Chapter 13
Dante
13 years ago
I CAN ALMOST SEE HER from the corner of my eye, just about when my lungs beg for me to resurface. Or at least the ghost of her. Black hair floats alongside me like a curtain of dark matter, always nearby, never within reach. Dark everything…Ombra.
What parts of me do I have to trade to find you?
Is it my soul that you want?
I touch the bottom. Of the pool.
It’s quiet down here, the storm above keeping me company. There is no track of time, no state of being I have to force on myself; just a continuous effort to reach an ungraspable feeling. By sinking myself deeper I find there are no expectations, no questions that demand a clear outcome, nothing that can sting when I least expect it.
Water in all its forms, has always been a refuge from the outside world. Nothing quite compares to the way it falls off my body with detached ease, the way it patiently and understandingly embraces my limbs, with its refusal to demand anything once I let myself sink.
It’s peaceful, yet empty and just what I need to forget that I am on house arrest.
At this point, I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore, or the meaning behind this hunger she had dug into me that day. Still, I crave her like a drug all the same.
This silence drowned in misalignment is a temporary home, when nothing else can satisfy. She is a hallucinating bliss, a curse I keep on embracing. What else am I to do but choke on burning sand while seeking a mirage?
So I return to her, again and again like a maniac looking for meaning; to those grey eyes shadowed by a curtain of dark hair falling like a cascade of grief over bent knees.
Suddenly, I am interrupted from my self-indulged trance by something heavy penetrating the surface of the otherwise still water, my slackened muscles spasming in shock from the unexpected invasion. I struggle to distinguish what is happening, seeing from my periphery someone’s dark form paving its way like a pointed arrow toward my sunken body, creating around it a chaotic whirl.
Confused, I squirm in place, chlorine water filling my mouth as a hand grabs my arm, forcibly pulling my body from the bottom of the pool.
I close my eyes against the heavy rain pouring all around me, my lungs struggling to inhale marginally enough oxygen. I try to make sense of what just happened, of the obvious desperation floating in the air but all I can do is regulate my breathing.
Kane, one of my father's most trusted men, still dressed in his standard suit, swims towards me, soaked to the bone; this fact, along with the frantic look in his eyes, lets me know his intervention has nothing to do with my usual, near drowning form of therapy.
"Your father needs you. Broken glass!" he struggles for air and for a second I almost don’t register the gravity of what he just said.
No, this can’t be happening. These two, seemingly harmless words freeze the blood in my veins with their meaning. Family crisis.
Everything becomes a blur of panic and gruesome scenarios. I don’t register my limbs swimming the distance towards the edge of the pool or searching for my phone as I dial my father. The monitoring device left on the lounging chair be damned.
"Dante, thank God," his relived voice fills the line.
"Dad, what happened?" I ask, trying to keep under control the avalanche of anxiety.
"Your mother and Arya," he chokes out.
No. My legs want to give out at the sound of their names and implicitly at the horrifying implications.
"They were taken by those bastards!" he continues, his desperation carrying so much weight that it makes him seem almost unrecognizable.
Static, that's all I hear as everything falls silent, my mind not being able or rather refusing to process a single word coming out of his mouth.
This can’t be. I refuse to believe it.
"Explain," I say, still incredulous as I stare at a spot on the carpet and mechanically force myself to get dressed.
"They must have tricked her. Kane stopped for cigarettes and she went ahead of him for whatever reason. Somehow, they persuaded her to get out of the car while she waited at the traffic light, then drove off in their unmarked van," he pauses, swallowing, "Kane heard her scream when they took Arya and dragged her out too. He tried to follow them, but it was already too late," he says, each word digging into my heart like an icepick.
How could this be possible? My mother is anything but na?ve or easily impressionable. They must have used an emotional trigger or something along that line; otherwise nothing else would make sense.
They can't be gone, vanished into thin air in a matter of seconds just because those slimy fuckers got greedy. I should’ve cut each one of their fingers and make a show out of it, the second my eyes first landed on them.
"Had they called for ransom yet?" I ask trying to ease my mind with the most viable scenario I can cling to at this time.
"They’re not after a couple of Benjamins – they want the key," he laments, muttering something intelligible while I tie my shoes.
