“It’s hard to get something past our consigliere, isn’t it?” Ciro remarks, emotionless.
“I pity the fool who tries,” I admit. “So, who do you got there? What’s your trash about?”
“Nobody,” he replies, blasé as always.
“Nobody? Really? Looks mighty heavy for a nobody,” I state, racking my fingers over my beard.
“Doesn’t mean he was a somebody. Didn’t like how he looked at me, so now he’s a nobody,” Ciro answers, indifferently, as if we were talking about the weather and not the life he took out on a whim.
“That’s cold, man, even for us. Whoever you whacked must have been something to someone, Ciro. Doesn’t make you less of a man admitting it, either,” I tell him, giving my own two cents on the matter.
Sure, I’m not opposed to my line of work. Someone who targets the famiglia should be disposed of accordingly. But senseless death isn’t something I can condone. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not the bloodthirsty beast everyone thinks me to be. I’m just really fucking good at my job because I believe in the Outfit wholeheartedly. Especially since Vince and Gio took over; they are the only family I know, and I would die for them without missing a beat. But that doesn’t change the fact that a life, no matter how rotten it is, should still be viewed as precious. That’s one of the few certainties I still have, specifically because I do the shit I do. Taking out the light from someone’s eyes isn’t easy, but I have the comfort of knowing that, if I didn’t do it, then the dying soul being choked by my hands would harm the organization, one that has looked out for me since I was just a scrawny, hungry kid. But killing someone just for the sake of killing isn’t my style or the way I ever intend to live my life.
The result of being such a man stands right next to me.
An unfeeling, empty shell of a man.
That’s no way to live a life.
Some parts of me—my broken heart for one—might be dead to the world, but I still have my soul. I have no doubt that Ciro lost his, long before he even knew what to do with it.
A loud whistle breaks my train of thought, and I tilt my head up to see three farm hands walk in our direction. With just a quick nod of recognition from the gray-haired pig farmer, his companions take our bags from us, and I slip him a cool thousand for their troubles.
“You fellas burn the hair and bash the skulls?” the younger jean-clad man questions suspiciously.
“Of course. Pulled the teeth and crushed the hip bones, too. Think this is my first rodeo, dickhead?” I growl at the insult. I take pride in my job, and effectively disposing of bodies is an important part of the gig.
“I apologize on his behalf, Mr. Mancini. The boy is still new and learning the ropes,” the older man interjects, glaring daggers at his new employee to keep his trap shut.
“Make sure next time he knows who he’s talking to, or he’ll be the one in a duffel bag,” Ciro huffs out, forcefully closing the trunk and strolling back to the front seat.
All three men grow pale at the comment, the older ones knowing full well that The Thorn doesn’t warn anyone twice.
“Guess your new boy is lucky as well as stupid. Had my boss not liked his face, you’d have another body to feed the greedy hogs. Must be his lucky night.” I announce, patting the old timer on the shoulder, and rushing to get my own ass back in the car before Ciro changes his mind.
My day started out with a burial. I don’t want to end it with another.
I’ve had enough death for one day.
FOUR
Selene
My feet meet the wet snow, and I curse myself for not wearing warmer boots. Chicago in January is notorious for its snowfalls and I should have expected as much. Last time I was here, it was a gloomy autumn day and the first forlorn showers of the season had made themselves known; a fact I appreciated at the time, making my nun’s habit and umbrella that much more effective in hiding my presence and camouflaging my existence altogether.
Of course, I made sure to wait for the expensive, window-tinted SUV’s to leave the premises before I took a step inside the Rosehill Cemetery gates. Secretly though, I wished I had been braver and attempted to walk amongst the grieving crowd.
Maybe, for just a few minutes at least, I would have seen them.
But common sense told me it was a risk far too great to take, even if my aching heart begged for just a quick glimpse. If anyone had recognized me then, they would need to bury another body next to my dear mother, and I couldn’t let that happen.
Once, I might have wished for death.
But that was before a life was given to me.
Today though, no such extreme caution is called for. Aside from my ball cap and hood, I don’t think a more elaborate disguise is needed. Made men aren’t exactly the kind who come willingly to a cemetery and pay their respects. Aside from the obligatory funeral ceremony, their affair with the dead isn’t that considerate. So running into a capo on this crisp morning is highly unlikely.
I walk slowly but surely to the grave I have memorized by heart. An overwhelming sadness coats the air around me, but I try to remind myself of all the glorious times I was able to spend with my mother away from such a deplorable place. I wish we had made more memories. Over the years I’ve come to realize how precious simple, joyous moments are. Sometimes those mundane recollections are the only things that keep you going. A wisdom my mother tried to impart on me when life still felt cruelly predictable and bleak.
As I walk closer to the tombstone, I see a white rose carefully placed on the granite. The sight of the delicate flower is a small comfort, at least. I know my mother touched so many lives, but in this fast-paced, uncaring world, I’m grateful someone still cares enough to remember her. I have no misguided notions in thinking it was my father who had come to visit her and left such tenderness at her feet. I’m sure he forgot about her the minute dirt hit her coffin.
I just wish he was as aloof with my disappearance from his life, as he must be with my mother’s departure from this world. Though I’m sure if I gave him the chance to be rid of me, I’d get my wish. He’d forget about me too, once he made certain I shared the same grim fate as my mother.
Unfortunately for him, he’ll never get the opportunity to have power over my life again.
Or anyone else’s, for that matter.
“Hi, Mammà. I’ve missed you,” I whisper, picking up the thornless white rose.
My eyes start to prickle with the wave of loss hitting my hollowed chest, and I bite my inner cheek to prevent any such waterworks from occurring.
“I know you said no tears, and I’m trying really hard, but I miss you so much. We both do,” I proclaim, cleaning the snow away from the gravesite, placing the fragile rose back on its original spot.
“You’re probably up there worried about me. And I know I promised not to come here anymore, but I had to, Mammà,” I hush out, hoping she understands why I would put myself at risk in this way.
“Things have changed since the last time we spoke, and I can’t just stand back and watch anymore. I need to do this. I hope you understand. I’m definitely going to need you to watch over and protect us as best you can. I’m in dire need of an angel, Mammà—and if God ever had one here on Earth, it was you.” I silently cry out, anxious to have her hold me as she used to.