Too bad. Some things you just can’t take back.
The sound of raindrops hitting the ground becomes the soundtrack to Anna Maria’s final farewell. One by one, each mourner walks up to the dismal casket and throws a red rose into the abyss. In my hand, I hold the only white rose that will meet the brown finish. Aside from the blood I have to spill, red is a color I refuse to touch voluntarily, no matter what the occasion. And the purity of white feels more of an appropriate parting gift to such a docile woman.
“Goodbye, sweet friend,” I hear Giovanni’s father whisper under his breath. “One day we’ll meet again.”
Carmine DeLuca passes by a blasé widower, without giving him any feign condolences, and walks over to us three with true sorrow in his eyes. Even though I know it’s just a simple farewell, my heart struggles to keep its beat steady with the thought of the only family I have left disappearing from my life as suddenly as Anna Maria did. Gio and Dom are all I have now.
DeLuca turns toward Giovanni, placing his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you back at the house, figlio.” Gio nods and lets him retreat with the rest of the remaining funeral crowd.
I turn as well, but I won’t be heading out yet. Knowing me all too well, Gio and Dom follow me but give me enough space to do what I have to in peace. Not far from Anna Maria’s crypt, lies the rest of the Romano lineage.
My mother.
My father.
My cousin and brother, Pietro.
And sadly, my teacher and beloved uncle.
Which death affected me most, I wonder?
It’s been a decade since Pietro’s been gone, but old wounds still fester at a mere scratch. The tombstone, high and mighty, engraved with profound, yet simple, chosen words: ‘Here lies Pietro Romano. A beloved son and loyal brother till the end.’
Loyal.
That he was. To the Outfit at least.
His loyalty to me, I have questioned far too many times in the past. Questions that will never be fully answered and still haunt me to this day. But I cannot condemn a fallen man. Not when I’ve also been disloyal to my brothers and suffered wretched pain as my penance.
I will never be disloyal again.
I have stayed true to them as well as to myself. There are certain things that can never be taken back, but there are also things you must not indulge in, for the sake of not making the same mistake twice. I have learned my lesson well enough.
And then, right beside him, feeding the soil and wasting his remaining flesh away, lies the only man I ever looked up to—Salvatore Romano.
If Anna Maria’s death was all too unexpected, then my uncle’s was a swift punch to the gut, which no one saw coming. Mere days leading up to his retirement and formally naming me as his successor, his heart gave out, officially leaving me bereft of any blood family.
The years up to that point had not been kind to him, and in the last few of his regency, I came to see that he had very little to live for anymore. Syndicate business held no interest for him, and I was left to rule over an extensive empire far sooner than when I was officially given the title of boss. It seemed that visits from Anna Maria were the only thing that gave him some consoling moments in the end. They reminded me of a bond I once shared with a red-haired girl, but now have it only with the two brothers she also left behind. The same ones who are standing behind me now, and will continue to do so for the remainder of our natural lives.
My uncle had been everything I have always aspired to be, and even though I followed his command and tutorage from a young age, I know for a fact there was still so much left to learn. The greatest lesson he had given me is how to live and go on with a broken heart. You don’t have to become cruel to do it, but there is little use of pleasantries either.
I recall all the lessons he gave and keep them close to my heart. Others might think that being the head of the Outfit is the true Romano legacy, but for me, my uncle’s counsel on how to navigate through this poor excuse of an existence is the real legacy—one far greater than any made man can realize.
It’s a shame I haven’t mastered feelings though. Aside from my attachment of brotherhood to Dom and Gio, I don’t think I have felt anything else. I am as barren and cold as the earth that has swallowed the dead at my feet. For the past decade, I’ve allowed hate as the only thing to touch me except, of course, for the love a son can give a father—even in death. Aside from my fratelli, Salvatore had been the only one who was able to love me unconditionally. And in his love, I let all my sins wash away. These three men were my saving grace in tumultuous times.
A decade ago, I might have been fooled to think there was another who could be that for me, but I soon saw the error in my judgment.
I feel Giovanni and Dominic walk to my side in unison, and I immediately know why they are no longer content in leaving me to my thoughts. I listen patiently to his assertive footsteps, and once he reaches me, I’m greeted with the melodic tone I’ve come to know by heart now.
“We have business to discuss back at the mansion. Do you intend spending the rest of the morning gawking at graves, or deciding who we should send to such a fine place?” Ciro scoffs, not once perturbed by the low snarl Giovanni makes at his choice of wording.
“I’ll be there soon enough,” I reply uncaringly.
“No use in crying for the dead when the living still have to be accounted for, dear cousin,” Ciro rebukes impatiently, but I don’t move an inch at his irritable remark.
“Fine. I’ll wait by the car,” he volunteers and heads down the headstone-filled cliff nonchalantly.
“I hate that asshole,” Gio growls, spitting at the ground Ciro walked on.
I smirk at his little show of animosity, knowing full well I’m the cause of it. After three years, Giovanni hasn’t quite warmed up to my appointment of Ciro as the underboss of the syndicate; a role left vacant by his own father. I would have gladly kept Carmine in the same capacity instead of Ciro, but Uncle Sal’s death took a toll on the anziano capo, causing DeLuca to take a page from my uncle’s wish to retire while he still had breath in his lungs. Most of us leave the mobbed-up life when the grim reaper writes our name in his book.
Guess some people have something worth living for.
I don’t.
And I know neither has Ciro.
Therefore, he was a perfect candidate for such a job, even if Giovanni doesn’t agree. And I have my own reasons to keep LaSpina close. I want to make sure the venom coming out of his thorns is only used for our enemies. Not our allies.
“But Il Bastardo has a point. We really should get back. Everyone will be at the house for a meeting,” Gio cautions, finally opening an umbrella to take cover from the persistent drizzle.
I take one last look at the granite stones and the comforting destiny that awaits me. But that soothing thought is quickly placed to the back burner of my mind, as I have more pressing concerns which call for my full attention.
And not even the dead can disrupt Outfit business. Not while they lived, and not now that they have perished.
TWO
Giovanni
This Cosa Nostra bullshit is revealing just how desperately the Outfit is in need of more young blood sitting at the big-boy table. These old capos have become too complacent in their ways. Their greedy, fearful spirits shining through with every word they utter, disgusts me. As they continue to bitch and moan to Vincent about the recent attacks by our new enemy, I look around and engrave the names of each coward in my head. One in particular stands out more than most—Silvio-fucking-Bianchi.