by Laura Rossi
One day Alonso had taken him for a walk around The Market after school without telling me.
I’d had a nervous breakdown, shouted at the guards to let me go out, but they’d just obeyed the orders that had been given by Alonso: keep me in the house, not let me call anyone.
I’m going to call the police.
He’ll get him killed.
He’ll get him to do horrible things.
What are they doing?
I’d pulled at my hair and shouted the most horrible things to his soldiers, who’d just stared back at me, careless.
I remember rushing over to Alejandro when he’d gotten back home, hugging him tight and glaring at Alonso, my eyes promising him the flames of hell.
“He’s teaching me how to shoot.” Alejandro’s eyes beam at me as he tells me everything he’s done.
I listen in horror, as my ten-year-old son tells me all he’s learned about guns from his father.
His father.
I’d glared at Alonso and questioned everything in my life. If I could have gone back in time, I’d have slapped myself, told myself to spit in his face during that first dance instead of falling down to his feet.
I’d fought with Alonso every day from that first time he’d taken our son on the streets, and he’d hit me so bad once, I’d walked around the house looking like a monster for days: cut lip, black eye… no make-up had been able to cover that disgrace but I would have done it again and again if it would have stopped Alonso, if it would have saved my son from his vicious intentions.
But it didn’t.
“What happened to your face?” Ramirez stares at me in horror, coming back from school.
“I fell,” I lie, biting the inside of my cheek.
He caresses my face, his hazel green eyes studying me carefully, smelling the lie.
Ramirez had had this innate ability to read right through me, his deep thoughts had made me question if he was really a child. He’d been an old soul. Everything about his ways had made me think of Roberto. His real father.
I’d seen Roberto less and less over the years, only stolen glances on Sundays. I’d stopped going into the confession booth; I’d stopped telling him what was happening to me.
It wasn’t right of me and I probably should never have, but then I’d look at Ramirez and remind myself that he wouldn’t have existed without Roberto. He was all the strength and energy I needed to fight Alonso back.
Alejandro was drifting. I could see how he looked up to his father—how the thrill of roaming the streets, handling a gun and the idea of being so powerful, was starting to take a hold of him.
My attempts to intervene had been in vain.
By the time Alejandro was twelve, he’d become his father’s best friend, and I was just his mother: a woman afraid of her own shadow; a woman who’d do or say anything to keep him from living the life he was aching to live.
A dangerous life.
Dark, vicious, tainted with blood.
“She’s trying to come between us.”
“She doesn’t understand.”
“Don’t tell her everything we do,” Alonso advises him. “She’s a woman. This is our business. This is only for real men, like you and I.”
His disgusting habits, his filthy words had worked.
Alejandro had become distant. We would hardly speak anymore, and every time I’d tried to reach out for him, Alonso would put me in my place.
“Taci!” Shut up!
I’d bite my tongue, patiently waiting for when I could speak to my son alone.
“You worry too much.” Alejandro waves it off, not a single word spoken about what is going on with his father. “I’m okay. Everything is okay. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“You can say no. You can, Alejandro. If you don’t want to go with your father…”
“I do. I want to,” he is quick to say.
I hold my breath, like I’ve been slapped in the face and the shock has paralyzed me.
When did I lose him? When? When had he started thinking so much of his father?
When Ramirez was born? Before that? After that? Have I neglected him?
I’d searched for an answer, thinking it could lead me to the solution. I’d blamed myself and failed to get through to him.
Pride and honour, respect La Famiglia.
It was all I’d heard him talk about from that moment on. He was in Alonso’s hands and it had almost destroyed me completely.
I’d lost him, lost my son to Alonso.
It had almost killed me, but it didn’t.
A mother never gives up, not until it’s over and there’s nothing left to fight for. I still had both my sons to look after and I’d refused to accept defeat, to hand them over to a sick, cold-hearted man, a murder. The Bloody Colombian.
I’d fought. Hard. Until we’d reached the limit and everything blew up in our faces.
Chapter 16
I still can’t believe how sly he’d been. Alonso had planned it out so well—crafted to perfection, his plan to destroy me, right when I couldn’t do much to stop him. When I couldn’t be myself.
We had been celebrating Ramirez’s first communion after the ritual in church, and we were in a restaurant on the hilly side of Rome.
Like any drug lord, like any powerful Mafioso, Alonso had wanted a big party for his youngest. Anyone who counted for something in Rome was there and I’d been busy working the room, people stopping me every minute to talk to the hostess: the mother of the young man.
I hadn’t cared about anyone in that damn room, if not for my sons and Father Roberto. I’d invited him—my guilty, selfish conscience trying to wash itself clean by asking him to be there for Ramirez.
His son.
I’d kept that secret safe from the world, no matter how much a part of me wanted Father Roberto to know.
The secret dies with me.
