And I’d rather be damned than let love play me for a fool.
Love is fickle. Love destroys. Love makes you weak and corrupts wholeheartedly.
My destiny is my own, and my choices will be the only ones that will dictate my future.
I will never be love’s pawn again.
The soulless are incapable of love anyway.
One rotten girl’s parting choice made sure of it.
ONE
Vincent
Another day, another funeral.
Call me a heartless bastard, but I quite prefer funerals to other famiglia obligations.
Engagements, weddings, baptisms; those are the ones I would rather avoid like the plague. Those are the type of events that would fucking gnaw at my good humor—if I had any, that is. But as the boss of the Outfit, I’m required to at least show my face at such distasteful celebrations. Elaborate affairs to ensure the joyous couple broadcasts their happiness to every person in attendance, while I stew in my seat, wishing my hosts the same misery I live each day and cursing them under my breath for making me bear witness to their bliss.
Funerals though, I don’t mind one bit. Watching people cry for their loss, while on their knees, begging to an absentee god to give them a cause for such a departure. Hearing their grieving prayers, while trying to reason with themselves why a beloved life has been cut short and taken away from them so soon. Those tears and wails are my symphonies. I understand it. Welcome it even, as they are the only ones that ring true to my own losses.
Still, this particular funeral isn’t as comforting as I usually feel in such a melancholic ambiance. For the first time in years, I find myself wanting to be anywhere else but here.
Standing in the cold, looking down at the coffin that will soon meet its final resting place, and knowing the woman inside merited a better end than this, is unsettling. But then again, Anna Maria deserved far better than the life she got, so the manner in which she leaves it should probably be the least of my laments.
A true saint to the very end. But, for all her altruism and generosity, what happiness had ever been bestowed upon her deplorable life? All she was given was a sadistic, vindictive husband that made her every day a nightmare to trudge on through. An ungrateful daughter that fled at the first opportunity, leaving Anna Maria alone and in the hands of a man who would take his vengeance out on her. And then, as a cruel joke, cancer unexpectedly knocked at her door and stole her light as swiftly as it came.
I have always known life to be unjust. I have lived through its harsh and tangled webs to know nothing in this world is ever fair. Still, if anyone had been worthy of such mercy, it was the woman who lies still inside the oak wood coffin in front of me.
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.