Of course they are. I don't have the faintest idea where they even got the tip-off, considering all the precautions my father took over the years.
That fucking piece of rusted iron grunts access to all of our family archives and century old art pieces, which have not known the light of a museum in decades. It is also the bane of my existence.
The underground cave where they’ve been stored and hidden has been guarded for many years; its secrets passed through generations of Malfermos along with the unwritten art of high scale thievery; some of those before me who secured their beloved treasures, ultimately paying the price of their avidity with their own lives.
A few years back, the value of the collection has been estimated in the sphere of hundreds of millions, this insignificant number now holding in balance the life of my mother and sister.
"Did they call? Put them on the phone?" I ask, taking out two of my long range handguns, counting the bullets and tucking them in the back of my waistband.
"No, not yet. They’ve only sent a fax in morse code with the word 'key', ten or so minutes before you called. Kane already passed on what we know so far with all of our contacts in town and over the border. The second someone has heard or seen something, we’ll be the first to know."
Although his voice carries an obvious distress, there’s also an inflexion at the end that doesn’t sit well with me. Even so, I am too distracted to point the source of it.
"I fucking told you they were a threat. If they touch a hair on their heads, I swear..." I seethe though my teeth, unable to contain the anger and spilling it on whoever may listen.
"I know son, I take full responsibility. I’ll beat myself over it for the rest of my days but now we must stay focused," he says, the sound of him knocking one back, letting me know why he isn’t climbing the walls as we speak.
If only he had cast off his ego and listened, they would still be safe. My instincts had rarely betrayed me, and the moment I first saw the seven or so of them creeping in broad daylight at our gates, I should have taken matters into my own hands. Whether he agreed or not.
For the last couple of weeks, they had been leaving roadkill and small game as threats all over our property; on their carcasses being carved the symbol of a key. That alone should’ve been glaring enough for us to know those sadists weren’t to be ignored or underestimated.
But no, my father likes to believe that his god complex and connections make us untouchable, no matter the threat.
After starting the car, I message Tommy, letting him know there's an emergency and that I need him to tamper with my monitoring device for the next few hours.
I take a deep breath, trying to find a shred of calm in the middle of the storm as I accelerate, leaving the grounds of our vacation house, which is also my current home since I turned eighteen three weeks ago.
In moments such as these, when life takes me by assault I have to detach, otherwise I'll lose it and I can’t afford it.
"Come home, more than half of our people are already here," he says in a feigned calm tone, ever the man trying to appear in control.
"On my way," I say passively, my attention focused solely on the road and the infinity of scenarios I’ll never voice, not even faced with a guillotine.
"Be careful, Dan," he says tensely before the line goes silent.
I can barely see the highway, the people, the streetlights as I head to the place where my mom made it her life's mission to make it our home; not just a roof with barren rooms and gilded doors.
And so it was. For the most part.
As my fingers squeeze the steering wheel inhumanly tight, my knuckles get gradually whiter, number. I feel nothing; think of nothing, at this moment being nothing myself. Any other emotion would send me into a state of mayhem and more than likely into the first brick wall my unfocused eyes would fail to acknowledge.
After I enter the high iron gates, I am met by a long line of cars surrounding the crescent driveway, with some of them parked on my mom’s flower beds. I’m more than certain she'll go ballistic at the sight, Sicilian temper and all.
"We have a time and meeting point," Kane announces with trepidation from behind me, now understanding why he is not his usual, eerily calm self. Guilt is eating him up and spitting what is left of him all over these marble floors.
I run a hand through my dump curls as I enter the rounded hallway, seeing my mother’s charming touch in every corner and detail of the house, the wide rooms seeming comatose without my sister’s recent fixation with symphonic rock.
Instead, the salon is filled with my father’s crew that has been with us through thick and thin, the look in their eyes telling me that they are determined as ever to keep their loyalty intact.
"Sit down, Dante," my father’s grave voice commands as soon as I pass the entrance of the salon. "I'd like a private moment with my son, gentlemen," he adds, lacing his fingers over his mouth and lowering his eyes.
