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by Kirsty-Anne Still

  “He’s not getting away free,” my father states. He sounds more reserved now, as if getting rid of Giovanni has allowed his mind to find some order. “This is going to snap him back into reality. This will hit him one day, and he will be back to get what he knows he deserves.” My father breathes, trying to rationalize how fast he’s losing. “He just needs to straighten things out.”

  “Like that will fucking work,” I scoff, pushing away from Zane. “You will always save the wrong ones. You will always have faith in the wrong ones. You just proved that beautifully! Whatever happens in this life, we’re all screwed because we’re all too good for your liking. Manuel has been dead over a week, and Giovanni is still free. What does that say about you? Why haven’t you tried to make us feel loved and protected after what he did to us?” I ask, my voice begging to break. My eyes begin to water as I recognize that I just want my father to realize what he should be doing. “Why aren’t you breaking down doors and pitching threats for us? Giovanni has done nothing but lived by sadistic notion after sadistic notion and now you’re aiding and abetting that.”

  “Like I did you!” he shouts at me, casting my own sins at me. His outburst tells me he doesn’t know quite what to say.

  With that, I slap my father across the face. All of my remaining energy goes into that hit. The resounding noise rings around the room as my brothers come back in to find our father cradling his face while I stand seething before him. I don’t remember moving quite so fast, but I did and I never felt happier to hit him than I just did.

  “I will live with my own actions until the day I die. That’s my penance for when I’m free of you. I don’t need you to condemn me after what you made of me.” I drop back, my chest heaving. “I hope that the sight of Manuel’s body never leaves you and I hope to God that the image of me bleeding out on your desk is one you see every time you close your eyes. It’s about time you were haunted by this life.”

  “She’s right,” Enzo agrees with me, coming to my side to face our father. “We are a family who look out for one another apart from you and Gio. You are nothing more than a greedy man who doesn’t care about whether blood is thicker than water. Your son killed your own and you let him run! You let him leave. Where is Manuel’s chance to do that?” he asks, finally broken of his own silent stupor.

  “He chose to stay for us like we all did. We were an alliance, a true family,” Carlo starts, raining down on my father as well. “He didn’t want to leave because we stuck around. We are all still here because of one another, not because of the fear of the great Salvatore Abbiati’s reign. We were never here to worship the Dio Lavoro.”

  “I hope when you realize you’ve lost it all, you were wrong to always silence Giovanni’s actions,” Bruno begins, finally chiming in. “He is one of the reasons I needed a better chance of saving Amelia and Manuel. I might have failed, but you watch, Sal, I will not stop until my family is free of you and this life. They are not made for you anymore.”

  “They wouldn’t ever leave me.” My father strives for confidence in that statement, but even he looks among us hopelessly.

  “I’ve wanted to leave for a while actually,” I intercept my father, uncaring of my harshness. “I wanted to leave before, but now I want to run. I can’t live here much longer.” Now, all of the callous, devilish imps within me become free. “I wish there was something I could do to you to make you see what we’ve all been reduced to, but what’s the point?” I ask rhetorically, knowing he’ll never be more than the man he is – the man who will never choose rightfully. “The Dio Del Sangue will never, ever see the hell he’s unleashed upon his own because he’s finally gotten the one child who will do all of his bidding without even a showing of a conscience. I hope that thought keeps you warm at night.”

  “Amelia,” my father calls as I turn to leave. “You do not get to talk to me like this!” His tone is trying not to bellow, but even I can hear the struggle. “You don’t get to walk away from me after this!”

  “Leave her,” Zane says, stepping in to defend me. He blocks my father’s direct path toward me, pushing a hand firmly into my father’s chest. “You and I might have been business partners, but now, I am here for your daughter and your remaining sons who aren’t as a sick and twisted as you are.”

  “You do not get to disregard your position with me like this!” my father argues.

