he’s referring to.
Gio looks onto the grave and mums his lips, leaving me to explain the obvious to my hopeful and naive friend.
“She’s dead, Dom. Don’t waste your time looking for ghosts,” I advise, offended that I have to spell it out for him.
This fucking day is hard enough in my attempts to put her to the back of my mind. I don’t need Dom and his hopes to add to my burdens.
“You don’t know that,” he answers bitterly.
“Dom—” Gio warns, but my behemoth friend won’t hear reason.
“No, Giovanni. He’s wrong,” Dom insists, and I grind my teeth at his blatant defiance and stubbornness.
“No, he’s not. She didn’t come to be by her mother’s bedside for the past three months while she was battling for her life. It won’t be today when Anna Maria’s fight is finally over,” Gio respond unemotionally, and his solid reasoning is enough to silence any other unwarranted outbursts from Dominic.
The first rain of autumn starts to fall upon us, and I wonder if the god these people believe in is now remorseful for his actions.
Too bad. Some things you just can’t take back.
The sound of raindrops hitting the ground becomes the soundtrack to Anna Maria’s final farewell. One by one, each mourner walks up to the dismal casket and throws a red rose into the abyss. In my hand, I hold the only white rose that will meet the brown finish. Aside from the blood I have to spill, red is a color I refuse to touch voluntarily, no matter what the occasion. And the purity of white feels more of an appropriate parting gift to such a docile woman.
“Goodbye, sweet friend,” I hear Giovanni’s father whisper under his breath. “One day we’ll meet again.”
Carmine DeLuca passes by a blasé widower, without giving him any feign condolences, and walks over to us three with true sorrow in his eyes. Even though I know it’s just a simple farewell, my heart struggles to keep its beat steady with the thought of the only family I have left disappearing from my life as suddenly as Anna Maria did. Gio and Dom are all I have now.
DeLuca turns toward Giovanni, placing his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you back at the house, figlio.” Gio nods and lets him retreat with the rest of the remaining funeral crowd.
I turn as well, but I won’t be heading out yet. Knowing me all too well, Gio and Dom follow me but give me enough space to do what I have to in peace. Not far from Anna Maria’s crypt, lies the rest of the Romano lineage.
My mother.
My father.
My cousin and brother, Pietro.
And sadly, my teacher and beloved uncle.
Which death affected me most, I wonder?
It’s been a decade since Pietro’s been gone, but old wounds still fester at a mere scratch. The tombstone, high and mighty, engraved with profound, yet simple, chosen words: ‘Here lies Pietro Romano. A beloved son and loyal brother till the end.’
Loyal.
That he was. To the Outfit at least.
His loyalty to me, I have questioned far too many times in the past. Questions that will never be fully answered and still haunt me to this day. But I cannot condemn a fallen man. Not when I’ve also been disloyal to my brothers and suffered wretched pain as my penance.
I will never be disloyal again.
I have stayed true to them as well as to myself. There are certain things that can never be taken back, but there are also things you must not indulge in, for the sake of not making the same mistake twice. I have learned my lesson well enough.
And then, right beside him, feeding the soil and wasting his remaining flesh away, lies the only man I ever looked up to—Salvatore Romano.
If Anna Maria’s death was all too unexpected, then my uncle’s was a swift punch to the gut, which no one saw coming. Mere days leading up to his retirement and formally naming me as his successor, his heart gave out, officially leaving me bereft of any blood family.
The years up to that point had not been kind to him, and in the last few of his regency, I came to see that he had very little to live for anymore. Syndicate business held no interest for him, and I was left to rule over an extensive empire far sooner than when I was officially given the title of boss. It seemed that visits from Anna Maria were the only thing that gave him some consoling moments in the end. They reminded me of a bond I once shared with a red-haired girl, but now have it only with the two brothers she also left behind. The same ones who are standing behind me now, and will continue to do so for the remainder of our natural lives.
My uncle had been everything I have always aspired to be, and even though I followed his command and tutorage from a young age, I know for a fact there was still so much left
to learn. The greatest lesson he had given me is how to live and go on with a broken heart. You don’t have to become cruel to do it, but there is little use of pleasantries either.