Since I last saw him, he seems to have aged at least ten years and how I relate, although the fact doesn't absolve his imprudence in my eyes.
The room empties before I can take a seat at the dining table, my father pouring us both, with a shaking hand two fingers of whiskey.
The moment he reaches for the ice cubes on the tray, I lose it.
Looking him dead in the eye, I grip his wrist firmly, wanting nothing more than to shove him into the nearest wall and knock some sense into him. How could he possibly think of chilling his damned drink when his wife and daughter are held hostage?
"Should I take the lead? Because you seem anything but in control," I press, letting go of his wrist and pouring his whiskey into the pot of the first plant I see.
"They want me and you against their freedom. I accepted," he says with finality, swallowing heavily.
"Good. What's the plan?" I ask, relieved that they've put on the table this possibility.
Some money hungry amateurs don't inspire fear in me. However, by daring to target my family, I do feel vulnerable and unspeakably livid; no matter how resilient my mother is or how adaptable Arya turned out to be through the years, there is no way they will get out of this unscathed.
Given our line of activity, it goes without saying that I fought and defeated through broken bones and bloodied fists opponents with a head taller and twice my weight. I know how a blade fits between my ribs, the feeling of cold steal pointed between my eyes but there was only myself to worry about; death was never something I pondered for too long in those tight spots.
Call it recklessness, teenage naivity, a superiority complex; it doesn’t matter because today I do fear it with a passion and how I loathe the feeling. More than I ever despised anything.
Immunity, what a fucking joke. And still, I go to war.
"They just sent the coordinates of the location while you were on your way here," he says, clearing his throat. "It’s a dilapidated factory on the outskirts of the city. As expected, they stressed to keep our people out of it. Cameras surround the place, so we'll have a handful of snipers on the buildings nearby. Once we get the girls out, we'll deal with the fuckers like the cowards they are," he says, rubbing his temples with his thumbs while I take out my smokes.
God, I never thought I’d hear the words. My mom and sister, kidnapped. The image becomes a broken loop in my mind as I drift in and out of it, until I have to force myself to break away from that mental space.
I shake my head, snap my wrists and stiffen my spine. There’s no time, no place for us to wallow in our fears and anguish. They need us and I’ll be damned if I let them down.
I nod absently in response to his plan, seeing that we are finally on the same page. Even if something about the way they decided to carry it out doesn't sit well with me. Everything seems too predictable.
There is this stomach-clenching unease, my mind unable to reconcile the fact that we were so easily pierced as a unit; when, for the longest time, my father preached about how impenetrable we are. All just because stealing is second nature to us and we certainly excelled at slipping undetected under the radar.
At the end of the day we are just people and that more vulnerable taking into consideration the way we choose to live our lives.
I raise my eyes and meet his vacant gaze as I stump my cigarette, hoping to God my father didn’t make the greatest mistake of his life by turning a blind eye and hoping that things will deflate on their own. As if sharks will ever back down after tasting blood.
"We'll have to wear trackers, just to be sure," I add while playing with the flame of my zippo; the fluid movement of my wrist craving a knife instead of a lighter and the necks of those fuckers in my tight fist as their skin burns.
"That too," my father says as he stands up and extends his hand to me with apologetic eyes.
I shake it reticently, since the way he acts is uncharacteristic and for the life of me I can’t put my finger on why. It’s true, we all respond differently to shock and trauma but we are not most people and he is skittish like a kid caught in a lie of all things.
"Is there something you’re not telling me?" I ask bluntly, not letting go of his hand that gets colder and clammier by the second.
"No, son, of course not. Why would you think that?" he asks, raising a brow as if offended and resting his hand on my shoulder.
I look at him, unconvinced by his poor acting. But seeing that he chooses to continue on this line, I feign ignorance, deciding to observe him in silence for now.
After all, he wouldn’t be reckless enough to play with the lives of my mother and sister. Yes, he may be greedy and at times impulsive when it comes to making decisions; but his days of being a dare devil had long past ever since he swooped my mom from the heart of Sicily and created a family with her.
No, he wouldn’t dare.
