18. Emilio
Lying there on my stomach, the wounds on my back throbbing painfully, I sighed. The relief of getting out of that blood-soaked shirt was short-lived. My mind was anything but at ease. The events of the day had left an indelible mark, a stain that would not wash away as easily as the blood from my shirt.
Beside me, Enzo was in the midst of a furious tirade on the phone, his anger directed at my despicable father. His words were venomous, each curse-laden with years of resentment.
I could only catch fragments of the conversation, but the raw emotion in his voice was unmistakable. He ended the call with another expletive. Then, I dialed another number.
Despite the pain, I cracked a smile when Enzo demanded that Andrea, our family doctor, rush to the penthouse. The urgency in his tone was almost comical.
I strained to hear Andrea”s response, imagining the doctor”s annoyance at the sudden order. ’Andrea got a kick from defying Enzo’s instructions, and patience had never been one of Enzo’s virtues.
A chuckle escaped me, but the smile was short-lived as pain flashed across my back.
Enzo ended the call, and the room fell into a thick silence. My thoughts were a blur.
I couldn”t help but dread Andrea”s inevitable arrival. The man was not just a doctor; he was a scolder par excellence. The idea of his sharp, disapproving tones grating on my ears made me wince even more than my injuries did.
In this state, my mind wandered to Griselda. Her worried expression was etched in my mind—the mix of concern and surprise that played out on her features, especially when she noticed the blood on my shirt. It was a reaction I hadn”t anticipated, and it left me feeling strangely exposed.
Griselda was already aware of my turbulent relationship with my father, but revealing the full extent of the abuse and the scars that ran much deeper than what met the eye was something I was still too hesitant to do.
The shame and humiliation that clung to those memories were difficult barriers to overcome.
There was a fear of how she might perceive me. I wanted Griselda to see the dedicated man who aspired for something and not the vulnerable, fractured pieces of a painful past.
Tomorrow was poised to bring a confrontation with both my past and my father, and I knew it would be a grueling battle. The wounds on my back were a bitter reminder of that.
Enzo shifted his focus from the phone to me, his eyes carrying a mix of concern and curiosity. ”So, care to spill the details of this father-son visit that ended in your nursing wounds?”
I exhaled, bracing myself to recount the ordeal once more, this time for Enzo. There was a certain familiarity in telling the story, like replaying a script I had memorized long ago, yet each telling bore its weight, its own set of emotions.
”He summoned me to the family estate,” I began, giving him a brief overview.
I stood in the hallowed halls of my father”s study, the weight of his stern gaze heavy upon me. It wasn”t my uncle, who usually stood at his side during these family reckonings, but my older brother Carlo.
Yet, my face remained an impassive mask, betraying no hint of surprise.
My father”s silence was suffocating, stretching into an eternity. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to resonate louder, amplifying the tension. I shifted slightly, trying for a more comfortable position, while stealing a glance at Carlo. His expression was blank…as usual.
Carlo, my older brother, had mastered the art of emotional opacity, especially when it came to family matters. It wasn”t a comforting demeanor, nor was it hostile; it was simply a void.
Through the years, I had tried to understand him. Yet, the mask never cracked, and I was left perpetually guessing what lay beneath.
In moments like this, I wished for a sign, a hint that Carlo was more than the stone facade he presented. I often wondered what kind of a burden it was to be the eldest son.
Carlo hadn’t always been like this. In our childhood, he had been different—a spirited and open-hearted brother. But as the weight of our family”s expectations bore down on him, he changed.
It was as if the responsibilities and the realization of the world we were born into transformed him, shaping him into this enigmatic figure.
As the eldest, he bore the weight of our family legacy, a burden that seemed to increase as we grew older. Carlo realized early on that he had to fight for himself and, in turn, for our family”s status and power.
The ruthless world of the mafia demanded it. The pressure molded him, turning his warmth into a steely resolve, his openness into guarded composure.
