Sergio: a Dark Mafia Romance

by Natasha Knight

  The first bullet hits me at the back of my arm. It’s my gun arm. But I know the sound of an automatic. There’s more to come.

  It’s time.

  My reckoning.

  I know it. I’m sure of it like I’m sure of little else.

  For as much as I think about death, for as aware as I am of its eternal presence, it’s cold, bony fingers, like claws, shadows trailing me, clinging to me, for as much as I am aware, when it comes, when it is inevitable, it’s still somehow unexpected.

  I manage to turn. The cowards put a bullet in my back, below my shoulder blade. It burns. Sends me to my knees. I look at the passenger side window. It’s rolled part of the way down. I can see a flash of hair, a quick glimpse of blond or gray. But the bullets are still coming. Six, I think. Seven. I’m on my back and something warm is sliding up to my neck, down over it.

  And all I can think about is her.

  Her face.

  Her eyes.

  The baby inside her.

  My baby whom I’ll never see.

  My wife. I’ve had her for so short a time.

  I won’t keep my promise to her tonight. This will be the first time I don’t keep a promise to her.

  I think of the box on the family tree with my name on it. The date of birth. Who will fill in today’s date underneath my name? Who will color in the red cross. Will that task fall to her? No. It can’t. I can’t let it. It’s too heavy for her. Too dark.

  There’s screeching now. And sirens. One SUV is flying out of the gas station. They shoot one more bullet but this one misses. Not that it matters. One less won’t make a difference. Not for me. Not anymore.

  “Nat.”

  It always pisses her off when I call her that and I almost smile at the memory of her face when I do.

  Something gurgles up from my throat. I open my eyes for a moment to see a stranger’s face.

  And then I’m watching. Just watching.

  Nothing hurts. It did, the first bullet. It fucking burned. The second, too. And the one that ripped into my heart.

  Now, nothing.

  One leg is bent underneath me, the other stretched out. Blood pools all around me. The ambulance is here, and the sirens are fading. All noise is fading, I realize. Their screams. Their words. I hear nothing. And it’s not like I think it would be.

  I want to see her again. One last time. I need to. I will myself to. To be home. To lie beside her. To touch her just once more. To brush my fingers across her cheek. To lay my hand on her belly. Hear her laugh. Feel her curl into me. Feel her breath on my cheek.

  To tell her I’m sorry.

  And maybe it’s my reprieve. Maybe some time in my life, I did one good thing, and this is my reward. Because I’m here with her. And she’s sleeping. She’s wearing my T-shirt. It’s so big on her. And she’s holding my pillow to her and her hair is fanned out all around her and she’s so beautiful.

  I want to scream to her, but I can’t. I will the sound, but nothing comes. Nothing. I want to touch her, but I can’t feel her. I can’t fucking feel her.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I’m screaming, but there’s nothing. Nothing but silence. Utter silence.

  She stirs. Blinks. I stop. And for a moment, I think she’s looking up at me. I think she sees me.

  But then she closes her eyes again and rolls onto her side and she’s asleep. Peaceful still.

  She doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know yet that I’m gone. That I won’t be able to keep my promise. That I won’t wake her tonight or any night.

  She doesn’t know yet that I died.

  29

  Natalie

  I haven’t been inside the study in the four weeks since the night Sergio didn’t come home. I’ve barricaded myself in this house, which I never had the chance to make my home. I wanted to. After everything, I wanted to make it a home. Our home.

  I know it’s too early, but I think I feel the baby moving inside me. Feel the little swell of my belly. Ever since that night, I swear I’ve felt it. Him. It’ll be a boy. I know that too.

  Sergio won’t see my belly swell as his baby grows. He won’t be there when his son comes into the world. Won’t get to hold him. I wonder if he’ll look like Sergio. In a way, I hope he doesn’t because I think it will break my heart over and over again and I’m not strong enough for that.

  The house is silent. All the lights are out except for the one over the stove in the kitchen. Standing at the study door, I take a deep breath in, because there’s something I have to do. Something I have to finish.