As the hours pass, his distress is obvious but that could mean a number of things. In my eighteen years on this earth I've never seen him this disheveled and unbalanced. I’ve grown up seeing my father portraying this image of control and restrain in times of chaos, which are a given when all I ever known was to look at people’s hands instead of listening to their empty words. You never really know what they’ll do when you least expect it with a smile on their face.
But hands, they never lie. They cheat, tremble, hide, hesitate, steal. Do whatever they can to achieve what the eye desires.
Us thieves – we live, mirror and reinvent the less traveled path as we go. That’s what hunger does and I made my peace with it a long time ago; partly because it’s all I ever known and owning to the fact that I am simply build this way. I won’t apologize for having the guts to take what I want. Life rarely gives free offerings and I never liked the feel of my hand wrapping around something that is easily accessible.
* * *
Clenched fists and strained voices. The taste of blood-stained anticipation lingers in the air, because, in fact, there will be blood. And a great deal of brutality.
The last hour arrives, and those before it pass faster than sand slipping through open fingers. All I can faintly remember is my stomach convulsing after each cup of coffee, of my lungs revolting from countless chain-smoked cigarettes; talking for what seems like ages in a disembodied voice while looking at erased faces and seeing straight through them.
Never in my life have I felt more removed from the present and my own body. I think it’s marginally better this way than the opposite.
With our meeting time quickly approaching, every remaining second is spent strategizing and mapping out the area, making calls through gritted teeth and arranging multiple angles along with alternative routes of escape.
God, I can’t stop thinking about poor Arya; in the last hours, she must have had at some point an asthma attack and I doubt those fuckers helped her out.
I can't even conjure up the image of my mother and her wild spirit being trapped and helpless to her circumstances. I know for a fact that she would rather crawl on that dirty factory floor than obey. In spite of that, I hope she kept her tact, choosing not to provoke them further, considering they most probably hold my sister as a direct threat.
This day has been nothing but a nightmare, but I hope I’ll remember it a year from now with a sense of peace, knowing they are safe and sound while having dinner on a regular Friday; with my sister complaining about how she’s not yet allowed to have wine and with my mother brushing her fingers dotingly through my father’s hair as he fights over some indifferent thing with uncle Dominic.
Somehow, even though I refuse to admit it, I know nothing will ever be the same. Still, I won’t acknowledge the ramifications of that thought.
I light the last cigarette in the pack, apprehension eating my nerves as I inhale deeply. I pray in thought with my eyes closed, even though I haven’t talked to God in years.
And isn’t it the biggest cliché of human nature? The moment we hit rock bottom, our eyes lift to the sky with a mind of their own, while our knees meet the hard ground even if our bodies remain standing.
Silence reigns over us in the half hour ride, both me and my father being caught in a web too glutinous to grasp.
Consumed with anxiety, I rest my eyes on the review mirror, seeing our people following us from a minute’s distance, the ones in the front scoping out the place.
We arrive at the factory fifteen minutes early, all the while eyeing the fence that separates us from the ruin of what's left of the dilapidated building.
I look at the profile of my father, trying to remember his face through my childhood’s eyes; less eaten and spit out by life, with lips cast in a smile and his arm around my mother's shoulders as she sliced her homemade mozzarella above the pizza stone.
Remembering how he would rush to finish the mandatory bedtime story at her insistence, just to recount our family's past misdeeds and slip-ups. I can clearly see, even now, the proud expression on his yet to be wrinkled face, talking about a future in which I would become the machiavellian thieving prince of the Malfermo dynasty.
He wasn’t aiming too high. The prophecy has been fulfilled. After all, I learned from the best, or so I thought.
"Dad?" I ask needing to find in him some form of fatherly strength before all hell breaks loose.
He turns his head and, out of impulse or sheer stress, I hug him. It's the kind of paternal embrace that is nothing like the ones we share at birthdays and funerals. No, it feels like a parting from the people we are in this moment, from life as we know it.
It feels bitter and heavy-hearted, giving me strength just like it leaves me feeling weak, because I know deep down he is hiding something from me. And I despise the feeling of not being trusted by my own flesh and blood.
The moment I pull away, I stare him straight in the soul, knowing with certainty that we will never be the same family ever again.