I recall all the lessons he gave and keep them close to my heart. Others might think that being the head of the Outfit is the true Romano legacy, but for me, my uncle’s counsel on how to navigate through this poor excuse of an existence is the real legacy—one far greater than any made man can realize.
It’s a shame I haven’t mastered feelings though. Aside from my attachment of brotherhood to Dom and Gio, I don’t think I have felt anything else. I am as barren and cold as the earth that has swallowed the dead at my feet. For the past decade, I’ve allowed hate as the only thing to touch me except, of course, for the love a son can give a father—even in death. Aside from my fratelli, Salvatore had been the only one who was able to love me unconditionally. And in his love, I let all my sins wash away. These three men were my saving grace in tumultuous times.
A decade ago, I might have been fooled to think there was another who could be that for me, but I soon saw the error in my judgment.
I feel Giovanni and Dominic walk to my side in unison, and I immediately know why they are no longer content in leaving me to my thoughts. I listen patiently to his assertive footsteps, and once he reaches me, I’m greeted with the melodic tone I’ve come to know by heart now.
“We have business to discuss back at the mansion. Do you intend spending the rest of the morning gawking at graves, or deciding who we should send to such a fine place?” Ciro scoffs, not once perturbed by the low snarl Giovanni makes at his choice of wording.
“I’ll be there soon enough,” I reply uncaringly.
“No use in crying for the dead when the living still have to be accounted for, dear cousin,” Ciro rebukes impatiently, but I don’t move an inch at his irritable remark.
“Fine. I’ll wait by the car,” he volunteers and heads down the headstone-filled cliff nonchalantly.
“I hate that asshole,” Gio growls, spitting at the ground Ciro walked on.
I smirk at his little show of animosity, knowing full well I’m the cause of it. After three years, Giovanni hasn’t quite warmed up to my appointment of Ciro as the underboss of the syndicate; a role left vacant by his own father. I would have gladly kept Carmine in the same capacity instead of Ciro, but Uncle Sal’s death took a toll on the anziano capo, causing DeLuca to take a page from my uncle’s wish to retire while he still had breath in his lungs. Most of us leave the mobbed-up life when the grim reaper writes our name in his book.
Guess some people have something worth living for.
I don’t.
And I know neither has Ciro.
Therefore, he was a perfect candidate for such a job, even if Giovanni doesn’t agree. And I have my own reasons to keep LaSpina close. I want to make sure the venom coming out of his thorns is only used for our enemies. Not our allies.
“But Il Bastardo has a point. We really should get back. Everyone will be at the house for a meeting,” Gio cautions, finally opening an umbrella to take cover from the persistent drizzle.
I take one last look at the granite stones and the comforting destiny that awaits me. But that soothing thought is quickly placed to the back burner of my mind, as I have more pressing concerns which call for my full attention.
And not even the dead can disrupt Outfit business. Not while they lived, and not now that they have perished.
TWO
Giovanni
This Cosa Nostra bullshit is revealing just how desperately the Outfit is in need of more young blood sitting at the big-boy table. These old capos have become too complacent in their ways. Their greedy, fearful spirits shining through with every word they utter, disgusts me. As they continue to bitch and moan to Vincent about the recent attacks by our new enemy, I look around and engrave the names of each coward in my head. One in particular stands out more than most—Silvio-fucking-Bianchi.
Always so damn vocal of his discontent for how our boss and leader has been dealing with the issue. Of course, the asshole is still sore about losing his role as consigliere the minute Vince took over the reins of the syndicate. I, however, thought it was about damn time The Butcher lost some of his power. If it had been up to me, I would have dismissed the fucker with a bullet right between his eyes as his severance package. But Vincent, in so many ways, is still very old school. He lives by the fucking code his uncle enforced on him, and I am certain, if someone were to take away Vincent’s honor, he would be a shell of himself—more than the cold bastard he already is.
Luckily, he has me.
One of the best decisions our capo dei capi ever made was nominating me as his consigliere. To most of these old fuckers’ surprise, I rose to the role in ways Bianchi never could. Sure, lo cazzo was proficient in torturing our adversaries and striking fear wherever he went, but at the end of the day his tactful, sadistic brawn was no match for my brain. My revolutionary ideas made all these bastardi richer than they have ever dreamed possible, and for made men like us, benjamins speak louder than bullets any day of the fucking week—a truth The Butcher resents and is mindful of keeping in check, as not to lose his own percentage.