  “Oh, but I do,” Zane remarks. “My tie to this family is no longer with you Salvatore. My loyalty is with your daughter and I will see that men like you never get near her again.” Even as I step out of the room, Zane’s fight for me doesn’t waver. “My promise to Giovanni includes you. You try and hurt her again and I will make sure you see just how good of a cop I am.”

  I leave as a war of voices erupts; this is how our life is meant to be – each of us at one another’s throats.

  ***

  I’m sitting in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows and sheets. My bedside table is covered in tablets from when I knocked over and shakily grabbed the container of pain pills in order to numb myself. Whether I meant that mentally or physically I have no clue, but I feel more settled.

  I’ve just laid here waiting for the calm to settle back in. I didn’t hear it until the dusk starting to dawn on us, but now I’ve heard voices outside my door for a few minutes. They’re muffled, but I heard enough of them to know that Enzo and Zane are discussing my recovery. I can feel the backlash of the arguing already because I don’t need anyone worrying more about it.

  I watch the door open and Zane wanders in, going to the dresser and moving some things around. I give him a few more seconds to explain what he’s up to, but he doesn’t even take into account I’m here.

  “What are you two planning?” I ask as he turns to me, something encased in hand. “Doors aren’t soundproof, y’know?”

  “Oh well, we were just commenting about how you defied the hospital rules and came home, so we now have to keep you rested until the funeral.” He watches me, approaching my bed and rolling the object around in his hand. “You were complaining about your toenails the other day,” he comments as he slowly approaches the bed. “So, I thought I would pamper you a little.” He holds up a bottle of red polish and I break into a small smile as his face radiates with his. “What do you say, sweetheart? You relax and let me look after you?”

  “Won’t that dampen your masculinity?” I ask, mocking him gently.

  “Nah,” he tells me, dropping onto the end of the bed. “I always thought that when we start to make a future, we’ll reach the point with kids where you wouldn’t see your feet for a few months and you’d need my expertise. I can call this practice.” He shrugs, lying down by my feet. He shakes the bottle and looks at me. “I’m a bit of a sap when I want to be.”

  I say absolutely nothing as he says that and proceeds to start painting my nails. He’s thought of children with me. What’s left of my heart threatens to break once more and my fragility sends tears racing into my eyes, burning them. I’m yet to broach this subject with him for fear of his rejection, but who am I making the moment of truth worse for here? He or myself?

  “Amelia?” he questions, breaking into the web of thoughts cast so thickly around me. “What’s wrong?”

  I gulp back against the lump, forcing the tears to rid themselves. “It’s nothing,” I whisper to start. “I love that you’ve thought that far ahead, but I haven’t and I can’t. I panic at the type of mother I’ll be after the last couple of years of my life. I can’t love anyone else until I love myself. I can love you like I breathe, but loving myself is a job I’ve not yet managed.”

  Stopping himself from painting my nails, his gaze settles lightly on mine and he gives me a reassuring grin before speaking. “You know, I will never force you to do anything you’re not ready for, right? I mean, I understand that whenever you cut free will mean you have to deal with demons that follow you. I will be by your side every step of the way and when you’re ready for it, we’ll take th
at step forward together.” He stops, speaking before going back to painting my nails. “I know more than you think I do.”

  He doesn’t know the entire truth. I gulp, smiling at him. He’s already dealing with so much in this life and even though he’s made it quite clear that my issues are also his, this is something I wonder if it will be the final straw.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I watch him paint over my toe.

  “For what?” he asks, not looking up quickly.

  “For being you,” I remark quietly. “For still being here. So much has happened that a lot of men would’ve run from, but you’re still here.”

  He smirks. “I’m not like a lot of men, Amelia.”

  “Granted,” I comment with ease. “I thought a lot of bad things about your actions and motives before, but they only make me love you more and more. So much has happened that could’ve killed me in so many ways, but because of you I’m still here.”

  “I just needed you to give a little hope to prospect of another world, and I’m sorry you guys see it this way.” He shakes his head in disappointment. Our grief is his and that is more than abundantly clear. “I wish there was something more I could do.”

  “Come here,” I request, using my left index finger to lure him closer.