"I'm proud of you, son. You're a better man than I am and probably will ever be," he pats me lightly on the cheek, leaving me more unsettled than before.
What is that supposed to mean?
I let go of him but still cling to his coat, wordlessly letting him know that I can see through his pretense. He shows no sign of wanting to confront the accusation in my eyes, and that just reinforces my concern even more.
"It's time," he says, evading my gaze and eyeing the dashboard instead.
"If anything happens to them because of you, I swear I'll forget you are my father. You might think you know me but you have no idea what I am capable of," I say lowly before letting go of his jacket and getting out of the car.
I let myself acclimate to the scenery, my eyes traveling over every corner and crevice. From the right angle I am able to faintly spot one of our men ready to fire away at the grime eaten windows once my father will activate a signal button hidden inside his ring. The fact troubles me, because if I can see him, so can those fuckers.
"Whatever you’re thinking of, stop. Distrust only makes us weaker," he says, but I don't look in his direction. He has lost that privilege until I know with certainty that they are safe.
The seconds after we enter the building are a mixture of internal chaos, darkness and dampness surrounding us from all directions along with the repulsive smell of something rotten permeating the air.
Just like we predicted, guns are immediately pointed at our temples the moment the doors close behind us with a prolonged screak.
"Oh, gentlemen, how kind of you to join us. You arrived just in time for the tea party! " the slimy voice of the man I came to know as Pierce Sullivan, the leader of the group, booms in the eerie silence of the empty space.
I ignore him entirely, focusing my attention on the hunched forms of my mother and sister who are tightly bound to wooden chairs to his left. A flickering neon light hangs above them, swaying in the wind that sneaks through the broken windows.
Mom meets my gaze, her stubborn fearlessness giving me a newfound strength while Arya's tear-streaked face, slices through my spirit.
"What have you done to her?" I seethe with psychotic calm, even though on the inside I feel nothing but blind destruction at the sight of my mother’s ripped shirt and exposed bra.
"Oh, nothing to get excited about. Marcus here happens to be a new member of our team and I allowed him a little taste. Do not fret, the goods are intact," Sullivan says with a smirk on his pasty face, making it inhumanly difficult for me not to crush his skull until nothing of human resemblance remains of it.
"I hope it's not an inconvenience but my men have a penchant for guns, yours specifically. As any other sensible individual, I deeply dislike having them pointed at me. So, would you be a dear and behave?" he asks while pouring milk into his cup.
"Four guns, throwing blades and a spear pointed knife," one of his men reports dutifully as he looks at me in defiance.
The idiot really thinks his job is important, even worthwhile; that in time his loyalty will summon to something other than a bullet in the back of the head the moment he’ll be considered a nuisance. He should thank the heavens he'll eat through a tube for the rest of his sorry life after tonight; in the case he'll get out of here still breathing, which is doubtful.
"Boys, you shouldn’t have! How could you ever think I'd come unprepared? I've got my custom made cutlery with me. Please, don’t be shy, take a look," he says with menace, narrowing his sinister eyes at us.
Unfortunately for him, his attempts to intimidate me sum to shit. He could never look like anything other than a piece of trash in a continuous state of putrefaction.
I share a look with my father before his goons’ push us forward, my eyes scanning over the suitcase displayed like a Christmas present by the pretentious fucker. Blades and numerous surgical devices with the sole purpose to terrorize my family are cluttered into a pile. Soon they’ll be coated in his blood.
"The key, dear Vincent," Sullivan says in an artificially serene voice meant to terrify as he extends his hand towards my father.
He fishes it out of his pocket with a tight jaw and hard set eyes. I can’t believe we even had to discuss how reckless it would be to even consider giving them a replica; the risk is far too great, regardless of what others before us have been willing to do or sacrifice in order to protect it.
"Oh baby, how I've waited for you!" Sullivan says in awe before his tongue licks the key in one long swipe, making me want to spill out my guts at the sight. Disgust is too light of a word for this delusional clown.
"Now, esteemed ladies and gentlemen," he says, moving his vile eyes over them and clapping his hands theatrically. "Let the festivities begin!"
"What do you mean? We had a deal!" my father snaps, evident panic coating his voice.