I saw the transformation happen gradually, like the fading of colors in an old photograph. The innocence of childhood faded, replaced by a hard exterior forged by the trials and tribulations of our reality. Carlo became the embodiment of resilience, a leader in the making.
Yet, even now, a part of me longed for a glimpse of the brother I once knew, the one unburdened by the weight of our heritage. I wondered what dreams he had to shelve, what aspirations he had to sacrifice for the sake of our family.
In those rare moments of vulnerability, when the walls he built seemed momentarily fragile, I glimpsed the remnants of that youthful spirit. It made me realize the battle he fought within himself—a struggle to maintain a stoic facade while dealing with the emotions that lay beneath.
Carlo”s transformation mirrored the evolution of our family.
As we faced the challenging circumstances surrounding our father”s inheritance, I hoped to glimpse a flicker of that brother I once knew. The brother who laughed freely, who played without worry, who shared his hopes and dreams with me.
But deep down, I had to acknowledge that the Carlo I yearned for might be lost in the labyrinth of our reality, forever concealed behind the mask he wore to navigate this world of shadows and secrets.
So, when faced with my father”s scrutiny, I stole glances at Carlo, hoping for a clue, but his gaze remained distant, his features unyielding - an impenetrable fortress, and I, the emotional wanderer, still seeking a connection that remained elusive.
It made me question if he had mastered the art of detachment or if he had given up on connecting emotionally within the dynamics of our family.
My father leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine. He pulled something out of his drawer and, with deliberate emphasis, placed it on the table. The printed photos display frozen moments of my encounter with Griselda at the Lumière Heights Hotel.
Each picture spoke a thousand words, painting a vivid picture of an evening I had wanted to keep hidden from my father”s prying eyes.
There they were—Griselda and I—captured in stolen glances and candid smiles. Her back was to the camera, a mysterious silhouette against the lavish backdrop of the hotel. But our closeness was undeniable.
The atmosphere in the room charged with tension. My father”s eyes bore into me, assessing every flicker of emotion on my face. It was a moment of reckoning, a test of my ability to deceive, a skill honed in years of living under his watchful eye.
Carlo leaned in, peering at the photos with keen interest, adding a layer of pressure I could feel bearing down on me.
My father”s stare grew more pronounced, a predator toying with its prey. This revelation was a threat, a crack in the facade that I had so carefully constructed. The consequences of this moment could be catastrophic, not just for me but for Griselda, too.
I tightened my jaw, stifling the emotions that threatened to surface. The fear for Griselda”s safety mingled with anger at my father”s intrusion into my personal life warred within me. It was a dangerous game we played, a game where revealing too much could be fatal. I took a breath, summoning the calm that had served me well in the cutthroat world I had been raised in.
”Emilio, hai idea del motivo per cui sei stato convocato qui? (Emilio, do you have any idea why you were summoned here?)”, The sharp edge of my father”s voice cut through the room, and I glanced at Carlo, seeking a lifeline, but his expression remained a stoic mask.
”Non preoccuparti di cercare risposte da tuo Fratello, (Don”t bother seeking answers from your brother,)” my father barked, placing the incriminating photos of Griselda”s back before me.
I managed to keep my face impassive as I looked back at my father. His sharp eyes bore into mine, waiting for an explanation.
”Eri in albergo con la tua donna (You were at the hotel with your woman,)” he continued with a sneer in his voice. ”E la mattina dopo sono arrivati i membri di Mancini a cercarti. Perché non me ne hai parlato? (And the next morning, Mancini soldiers arrived looking for you. Why didn”t you mention this to me?)”
”Non l”ho sperimentato (I didn”t experience it,)” I replied calmly. ”Ho lasciato l”albergo nel cuore della notte. (I left the hotel in the middle of the night).”
My father raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. ”So che ne hai sentito parlare più tardi, quindi non fingere di non saperlo (I know you heard about it later, so don”t pretend you didn”t know),” he snapped. He glanced at the photo, smirking. ”Preoccupato per la donna, eri? (Worried about the woman, were you?)”