Glancing his way, I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t pleased to be around gangsters, murders, the scum of humanity all cleaned up for the occasion.
But he just couldn’t to say no to me. He never really could. I knew he’d show up: the silent presence beside me, ready to catch me if I were to fall.
“When’s the cake coming out?” Alonso walks behind me suddenly, one hand on my back, whispering in my ear.
I jump a little, but mask it well, pretending to move with the music, anything rather than giving him the satisfaction of scaring me.
“Another hour. They are all still dancing and there’s the salad first,” I say, bringing a champagne flute to my lips.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Father Roberto eye us with a cold, serious glare before staring ahead, ignoring us completely. But his hand… I can’t take my eyes off his hand and how he is holding his drink: like he is about to smash the glass in his grip any minute.
“Good. Be right back. Make our guests feel at home, Donna Filomena.”
Alonso plants a kiss on my shoulder, freezing me in place, then turns my head towards him, holding my chin, and pressing his lips against my mouth.
I close my eyes, impatient for him to go away, to leave me alone. He’s shown everyone his trophy wife, now he can go.
Just go!
I hear him call out to one of his friends before he walks away, laughing.
Make our guests feel at home.
Our guests… his friends, not my people…I don’t care what he’s just said to me. I need a break.
Without looking back, I place my glass on the table and exit the room, my long, dark blue dress swaying down the halls and up a set of stairs.
The restaurant had had two floors. I’d reached the top of the last landing and searched for an open door, a room, a bathroom… somewhere no one would be able to find me and I could wash away his taste on my lips, the mark on my shoulder where his lips had claimed me.
I’d walked into a wide, white marble bathroom and had used all the water and the tissues I’d been able to find to scrub my ski
n, my lips.
The sound of the door had startled me. I’d looked in the mirror, then turned quickly, seeing a man walk inside the room.
“Are you hurt?” Father Roberto stands with his back against the door, searching my face attentively.
Am I hurt? Physically, no. Emotionally, yes. Humiliated, always.
I nod.
“Where?” he asks, taking a step forward but stopping immediately.
Temptation is hard to resist.
I watch him hesitate.
“Everywhere,” I murmur, pushing back the tears. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for you.” Another step forward.
My heart is in my throat.
“You asked me to be here. I’m here, for you. Do you need to talk to me?”
Do I need to talk to him?
I ponder his words, ask myself that question like I’ve been doing so for years.
I nod.
I do.
The secret is overwhelming, I feel like I have to tell him. He deserves to know about Ramirez. I want to give him something and take away from Alonso.
Now or never. Now is the time. Now.
“Ti amo.” I love you, I whisper.
That was the first thing I’d wanted him to know. I’d wanted him to hold on to those words before I’d told him the truth. What I’d done, and that I’d done it out of love. To protect.
“Ti amo anche io,” I love you too.
He walks over and kisses me, his hands holding my face.
Voracious and starved for love, our mouths search for one another desperately.
We’d been apart for too long, repressed our feelings and it had felt like our bodies weren’t able to contain the pressure anymore.
Tell him. Tell him now.
“Roberto.” I break the kiss, searching his gleaming, green eyes.
Tell him.
It is low, soft, but the sound catches my attention instantly: car doors, then Alonso’s voice, then two others—Alejandro. Ramirez—somewhere outside.
I search Roberto’s eyes then run to the window overlooking the courtyard of the restaurant and behind the white curtain. I stare in horror down at the black car as my husband and my two sons climb in.
No.
No.
I turn, eyes filled with tears, and run for the door.
“Filomena.” Roberto follows me out. I feel his footsteps right behind me all the way down.
No.
He can’t be doing this to me. He can’t. Taking Ramirez with him, now, during his first communion. No. No. No. No.
My feet barely touch the ground. I fly down the stairs and run to the main door, pushing through people, dodging waiters.
“Alonso!” I shout as the car drives past me, down the driveway, tears running down my face.
No. No. This can’t be happening. No. He’s taken them—he’s taken them both.
Taken their youth.
I still remember seeing Ramirez turn to look my way, waving from the car window with a big smile on his lips.
Never saw him smile like that again.
Chapter 17
All it had taken was one look, one look at my sons and I’d known something had happened.
“Where have you been?” I shout in Alonso’s face when they walk back into the restaurant.
“Lower you voice,” he growls. “It’s a party.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I snarled back, challenging his glare. “Where have you been?”
I look at my sons, Alejandro quiet as always, his eyes staring back at me a little glassy. Ramirez isn’t smiling: he is serious, so serious.
“Keep that voice down.”
“Answer me!” I insist. I demand to know.
“Alejandro, Ramirez, go back inside. The cake is coming, go. I need a word with your mother alone.”