Fucker.
But here we are, all in a debate at the old Romano estate, when in reality we should be at his fucking house, paying our respects to a woman that upheld the Omertá and famiglia code to her very end. The asshole couldn’t even throw a wake in Anna Maria’s honor, and instead, he’s here sobbing about how one of his restaurants was burned down this week.
“I’m sure your insurance will cover any loss and then some,” I hear Vincent calmly reply above all the fevered shouting.
“That isn’t the point! You have to do something to appease them!” Bianchi howlers at the top of his lungs. I’m seated right at Vincent’s side, while the asshole is at the end of the table, and I can still see his freaking tonsils from way over here.
“Do I?” Vincent rebukes with his brow lifted.
The genius bastard already has plans for the Cosa Nostra, and appeasing our Italian comrades will not be one of them. I crack a smile at Bianchi’s discomfort as the whole table of made men grows silent, waiting to learn what Vincent has up his sleeve.
“Of course you do! Do you expect us to do nothing and let them burn to the ground all we have worked so hard for?” Bianchi continues on.
Hard work? What a joke.
The asshole hardly lifted a finger to grow the syndicate to what it is today. Once Vince took away his favorite pastime of being the boss’ right-hand man, he just sat back and reaped the profits. The fortunate bastard was lucky his men and associates were more willing to sweat and bleed for our cause. And if it wasn’t his nationwide restaurant chain being the perfect front for money laundering, what use would he have to us? Not a single one in my book. And if all goes to plan, not in any other’s either, soon enough.
“I have no intention of letting any of our hard work go up in smoke, Silvio. But negotiating with New York is not on the table,” Vincent informs, seemingly unfazed with The Butcher’s aggravations.
“Not a solution? It’s our only solution!” Bianchi refutes, outraged.
“Settle down, Silvio. You might like the idea of being New York’s bitch, but some of us might think differently. If you’re so gung-ho in taking it up the ass, I know some ex-cons that roll that way,” I wink at the bastard, blowing him a kiss to add further insult to his fragile ego.
The devil turns red to absurd proportions, and I mentally memorize that glorious shit for future enjoyment. The young capos in attendance also like seeing the old fucker humiliated and laugh silently at his expense. Even Dom, standing in his favorite corner, hides his own snicker under a fake cough. If The Butcher were a cartoon character, there would be fumes coming out of his ears right about now. Lo stronzo might want to cuss me out and retaliate, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Because second
to Vincent, these mafiosos know just how important I am in lining their pockets. My online gambling ring and black market ventures have made sure of it. And the plans I still hope to set up will make the last three years’ accomplishments seem like pocket change. I’m their lottery ticket, and they know it.
“I know it might not seem like it, but our Sicilian brethren aren’t as strong as they arrogantly deem themselves to be. Of course, they can deliver a pinch and be an annoyance from time to time, but if we keep a cool head, we can establish we are far more of a threat to them than they can ever be to us,” Vincent recounts, gaining the attention of his capos.
“As you are all very aware, once we got rid of the Bratva organization from our territories, the Russians made their way west, but not before attempting to gain ground in New York. Sure, they were unsuccessful, but the damage they caused was enough to weaken the Cosa Nostra. And this, gentlemen, is the real reason why they seek an alliance now. Not to have access to our operations and funds, but to have protection—one they so urgently require.”
A rumble of agreement surges amongst the men in attendance, and I lean back in my seat, watching Vincent do what he does best—lead us to greatness.
“New York is weak and vulnerable, contrary to what they lead us to believe. If there was ever a time to expand the Outfit along the East Coast, it is now. Instead of bowing down to their demands, I say let’s take advantage of their shortcomings instead.”
“You can’t be serious. The famiglia will kill us if we try,” Silvio interjects.
“Not if we have help,” I counter with a sly grin.
“Help by whom?” Alonzo Fratelli, one of the younger capos questions. I see in his eyes that he’s intrigued with the idea, as are most of the younger generation seated at the table. Only the old farts seem to twiddle their thumbs in silence.