  I don’t respond to his moment of delicateness, just wish he was closer. I would go to him, but my stomach is far too tender to move across the bed and fawn over him. I want to quit the worrisome nature in me and give in to everything we’ve worked toward. He screws the cap on the bottle and does as I request.

  “What’s up?” he asks, a small, cheeky grin on his lips. He clearly knows what’s to come.

  “I love you, Zane Maverick,” I whisper, drawing him in closer. "Just don't ever break my heart again. It's too painful and I'm scared I'll never recover."

  “I did it two too many times. Now I refuse to do anything but love you,” he murmurs, his voice solemn and honest. “This is where our happy ever after starts.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I always imagine these sorts of days to be greeted with rain drops so heavy they weigh down every difficult step. The skies should be so overcast they match how consuming your grief is. Days like today should be swathed in every negative weather forecast to mirror the doom and gloom a funeral procession moves with.

  Except today, it’s bright and sunny, the heat sizzling across the asphalt while the grass preens with bright greens and beautiful blooming flowers bask in the sunlight.

  Today is a walking contradiction, approached by hypocrites and fakes who will offer crocodile tears and make themselves believe that, for one second, they knew who Manuel Abbiati was and who he was bound to be. They’ll sit in the pews among us, watching with careful gazes and momentary sniffs as they watch my family pull together through a hard, unforgettable service. They’ll watch my father – the man who lost a son – and wonder why he no longer gets comfort from his remaining children and why one is missing. They’ll wonder what happened, gossip, assume, and create make-believe stories that will, in no way, encompass what really happened that fateful day. They’ll follow us, as they always have done, but they will never know the evil that is deeply rooted in the Dio Lavoro.

  I steal a quick glimpse up at the church, and that same feeling of foreboding that this building delivers has barely changed, but now I don’t feel quite like a fraud taking a step inside. I sought confession, offered my soul naked and vulnerable to the only man who could help offer me repentance.

  “C’mon,” my father coos under his breath, a hand coming to the lower part of my back, guiding me forward. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As much as we want to say goodbye to Manuel, none of us want this prolonged agony that goes with it. I cannot wait to make it back home to the confines of my room and hide away from the world. We’ve trudged through the passing days with little enthusiasm. As we recovered physically, our emotional scars and burdens seemingly flared to life. Words became futile, unity became prevalent, and my father became very much the outcast.

  I straighten my posture and look ahead into the illuminated church, the stained glass raining down beautiful rays of light, fooling everyone that today is not about Manuel getting his final farewell.

  I shake my father off as I follow in suit my brothers as they help bear the coffin on their shoulders, aided by Zane and two of our more loyal family members. Enzo and Bruno were adamant that our father would have no input, and while we have to offer some sort of bond, I won’t allow anyone to be fooled that we are a complete family anymore.

  I beg my feet to walk graciously, and I find I just follow the footsteps laid before me by Enzo. My eyes are fixated on nothing but the wooden box they carry, each step was taken with poise, but I can tell my brothers are far from serene. None of us are stupid enough to, for one moment, forget about our cause on this day. I’m just filled with immense pride that my brothers honor our fallen as they do. This is Manuel’s final walk, his last journey with us, and we are all very much by his side for it.

  As it should be.

  They say dying can be the hardest part of life, but I’d beg to differ. Living is the hardest because with every wayward beat of your heart, pain continues to travel around your system, haunting ever cell of your being. Dying is the easiest part of life because finally you can take that one breath and finally find peace. You can say goodbye to the fight and finally slip into a painless oblivion ready for your next life to begin its metamorphosis.

  This time death has added to our suffering, kicking our innermost hopes to the ground and shattering any prospect of a future as a banded unity. I know it won’t always be like this, that time will lessen the pain, but right now, living the moment is something that ebbs nothing but darkness into me. Grief has, and always will, unite us. We live and share each breath of this and while we all have the same heartbeat, I feel as if mine’s fallen out of rhythm and I’m struggling to catch up. The saddest part of all is that I know my father is suffering more, but what he has caused stops me from feeling compassion.