"Indeed, but I took some precautions considering you brought a damn army," Sullivan says with a feigned regretful tone. "It stays between us, but snipers had always given me the ick, high and mighty as they are, you know?" he sneers, cocking an eyebrow, a shiver running through me as all my fears are proven right one by one.
"And, of course, I'll have to try the key first. Ergo, as a consequence of your stupidity, your whole family will have to keep me company for a while longer, but trust that I'll be more than accommodating. I'm sure you understand," he adds, sipping his damned tea without any sense of urgency before slamming the cup behind him, the sound of the ceramic shattering into countless pieces, reverberating with intent in the hallow space.
I expected this outcome and that is exactly why we made sure we had another ace up our sleeve. We can’t let him have the upper hand for long, not if we want to have the certainty that all four of us will get out of here alive.
"It works; I'd never risk my girls like that. Let them both leave, you’ve made your point," my father says as he tries to contain himself, though I can feel the rage boiling beneath the surface. And that’s the spirit I know and wanted to see five hours ago.
Before his words have a chance to sink in, Sullivan takes out a knife. In quick succession, he runs it over my father’s face, slicing open his skin in a diagonal line, blood cascading on his white shirt in streams.
The desperate screams of my mother and sister swallow the room whole while my father remains standing still and not moving a muscle.
Shell-shocked, I watch his eyes turn into slits, half of his face now gashing with crimson red.
A nameless feeling that’s both empty and murderous in essence blinds me. It’s the kind of thirst that won’t settle until everything in its path will cease to exist.
This poor excuse of a human is degrading, terrorizing and harming the most important people in my life. I won’t allow it.
I clench my fingers into a tight fist, sinking my nails deep enough into my palm until I feel blood coating them. However, before I can gauge Sullivan’s eyes out, one sharp look from my father halters my steps, warning me we are in too deep for acts born out of anger. Too much is on the line.
"I'll kill you with my own two hands, bastardo ! " my mother wails as her panicked eyes travel over my father’s blood soaked face, desperately fighting for air through the tears.
Simultaneously, both my father and I look in her direction with unconcealed dread, her words undoubtedly doing nothing but set in motion Sullivan’s sick agenda against us.
"Aw, baby girl! You're finally giving me the time of day. I'm flattered," he grins, the image of him bending down to her eye level and licking her ear making me wish I could castrate him from the distance. "And hard as a steelebat, I might add. But that's just between the two of us," he grins in our direction, rubbing his chin.
Fuck it. Sick and tired of being cautious, I advance towards his hunched body, the air stilling in my lungs as over twenty or so men, from what I can roughly estimate, surround me from all corners.
I swallow, raw panic coating the insides of my mouth. We are beyond outnumbered. Who the fuck are these people?
"C’mon, don't be such a sour bitch. If you won’t play the part, there's always your youngest spawn ready and ripe for the taking," he says, leering at my terrified fifteen-year-old sister who has now curled into a ball, rocking back and forth.
Red, that’s all I see.
"If you even breathe their way again, I'll have you choke on your own dick before I’ll slice you open," I say evenly, before my father’s hand catches my elbow in a death grip, keeping me in place as my muscles twitch. I need to sink my fists in his putrid flesh and make him regret he was ever born.
"Well, I’ll be damned, the prince has spoken! I was beginning to think someone had already cut your balls before I got the chance to," he says as he slowly approaches me with his hands clasped behind his back. Surprisingly, he is wise enough to keep a few inches between us.
The coward, he is well aware I could kill him blindfolded and with a straightjacket on, but he knows my hands are tied and fucking soars with that knowledge.
He is a weak man beyond what meets the eye, dressed in his pressed cream suit and Italian loafers, pretending to be someone he will never be. If I wouldn’t want him six feet underground I'd pity him.
Soon enough, he'll feel the full brunt of the cold thing he unleashed into my system and prey at my feet on broken knees before I’m done with him.
"Enough! I'm getting bored with your family Vincent. I thought you trained these little bitches to act better," Sullivan says with acid in his voice as he tries to wipe my father's blood off his lapel with a handkerchief.
Before I can process what’s happening, the floor – no, the damn platform under our feet – starts shaking and moving, the sudden descent causing us to plummet straight to the basement.