  I set my hand on the doorknob and turn it, hear the creak as I push the door open.

  Instantly, I am overwhelmed by memories of him. By the scent of him. His aftershave. His whiskey. Overwhelmed by the weight of the life he carried. The shadow that clung to him, that kept him in its clutches. I remember all those moments when I’d felt that strange sensation that he wouldn’t be with me for long. That he was a ghost. That this thing would claim him. I’d pushed those thoughts away then. They were too terrible to deal with. But the reality, it’s worse because it’s just that—real. And final.

  The skin around my eyes is wet again, but I ignore it and walk inside, partially closing the door behind me. Make my way to the desk from memory. Switch on the lamp. His chair is pushed out like he just got up from it. I touch it, the leather cool but soft and worn and comfortable as I sink into it.

  The tumbler he last drank from still sits on the desk. The half-empty bottle beside it. I wrap my hand around the heavy crystal glass and bring it to me. To my nose. I inhale. I remember. And tears slide down my face and into the glass and I bring it to my lips and drink the last swallow of whiskey and the choking sound that comes, it’s my own. It’s my grief and I can’t swallow, my throat closes up. I want to throw up. But I don’t remember the last time I ate. I have to eat for the baby. I know.

  I force a deep breath. Feel myself shudder with it. Feel the whiskey burn when it does, finally, go down. It reinforces me and I steel my spine because I have work to do.

  Setting the empty tumbler down, I reach beneath the desk and feel for the scroll. I pull it out, unroll it, mechanically open it on the desktop and set the bottle on one corner, tuck the other beneath the base of the desk lamp.

  I survey the images, the boxes, scanning the names as I open the drawer and take out his pencils, dulled by use, the eraser worn to a nub. I rub my thumb over it. Try to feel him.

  Dragging my attention from the sheet, I search deeper in the drawer for a ruler. That’s when I come across the other sheet there. This one lies flat. I take it out, set it on top of the parchment so I can study it under the light of the lamp.

  It’s me. My face. At least a partially sketched image. I see smudges from his effort to perfect what he saw, and I swear, I see it too. Like I’m laid bare here. Like he drew my soul.

  I set my thumb over the print of his bigger one and smear it across my cheek, like he has before, and the moment I do, every hair on my body stands on end and all at once, he’s here. He’s here with me. Behind me. Holding me. One hand closed over mine, his thumb on mine, his other arm wrapped around my middle, hand flat on my belly, and that’s when that sobbing begins again except that this time, he’s holding me. He’s holding me as I fall apart. As I weep loudly, with a voice not my own, with anguish that can’t belong to me. That I don’t want.

  “It’s not fair.”

  It’s stupid, but it’s all I can say. Because it’s not. We were supposed to have time. We were supposed to have a little bit of time.

  And I feel his arms squeezing me, cradling me against his chest, holding me so tight that for a minute, I just close my eyes and imagine it’s real. Imagine he’s real.

  “Come back,” I sob.

  He can’t, though. I know that. I watched them put him in the ground.

  The high-pitched wailing is me, I realize. And even as I feel the feather light kisses on my temple, even as the hair on the back of my neck stand on end
at his touch, I wail. Because this is it. This is goodbye.

  I hear his words inside my mind. The whispered “I love you.” Feel one final squeeze of his arms, the flat of his hand on my belly. The scruff of his jaw on my cheek.

  And when I’m able to breathe again, I whisper those words back as he slips away. Sergio gone. Sergio gone from me. Gone from this world forever.

  I don’t know how long I sit there in the near dark staring at nothing. My face sticky from tears. My vision empty. It’s when I hear the lock of the front door open that I move. That I shift my gaze to the partially closed study door.

  “Natalie.”

  I startle. They sound so alike.

  Footsteps approach the study and a moment later, the door is pushed open and Salvatore stands in the doorway and I realize the night is over because the warm glow of the morning sun surrounds him. It’s strange. Like a halo all around him.

