Sergio: a Dark Mafia Romance

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Sergio: a Dark Mafia Romance Page 7

by Natasha Knight


  I sit up, holding the blanket to myself. “I’m sorry.”

  He rubs the back of his neck, nods, turns. He’s lost in thought again, like he’s right back to where he was before he got here tonight. I hear his steps as he descends the stairs. Hear the front door open and close. I don’t get up to watch him go this time. I don’t want to. The other night’s departure still lingers in my mind and it makes me shudder.

  It’s an omen.

  A bad one.

  11

  Sergio

  I walk in the door of my house, drop the keys on the side table, take off my coat and let it fall to the floor. I should have stayed with her. What I want more than anything right now is to lie down beside her and watch her sleep. Listen to her breathe. Hold this tangible, living thing. Hold it so fucking tight it won’t vanish like everything does.

  From the living room, I pick up a bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler. The lights are still off and I don’t switch them on but make my way into my study instead. This house is so quiet. So still. The curtains in the study are always drawn. This is the darkest room of the house.

  I move behind my desk and switch on the lamp. From underneath the desk, I take out the large, rolled up sheet of what looks to be ancient parchment. It’s not. Just made to look that way. I unroll it, smoothing down the edges, looking at the black and white boxes, the gray, worn areas where I’ve erased and redrawn and erased and redrawn too many times. Where I’ve worn a small hole in one of those boxes.

  This is why I came home. There’s work to be done.

  Without paying attention, I pour a glass of whiskey and set the bottle on one corner of the sheet, sipping as I move around to the next. I slide another edge beneath the table lamp. The paperweight flattens another corner as I take my seat. One more sip and my tumbler rests on the final edge and the parchment is laid out before me.

  I don’t have to look away to open the drawer and take out my pencils. Charcoal, for sketching. The callous on my middle finger is still dark from all the times I’ve held these.

  The Benedetti family tree is all here before me from generations past. I wonder if anyone will continue to do this when I’m gone. When I’m one of the boxes that needs to be erased. Redrawn. The dates entered, finally.

  I can’t find the eraser right away and turn to rummage through the drawer. It had slid to the back. Taking it and my ruler, I erase the already smudged line around a cousin’s box. I want it perfect.

  No one’s seen this little project of mine, not even Salvatore. It’s morbid, I know. But it takes up so much of my mind, more and more as each day passes.

  When I’m finished redrawing the box, I retrace the dates. This cousin was seventeen when he was killed. A car crash, not mob violence. Just too much alcohol and stupidity. We have those too. Life. Normal. Death.

  When that’s done, I drag my gaze to my father’s box. Then my mother’s. I touch hers with the tip of my finger. It won’t be long before I add a date here.

  I suck in a deep breath, rub the scruff of my jaw. If I don’t shave soon, it’ll be a fucking beard. I look away, look down at my brothers’ boxes. My own. Funny, I’ve drawn theirs with connected empty boxes beside for their eventual wives. Their families.

  I told Natalie time was a luxury, but so is family. Children. A fucking wife.

  I swallow all that shit down, swallow the choking lump in my throat, bury it deep in my gut. I steel myself, look at my own name there. I’ll be the boss of this family one day. It’ll be when I’ve added a date to my father’s box. It’s not that I don’t want it. I do. And it’s not that I feel guilt over what I do. I don’t. I’m very comfortable with who I am. It’s just—it’s always bittersweet, everything.

  Someone always has to fucking die.

  I line up the ruler, almost draw the link, almost add a box, but I stop. I can’t do that because if I do, I’ll be condemning her.

  Instead, I take out a blank sheet of the same type of paper. This one’s letter sized. I have it specially made—vanity, I suppose. I like nice things.

  I set the sheet on top of the family map—our graveyard—and pick up the tumbler, swallow the rest of my whiskey. I pour another glass and get to work.

  From memory, I start with her eyes. Almond shaped and so dark, they’re almost black. Eyes are the hardest. Inside them is the soul. And I want to see her soul. I want it more than anything else right now.

  It takes time, but I’ve got all night. My hands turn gray with charcoal as I smudge and erase and redraw again and again and again. I want to draw her like she was tonight. When she came. Soft and open and surrendered. Surrendered to me.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until I wiped away a tear. It’s the strangest feeling, I have no word for it and I don’t want to forget that, not ever. Memory is so fucking fragile.

  When I finish with the eyes, I sit back and look at my work. I breathe from high in my chest, I’ve been holding my breath and didn’t realize it. My hand reaches to find my glass but it’s empty, so I drag my gaze away, stand to reach for the bottle, refill, splashing a few drops onto the family tree. I wipe them away with my sleeve and drink the burning liquid in one swallow. I wish it numbed me like it used to, but it takes a lot these days.

  I push the sketch aside and look back at my box on the family tree, look at the line I started to draw to add a box, to link it to mine, and for one moment, I let myself imagine. I let myself dream the impossible.

  And then I sit and I make myself remember.

  Make myself count.

  Make myself say aloud the name of every person here where a date had to be written in. Something that wouldn’t be erased again. A box. A life. Another, different, sort of box. I count each one.