They nod and pass me by. My hands move up to their faces. I touch both their cheeks, but Alejandro stares ahead, resumes walking instantly, while Ramirez hesitates for a moment.
His stare meets mine and I see something terrible. Something has broken him.
How could he? How could I let it happen? Again?
“Listen to me.” He grabs my arm, twisting it enough to make me wince. “Shut that fucking trap. Not another word. We’ll discuss this at home.”
“You are a son of a bitch.” I spit in his face, uncaring of who might be walking by, who might be listening in. I’ve reached my limit, above and beyond.
Alonso smirks, wiping his face with a tissue and letting go of my arm. “I’ll make sure you’ll pay for this, you little cunt.”
YOU will pay. You’ll pay for everything.
He pushes past me and enters the room, cheering and clapping his hands like nothing has even happened.
I’ve always been stubborn, demanding and ambitious.
“When Filomena wants something, Filomena always achieves that something. One way or the other.”
My father used to say that about me. A lot.
Time had changed me, irremediably shaped my character, but not the very essence of my soul.
I wanted to know where my son’s had been; what they had done; what Alonso had said to them, and I knew I wasn’t going to get a word out of Alejandro, not even now that he’d looked so lost, guarded.
What did he do to you?
I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off him during our ride home from the restaurant.
Alonso had been in another car—needed elsewhere for his ‘business’—so we’d been escorted home by four soldiers.
I couldn’t say a word. I knew they were spies, ready to report anything to Alonso. I’d become a prisoner and was considered the enemy where our sons’ upbringing was concerned.
So I’d waited, patiently, the bile corroding my stomach, as the anger towards my husband had grown exponentially every time I glanced at Alejandro’s blank face.
He had been deep in thought: there with us physically but mentally somewhere else.
Where? What happened to you?
I reach for his hand and he lets me hold it, but he never meets my eyes.
And when we arrive home, I let him walk to his room, without saying a word or following him down the corridor.
I go to see Ramirez instead.
“What happened?” I ask, walking into his room, hurrying to close the door behind me.
One of the guards in the hallway moves as though he wants to follow me in, but I give him a dirty, menacing look. “Don’t you dare,” I roar, slamming the door in his face.
This is my house, my son. I don’t care about Alonso’s orders. I don’t care if the soldier will be punished for not doing what he’s been told. Nobody cares about me anyway.
I want to be alone with my son.
“Talk to me, Ramirez,” I press on, walking over to him.
He sits on his bed, legs crossed, looking down at his hands like he can see something I can’t.
“Talk to me,” I whisper, sitting beside him.
His big green eyes glance at me, worried, unsure if he can.
“You can tell me anything.” I search his face. “I need you to tell me, please.”
“Dad will get mad at me,” he mumbles.
“No, no he won’t. I won’t tell him you said anything. I promise.” I am so desperate for the truth my voice almost breaks.
Ramirez stares down at his hands again and tells me what I am already dreading. My nightmares become real.
“We killed someone.”
I cover my mouth as I let out a cry, gasping for air, trying to fight back the tears.
Killed someone.
The words echo in my head, shake me to the core.
A ten year old and a sixteen year old…. They’d killed someone.
I’d listened in horror as Ramirez had cried the truth out, sitting on his bed, vulnerable, broken and scared.
Alejandro had pulled the trigger for the first time aiming to kill.
“Shoot him. He’s a nobody, just
a fucking druggie. Shoot him.”
Alonso had given him the order, staring down at the man sprawled to the ground.
A drug addict, someone from The Market, who’d owed Alonso money. A man without a family, who wouldn’t be missed.
The perfect first victim for Alejandro.
“Please don’t kill me.”
The man had begged them to spare him.
“Just shoot! He’s no use to us.”
Alonso had insisted.
Ramirez told me about Alejandro’s hesitation, how his arms had been shaking, his grip tight on the gun. He’d stared at the helpless man on the floor, eyes filled with tears, no other choice but to shoot.
“He killed him; I saw everything.” Ramirez tells me, eyes wide. “Dad patted Alejandro’s back, told him to wipe those tears away. He is a real man now and real men don’t cry. He killed a man. We killed a man. We killed him. We killed…”
I take him in my arms, letting him cry out everything he feels inside.
He’s seen everything.
Oh my God
I can’t breathe, devastated.
This can’t be real, please tell me it’s not true.
I listen to Ramirez weep, my legs shaking, wanting to rush into Alejandro’s room and hug him too. I can only imagine what he’s been thinking.
What if he does something reckless? What if he hurts himself?
“Don’t tell anyone,” Ramirez pleads, feeling me shift on the bed, like he can feel I’m about to spring free and run to Alejandro.
“I won’t. I won’t tell anyone,” I promise him, holding him a moment longer, before walking out of his room, telling him none of what happened is his fault.
It is Alonso’s. That son of a bitch. He’s lost his mind.