  He looks at me. I almost have to smile at what he must see. I haven’t showered in days. Haven’t brushed my hair in that long. I’m still wearing one of Sergio’s T-shirts I’d dug out of the laundry hamper.

  Salvatore takes in the contents of the desk. Eyes the empty glass of whiskey. He steps inside.

  “You don’t look so good, Nat.”

  The way he says it, leaning against the door, taking off his gloves, one eyebrow raised and one side of his mouth quirking into a lopsided smile, it makes me smile, actually.

  “Is that yours?” he asks, gesturing to the whiskey.

  I shake my head. “It’s his.” I touch the pattern on the crystal. “Was his,” I correct.

  He takes off his coat, sets it and the gloves over the back of the chair.

  “You’re not drinking, are you? He wouldn’t want that. With the baby and all.”

  “I’m not drinking.”

  “Good. When’s the last time you ate?”

  I shrug a shoulder.

  “Called your parents? Called Drew?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know. I know they’ve called. I’ve seen the countless messages but I switched off my phone a few days ago.

  “Drew called me this morning. Said you haven’t been to school.”

  “I don’t think school matters right now.”

  “Well, it does.” He shifts his gaze to the parchment, steps closer to get a better look. Gives a shake of his head. “Fucking Sergio. Leave it to him to draw a fucking graveyard.”

  When he reaches out to touch it, I put my hand out, stop him.

  He looks at me. “Have you been outside since the funeral?”

  “What are you doing here? Why do you have a key?”

  “Because my brother made me promise something. One thing. If anything happened.”

  Fuck. I’m going to lose it again.

  Salvatore sits down, and a darkness shadows his features. “He called me one night after you two had met and told me if anything happened to him that I was to take care of you. Make sure you were okay.”

  “He did?”

  Salvatore nods.

  “I think he knew. I know he did.” I say through sobs and tears. “He told me once that time was a luxury. One that he wouldn’t have.”

  “Yeah, well, you know Sergio.”

  Knew. Not know. Sergio is no longer present. He can never be spoken of in the present tense again.

  “He was always a little dramatic,” Salvatore continues when I don’t speak.

  He’s trying to make light of it. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “What are you doing in here in the dark?”

  “I have to finish it.”

  “Finish what?”

  I point to the place below Sergio’s name. Just beneath his box. The day of his birth. The dash. The empty space.

  Salvatore nods. He stands and comes around the desk. “Let me do it.”

  I roll my chair away. I let him. And I watch when he takes up the pencil and writes in the date.

  He stares at it for a while and I look at him. At Salvatore Benedetti.

  He’ll take Sergio’s place now. Next in line to rule.

  Next in line to die?

  “Do you ever get scared?” I ask.

  He shifts his gaze to me.

  “To die. Like he did,” I add. Again, my face crumples beneath the pain and I’m struggling to breathe.

  He considers this for a long time. Takes in a deep breath. “Yeah. Sometimes. But then I think don’t I deserve it? I have blood on my hands, too.”

  I know he does. I know after Sergio’s murder, the Benedetti family unleashed their wrath. They took vengeance for the death of the first-born son. And what a vengeance it was. What a brutal retribution.

  “Did he really do that? Call you? Tell you to take care of me?”

  Salvatore nods. “Drunk in the middle of the night.” He chuckles.

  The silence that follows is awkward, suddenly. I shift my gaze to the sheet. Reach over to take the red marker. To draw the cross.

  “Mob killing,” I say. And somehow, I don’t cry. I draw the cross carefully. Perfectly. I color it in. I take my time because once this part is done, there’s no erasing. Not that there ever was a going back. I know that.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asks.

  I look up at him. “Leave. I want nothing to do with your family.” I don’t apologize for it.

  He nods.

  “Will he let me go? Now? With the baby?”

  He knows who I mean. “If what you want is out, I’ll make sure you’re out. I’ll protect you. I gave Sergio my word and I intend on keeping it.”