I maintained my composure, not letting my emotions betray me. His insinuations were clear, and the danger of this revelation hung in the air like a noose. He leaned back in his chair, asking the inevitable question.
”E chi è lei (And who is she?)”
I could feel Carlo”s gaze on the photo, and his interest piqued—my father”s gaze, tinged with something more ominous.
Choosing my words carefully, I responded, ”Non è una persona importante, padre (She is no one important, Father.).”
The lie rolled off my tongue with practiced ease, a skill honed through years of deception and maneuvering in my father”s world. Revealing the truth was not an option; Griselda”s safety was my paramount concern, and I would do whatever it took to protect her.
”She was just a one-night stand,” I replied, my voice cool and unaffected—a shallow explanation, perhaps, but one that would hopefully satisfy my father”s inquisition.
My father gazed at me, his eyes sharp and discerning. He wasn”t one to be easily fooled. Instead of challenging me, he stood up slowly, his imposing figure dominating the room. His disappointment was palpable, a crushing presence that made it hard to breathe.
”Sapevi che i Mancini ti erano venuti a cercare. Eppure nemmeno una volta hai pensato che fosse necessario informarmi. Dovevo scoprirlo dal mio informatore. (You knew that the Mancini soldiers had come after you. Yet not once did you think it was necessary to inform me. I had to hear it from my informant.)” His words held a bitter undertone.
Memories of that day flashed through my mind—the anxiety, the fear for Griselda”s safety, my mind consumed with worry for her. At that moment, I was oblivious to anything else, focused only on keeping her out of harm”s way.
My father”s accusations and disappointment made little sense to me, but I held my tongue, swallowing my frustrations and the urge to defend myself. I had learned at a young age that challenging my father was a futile endeavor, a battle I could never win.
Silence enveloped the room, heavy and suffocating. My father”s gaze bore into me, and though I longed to express the conflicting emotions within, I remained outwardly composed.
As long as I remained in the mafia, my freedom to act according to my desires would remain an illusion, overshadowed by the loyalty and expectations of those around me.
I shifted my attention away from my father”s unwavering gaze, seeking refuge in the room”s surroundings. In the dimly lit room, my eyes fell upon a cabinet. My father, seemingly unfazed by the silence, opened the cabinet”s door and retrieved a long, menacing whip.
He walked towards me with measured steps, the whip coiled and poised.
The tension in the room thickened, and I braced myself for the inevitable. My father was not a man to be trifled with, and the pain I was about to endure was a harsh reminder of why.
Amid the chaos of our dangerous situation, Griselda and I found solace in stolen moments of normalcy. We created a place where we could share meals, engage in conversations that transcended the madness around us, and, unexpectedly, find laughter.
Griselda took a breath, her eyes still reflecting the emotions stirred by my revelation. ”My family is a lot less complicated, in a way. My mother raised me alone. My father died when I was very young.”
The honesty in her words struck a chord. I wanted to respond with equal openness to share my own experiences, but some wounds were harder to expose.
”I can relate to the absent father part,” I began carefully, choosing my words. ”My mother passed away when I was young, and I was left in the care of my father, a man whose definition of parenting was questionable at best.”
Her gaze held mine, a mix of empathy and curiosity, inviting me to continue.
”He was always absent emotionally,” I added, my voice carrying the weight of the memories. ”And when he was present, it was suffocating, unbearable. Punishments were a norm for the smallest of ”offenses.” My escape was through learning, books, and eventually, building my world.”
A somber atmosphere hung around us, the weight of unspoken pain mingling with the scent of our meal. Griselda”s quiet understanding was a balm to my soul, making it easier to peel back layers I rarely exposed.
”I used to be fascinated by cars,” I continued, steering the conversation towards a lighter note. ”My mother and I would watch races together on TV. She was my source of strength.”
Griselda listened intently, her eyes reflecting a mix of sorrow and understanding.
”But life,” I said, ”has a way of testing your strength. Losing her was the hardest blow.”