Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“I won’t make trouble,” my father says tightly. “Neither will my boys.”
Russo smiles, glances at us, then at his men. He nods almost imperceptibly, and my mother screams, throwing herself at his feet.
The rest happens so quickly. Someone drags my mother away. Her screams keep coming even after a bedroom door slams shut. Two men grab my father. Another takes my brother and me by the arm. Russo and his son step backward and watch as kitchen drawers are opened and rummaged through. Bastian cries beside me, and all I hear are my father’s pleas telling him we’re just boys. Children.
A soldier comes out of the back of the house. He’s been in my room. I know because he’s carrying my baseball bat.
“Dad?” I find myself asking as one of the two men holding him snickers. It’s the same time another soldier—how many did he bring into our small house—approaches my brother and me with the kitchen knife my mother uses to peel apples for pie. It’s sharp. We’re not allowed to touch it.
Bastian screams, and I don’t know what is more terrifying, the sight of the bat being raised high then brought down on my father’s knees, the sound of his scream, or my own as that razor-sharp knife carves a line into my face from my ear to the corner of my mouth. That of Bastian’s as they slice him next. And blood. So much fucking blood soaking our socked feet. The money on the floor. Blood pooling around the tiny, wilting dandelion the little girl dropped. Blood dirtying expensive shoes as Russo and his son walk out, Russo adjusting his jacket, his diamond cuff link glinting as it catches the bright noon sun coming in from the open door.
And we’re left lying in heaps, broken. All of us broken.
1
Vittoria
Present Day
* * *
Incense burns like perfume. My father always loved the smell of it. When we went to Mass on Sundays, he’d always inhale deeply as it poured out of the small church before the doors were even opened.
Organ music vibrates low and constant. I feel it under my feet as we approach the cathedral entrance. People have gathered at the square. Word got out. Of course, it did. An unnatural silence falls over the space as they lay eyes on the casket. On me. The eldest daughter of Geno Russo. His only child in attendance. I escorted his body on its final journey from New York City. My brother was too much of a coward to come if you ask me. But then again, what do I know? I’m a woman in a man’s world. Perhaps my father would have wanted that. For him to stay out of reach. Safe. He is my father’s successor.
I lead the procession toward the open doors. Guards stand sentry around the square to keep people back, but I don’t think it’s necessary. They keep their distance, the women making the sign of the cross and kissing their rosaries as I pass as if I’m a vampire. Like they’re warding off the bad luck I’ll bring. The evil that surrounds me. My father was too young to die.
The cool darkness within the cathedral walls is a stark contrast to the brightness of the day outside. The sun shines brighter here. Dad was right. We lead the procession forward, my heels a soft click on the stone floors where the dead rot beneath. The man holding the camera turns into the center aisle.
My brother will watch from the live feed.
Someone clears their throat. A door opens behind the altar, then closes. An altar boy relights the candles that blew out when we entered.
I wear a modest black dress. Different from how I’d imagined it would be when I came here. When I would wear white lace and my father would walk me down this very aisle to my groom. He spoke of it often. That dream died, though, along with him.
No pews creak as people settle into their seats. No one will be in attendance to hear the mass. The guards will make sure of that.
I lead the pallbearers who carry the coffin containing my father’s body on their shoulders.
When I reach the front pew, I step into it, and the men set the casket on its decorated dais. It is overloaded with white lilies, their smell sickening beneath the lovely one of incense.
It’s my turn to watch the procession of the priest as plumes of smoke accompany the chanting. Half a dozen altar boys follow him. Some of them can’t be more than ten. They all glance at me from the sides of their eyes as if they’ve been told not to look directly at me.
A Russo is here, back in Naples, after too long in exile.
Once the priest takes his place at the pulpit, the man behind the camera zooms in on my face. I try to ignore it. I want to punch him. He is communicating with my brother through an earpiece. It’s my brother who has requested the close-up. What does he expect? Tears or strength? Neither will be good enough for him.