  “Even against your father?” Because that’s what this would be. Franco Benedetti has no intention of letting me take Sergio’s baby and disappearing.

  “Even against my father.”

  30

  Natalie

  One and a Half Years Later

  * * *

  If it wasn’t for Salvatore, I wouldn’t be here, in my own house in Asbury Park, right now. Franco was hell bent against me leaving. Against me taking his first grandchild away from him, taking that last piece of Sergio with me.

  I understood something in these months and I’m glad for it. Franco mourned Sergio. He was devastated by his loss and it made me see a different side of him. A human side. Still cold. Still manipulative and all powerful, but human. This is the one thing Franco Benedetti and I have in common. We’re both hurting over the loss of Sergio.

  So we came to an agreement. Franco Benedetti will still be a part of my son’s life, but he won’t be in it, not now. Not yet. I’ll deal with the future later.

  I named my son Jacob Sergio Benedetti. And when he looked at me the first time, I was grateful that he did look like Sergio after all. It hurt, but it also reminded me of him. And I don’t want to forget Sergio. I don’t want to forget a minute of the little bit of time we had together. And the baby we made, the love I feel for him is sometimes overwhelming.

  It’s almost eleven at night when the doorbell rings. It’s Salvatore. He usually visits once a month, but I’m not expecting him for a few weeks, and when he comes, he usually comes early in the morning to spend time with Jacob. Although, we’ve become friends since Sergio’s death and I like him. He struggles with the life he’s now bound to lead. It’s strange, he thinks of things so differently than Sergio did.

  Something’s up, though, because Salvatore called not twenty minutes ago to see if I was home. Asked if he could come.

  “Hey, Salvatore,” I say, opening the door.

  He’s preoccupied. It takes him a minute to even say hello back.

  “Come on in,” I say, opening the door wider.

  “Why is it so quiet?”

  “It’s late. Jacob’s asleep.”

  “Oh.” It’s like he didn’t realize the time. He steps in, stops. Shakes his head with a snort as if he were continuing some conversation in his mind.

  “What’s going on?” I ask when I close the door.

  He navigates around the toys to sit on the couch.
“You have something to drink?”

  “Sure.” I get him a whiskey, take the seat beside him and pour myself a tumbler, too. I started to drink the stuff in the last few months. Just a little now and again. It still burns, but it’s Sergio’s favorite brand and it reminds me of him, of us sitting together while he drank a glass. The smell alone will do it, but the burn, it’s what I crave some nights.

  Salvatore takes a swallow then focuses his attention on swirling the amber liquid around.

  “I have to claim her,” he says.

  “What?”

  He looks at me. “Lucia DeMarco. Her time’s almost up.”

  I just watch him. Watch the furrow between his brows. Salvatore’s relationship with his father is different than Sergio’s. Sergio could manage Franco. He was the favorite son. Salvatore and Franco, though, their relations are strained, at best.

  He swallows the rest of his whiskey. “Not quite half a year left, and I have to take her. Show the world how powerful the Benedetti family is.” He gets up, pours himself a second, generous glass full. Drinks half of it before turning to me. “I’m to break her. Destroy her.”

  “There’s no way out—”

  “No.” He cuts me off with an ugly snort. “There’s no way to do anything,” he spits, finishes his drink. Pours another glass and swallows that too. “In six months’ time, I’ll own the DeMarco Mafia princess. I’ll take her from her tower, bring her to my home, and I’ll punish her for being born a DeMarco. I’ll bring her to her knees to bury her father’s nose in the dirt.”

  I go to him. “Salvatore,” but what can I say? I have no advice, no comfort to offer. I know the DeMarco bargain. It’s a devil’s bargain made by Franco Benedetti, to be executed by his succeeding son. “At least it’s not Dominic,” I say.

  He looks at me. Shakes his head. “Do you know what he did to her? What my father ordered when the girl was sixteen? Fucking sixteen years old. A child.”

  I don’t want to know.

  “He had her tied to a cold steel table. Had her legs pried apart and had a doctor confirm that her virginity was intact.”