  I do this every time I take this sheet out. Every time I feel sorry for myself because I have no right to. I’m not a good person. Salvatore, he has a conscience. I know his struggle. Dominic, not so much. He’s a mean son of a bitch. But so am I. The only difference between my little brother and me is that I’m going to get everything I want and he’s going to get nothing. That’s my saving grace.

  Although I’m not sure the word grace should be uttered by someone like me.

  I sit. I run my thumb softly over the edge of Natalie’s eye. Smudge it. I smear charcoal across the sheet of paper, like I smeared the teardrop across her cheek earlier.

  I reach in my pocket for my cell phone and maybe I am a little drunk when my brother’s groggy voice comes on the line and I look at the time. It’s almost four in the morning.

  “Sergio?” Salvatore asks, then with more urgency, “Is everything okay?” He must just realize the time.

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.”

  Pause. “You sure?”

  I grunt. I can’t drag my eyes from hers as I reach for the bottle and drink straight from it.

  “Sergio. What the fuck? It’s four in the morning.”

  “Listen.” I don’t recognize my own voice, it’s so low. So quiet. So broken.

  He hears it too, I know from the emptiness in the line. “I’m listening,” he finally says.

  “There’s a girl,” I start.

  “A girl?”

  “If anything happens to me, you’ll have to make sure she’s okay.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “Just listen.”

  “Are you fucking drunk?”

  “No. Yeah. Maybe a little. Doesn’t matter.” I smear charcoal on my fingertip. Smear it to Natalie’s temple, create a shadow.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah. Alone.”

  “You need me to come over?”

  “No, I’m fine. I just need you to shut the fuck up and listen now.”

  “Okay. Tell me about the girl.”

  I close my eyes, give my head a shake. What am I going to tell him? What can I say that will make any sense?

&n
bsp; “Just make sure she’s okay.” Fuck. I’m definitely drunk.

  “I’m coming over. You can make me fucking breakfast because it’s not even the ass crack of dawn.”

  I chuckle. “No, it’s fine. Salvatore, it’s fine. I’m okay.” I take a deep, sobering breath.

  “Then tell me about the girl. What’s her name?”

  “Natalie. Natalie Gregorian.”

  He repeats the name, then chuckles. “Dad’s going to give you shit she’s not Italian.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck that.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “A couple of days.”

  He laughs. “She got you good, huh?”

  “I like her, that’s all. Just if anything happens—”

  “Nothing’s going to fucking happen to you so shut the fuck up. Don’t be a goddamned ass.”

  I smile.

  “Natalie Gregorian,” he says seriously, and I know that’s his way of telling me yes, he’ll make sure she’s okay if anything happens to me. “Why don’t you get some sleep now, brother.”

  “Yeah.” I get to my feet. “Listen, sorry I woke you. I know you need your beauty rest.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hey, the stuff with mom—”

  “She’s getting another opinion. Dad’s calling in some specialist from Germany.”

  “Of course, he is.” He’s desperate. “It’s shitty.”

  “Yeah it’s fucking shitty. Listen, you can’t think about it. You need to go have some fun. Take Natalie away for a weekend or something. Somewhere hot and sunny. You can’t always be in this shit, you know? Not you, Sergio. You need a fucking break.”

  I know what he means, why he’s saying this. I’ve got the family graveyard laid out in front of me. Drawn over years. This darkness, it’s a part of me. And it’s not that it belongs to me. No. I belong to it. Always have.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “All right. Get some sleep.”

  “Good night.” I hang up, set the phone down. I slide the large sheet out from under my new sketch and roll it up, put it away. I give Natalie’s sketch one long look before switching off the lights and going upstairs to try and sleep, hoping for just a few hours of oblivion.

  God, what I’d give.

  12

  Sergio

  Roman lives about an hour out of the city. We’re not supposed to meet until this afternoon, but I want the element of surprise.

  “Sergio,” he checks his watch. “Did I confuse the time?”

  “No, Uncle. I’m early.”

  “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

  “I don’t mind.” I look around the elaborately decorated house. It’s an older structure and dark, with wood everywhere. Not my style, but it’s what he likes. “I have some business out this way anyway.” It’s a busy fucking day for me.

  We walk directly into his study. Roman takes the seat behind his desk. I remain on my feet, studying the paintings along the walls. “This new?” I ask about a watercolor I haven’t seen before.

  “Yes. Bought it at auction a few weeks ago, actually.”

  “It’s very nice.” And quite expensive, I’m sure.

  “Thank you. How are you holding up after the hospital?”

  I face him, lean my back against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. I purposely don’t take the seat before the desk. Before him.

  “It’s shitty news.”

  “Yes. Your father’s very upset.”

  “Understandable.”

  “There are some meetings coming up that I’m not sure he’ll be able to attend.”

  I nod. “I’ll take his place.”

  “I can sit in as necessary.”

  “As his son and eventual successor, I’ll take his place.”

  “As you wish.”

  “How did old man Vitelli know about mom, Uncle?”