  His part in this funeral was cut down to a minimal. We had already decided that my father wouldn’t take a stand and make a speech. We knew exclusion wasn’t going to make anything better, but for Manuel, I didn’t want my father to offer some more bullshit to squander this final remembrance of Manuel. We will always take our baby brother with us through life, but there was no way in fucking hell I would allow my father to ruin this moment by professing how much he loved his son – the one he thought less of because he wasn’t prepared to kill and came out as gay. I am far older and wiser now to know what I do and don’t want for today. This would not be like my mother’s funeral. I wouldn’t allow liars to pay homage to a man I respected and loved with all my heart. My brother deserves more than that.

  I look at the program listing the service and find myself greeted with a smiling photo of Manuel. The knife twists in my heart as I’m reminded that I will never get to see his smile, revel in his innocence, and enjoy another moment of teasing one another. That in itself brings tears to my eyes, and I feel my lip begin to tremble. Instinctively, I bite down on it, stopping the quiver before it can get worse and I bow my head.

  Zane leans forward, his hand on my shoulder, showing his support for me. I reach up, placing my small hand delicately over his and grip on as if without this small amount of physical contact I may well fall apart. Even in this public setting, the intimacy to our physicality has me lifting my head back up and facing the front of the church. I still don’t listen to what’s being said, only wonder when I can be free from the confines of this building.

  I zone out after that, keeping my mind from running a riot by focusing on Zane’s hand on my shoulder. I wish he could sit up the front with us, but there wasn’t enough room for that. When he noticed, he took a seat in the pew behind us so he was sure he was directly behind me. He didn’t even budge when others took seats around him. He claimed that position and kept that proximity to me.
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  I love him and everything he stands for. I love him more than I ever did, but there is a dark cloud sitting on my heart and that isn’t due to Manuel’s death. This is down to the fact my future could be squandered. I know there’s a chance all could be fine, but that doubt ebbs into every thought and tells me that I’m going to ruin his life more than ever.

  As my thoughts start to revert back to that chat with the doctor not long ago, I snap back in time to hear Enzo called up to offer a eulogy I watch him, throwing my entire attention to him. He straightens his suit, and I watch as Enzo walks to the front of the church. He straightens his tie a little before placing his hands onto the podium.

  “I spent hours trying to write the perfect speech that would do my brother justice, but no words can ever do that. I ended up tearing everything I wrote to pieces. Part of me knew it was because I shouldn’t have been writing such a thing for someone so young, another part is still in denial that he is even gone, and another knew that a prolonged summation would only disappoint the memories we have of our baby brother.” Enzo pauses, recalibrates, and finds an inner poise. “It saddens me to see our family and friends brought together as a result of such tragedy, but we had to guess this would occur in our lifetime.” I watch him struggle with his emotions, but he continues on. “I was told this morning that I should be lucky I’m only burying one sibling and not two, but how does that make this any easier? It’s true that I nearly came close to standing here only to be remembering the life and times I had not only with Manuel, but also with Amelia, and I’m lucky that isn’t so, but that doesn’t lessen any of my grief. In the aftermath of the attack at our home, we lived every moment as it came waiting to find out if we lost both of them. When Amelia woke up, the sorrow that ate at all of us had us questioning everything we hold dearly. The grief that took over is something I cannot describe. We are not the same people that lived day in and day out before that attack. We are finally beaten to a point that we will never recover from and I have no idea what the future holds, but I know it will be emptier without Manuel’s presence in it.” He takes a steadying breath, but I know Enzo is struggling to find the words that usually come easily to him. “Manuel was always the one that regardless of the front he put on to the public would be the jokester behind closed doors. There are so many memories I will cherish of my brother that no one else but myself and my brothers and sister can share. He was far braver, stoic, and stronger than any of us, and I will forever resent him for ever being able to truly share those sides with others. But I am more than lucky to say I watched him grow into a man I always wished he had.”