  Roman has been with my father for longer than I’ve been around. He has learned well to conceal any emotion. Mastered the art. It’s not that I mistrust him, but there’s something that’s always niggled at the back of my mind with him.

  “When we were talking about Joe’s situation, it came up.”

  “Why were you talking to him about his son’s situation?”

  “I’ve known him a long time, Sergio. He had nothing to do with what his sons were arranging.”

  “It sounds like you’re friends.”

  “You know as well as I there are no friends in this business.”

  “Does he know you would have dealt a harsher punishment than I had it been up to you?”

  At that, there’s a brief narrowing of his right eye. I only notice it because I’ve trained myself to watch people closely.

  “What are you saying, Sergio?” he finally asks.

  “I’m saying loyalty is of utmost importance, Uncle. Equal to family. Perhaps surpassing it.”

  “Are you questioning mine?” He’s direct. We all are, I guess. “I’m your mother’s brother, remember. Your godfather. Are you questioning my loyalty to you or your family?”

  “Explain to me how it came up.”

  He raises his eyebrows. The chair creaks as he leans back. “I don’t think the Benedetti family needs another war. Not right now.”

  I agree with him on that. The DeMarco war damaged us, at least a little. We won, but between that and my mother’s illness, Roman is right. This is not the time for war. Vitelli—hell, any ambitious family—would use my mother’s illness, see it as a weakness, an opportunity.

  “I gave a little, to gain a little,” he says. “I apologize if I overstepped.”

  “I don’t like being caught off guard.”

  “And it wasn’t my intention that you should be.” He rises, walks around his desk and comes toward me. “Sergio, you’re my nephew. My blood. And when the time comes, I hope I’ll be of service to you as I am to your father.” He gives a brief bow of his head.

  I watch him do this, know what it takes to do what he’s doing. He’s right that we’re blood. And to have to bow to a man almost thirty years his junior, whose only privilege is birth, must burn a little.

  I nod, check my watch. “Anything new from the Vitelli boys?”

  “No. Quiet as can be.”

  “Which we both know is not really a good sign.” Silence always precedes an ambush. A deafening, deadly stillness.

  “Yes, we do.” He moves back behind his desk. Sits. “I’ll keep my eyes on Vitelli.”

  “Do. I want to be kept up to date on any happenings. Let’s keep my father out of this for now.”

  “I agree with that.”

  “Are you coming to Dominic’s birthday dinner?” I ask to change the subject.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I say.

  “You don’t want to stay? Have something to eat?”

  “No, thank you. I have some personal business to take care of.”

  “All right. I’ll walk you out.”

  When I’m done at my uncle’s, Eric drives me to my next destination, the Dayton Architecture offices. As in Professor Harry Dayton, the prick. He touched her, expecting her to fuck him for a fucking internship. Fucking asshole. I’m about to do this town a service.

  As we near the offices, I wonder how she gets out here because she doesn’t own a car. There’s a bus stop a few blocks down. I’m guessing she takes the bus and although this isn’t a bad neighborhood, the opposite, in fact, I don’t like the thought of her walking on her own or waiting in the dark at the bus stop.

  The office is a mansion that’s been converted to serve as the Dayton Architecture firm. I admit, it’s beautifully done. I’ve heard of the firm, too. When I bought my house, they were one of the ones I considered to do the job of renovating.

  Eric and I walk up to the front doors together. I don’t have anyone else with me, but I don’t think I’ll need much man power. When we walk inside, a pretty, young girl looks up from the receptionist desk.


  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you?” she asks, a smile on her lips.

  “We’re here to see Harry Dayton,” I say, glancing around. There’s a woman in the waiting room who’s stopped flipping through the magazine on her lap to watch us and someone else peers up from her desk in an office at the back.

  It’s not like we stand out though, Eric and me. We’re dressed well. Dark suits. Clean cut. But maybe we do. Maybe they can feel the aggression coming off us.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

  “Tell him Mr. Benedetti’s here to see him.”

  “Professor Dayton’s very busy, Mr. Benedetti.” She pushes a few keys on her keyboard. “And I don’t see you listed here.”

  “Upstairs?” I ask, ignoring her. “That his office?” Double doors at the top of the winding, elaborate staircase lead me to believe it is. Like a fucking king, he sits up there. Fucking pervert. “We’ll see ourselves up.”

  “Sir! You can’t go up there—”

  Eric and I take the steps up at a brisk pace. I unbutton my suit jacket as I reach the first-floor landing and don’t bother to knock but push the door open to find a very surprised, balding middle-aged man sitting behind a massive desk.

  “What the—”

  The girl from downstairs comes running into the room. “Professor, I’m so sorry—”

  “That’s alright, honey,” Eric says behind me. I know he’s urging her out. “We’ll take it from here.”

  The door closes.

  Dayton looks me over, rises to his feet, his face red with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Eric walks toward the desk, then around it. He glances at the computer screen and chuckles as he puts his hands on Dayton’s shoulders and pushes him to sit.

  “We’ll let you get back to your porn in a few minutes,” he says. “This is Mr. Benedetti.”

  I sit, cross my ankle over my knee. Look around.

 

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