The sucker was diligent; premeditated our every move beyond what we dared predict. Fuming, I wipe my hands over my face, allowing myself a few seconds of panic.
Shortly after, I swallow the dread and snap back to reality, forcing myself to rearrange my features in a neutral expression; not wanting to let those fuckers see beyond what I let them to. Being weak, even for a brief moment is a luxury I can’t afford. Ever.
As the coat of dust settles around us, I search for Arya, the pained sound of her violently coughing making me shake with repressed anger. I grit my teeth in frustration, the instinct to pass her the inhaler and hold her hand, as I always do when she's in the middle of an attack, so strong that I almost do something stupid; something that could end us all.
Everything happened so fast, I almost forgot about our only chance of escape at this point. I give my father the signal to press the emergency button on his ring, the degree of danger having already surpassed the previously set limit. However, something strange happens when I do.
He clearly understands my message, but seems to overanalyze something and, to my disbelief, ultimately choosing to do nothing.
What in this damned world there is to weigh up?
I want to scream at the top of my lungs as I shake some sense into him, but the thumping sound of Sullivan’s men coming in herds down the stairs stops me in my tracks.
There's barely any light down here, a single flickering led illuminating my mother's set jaw and flared nostrils, the fierce expression on her face reminding me that all is lost only when we give up and accept the faith others impose on us.
I nod almost imperceptibly her way, and like always, she sees it, sees me; even in the moments I refuse to face myself.
The engines of two unmarked cars start running while two of Sullivan’s men cut the ties around my mother and sister, hurling them forward in the backseat of the smaller one. Shortly after, we are cuffed by the same goons.
We're moving locations. He wasn’t bluffing.
I signal to my father once more, baring my teeth until he finally presses the button reluctantly.
What is wrong with him? Fuck the key. This predicament is beyond what we expected. Our priority should stand solely with our family, not protecting whatever treasure trove that bastard is after.
We get separated in different cars, Sullivan taking the front seat and sickly smirking our way as he unbuttons his blazer.
I stare at him coldly, my pulse beating a vicious rhythm in my throat at the sight of our people finally coming down the ropes in the rear-view mirror with their guns pointed in our direction. Forty seconds too late.
A bitter taste coats my mouth as I watch them running behind us on foot while the cars we are in speed toward the exit.
I flare my eyes to my father, looking at him with a disappointment that I wouldn't have thought possible yesterday. We still had a chance when I first signaled him.
That aside, if push comes to shove, both of us have trackers stashed into the inside of our belts, so we'll have to bind our time for long enough until they find us.
"Tsk, tsk, and you gave me the stink eye for bringing some friends over; your double standards make me sick to my stomach. Shame on you, pricks!" Pierce laments.
Good God, if his theatrics aren’t a badly played act, this man is certifiably insane.
I look down the tinted window to my right, too infuriated with my father, and beyond disgusted with the man, who at this critical moment, holds our lives in his soon to be impaled hands.
Divided and chaotic as our family may be at times, we are bound by loyalty, despite the fact that some of the members don't even share the same blood with us. Thieves, swindlers, raiders, blood to coin – if one of us falls from the chess board, nothing and no one will be able to save Sullivan from the wrath and blood bath that will follow him until the bitter end.
The miserable bastard puts on a damned opera concerto while his driver speeds down the deserted road, reaching the destination in half the time it takes to cross the wooded route.
Every so often, I look over my shoulder, keeping track of the car that holds the two most important people in my life, followed by a long fleet behind them.
This time around, my father holds my gaze, a snaky emotion that surpasses guilt flashing in his eyes for barely a second the moment we are shoved out of the car.
I don't have the time to dissect it before my mother and sister join us, a sharp pain gripping my chest when I see how terrified they are behind the veil of courage they still somehow display; even with their hair sticking to their wet faces from all the tears.
They will all pay with their lives. To the last one.
We are pushed forward, towards the concealed entrance of the crypt, which, to those who are none the wiser, appears to be just a pathway into an ordinary, empty cave. In no more than two short minutes, we reach the torches set high on the stone walls, whose oil has been replaced by generations of Malfermos, even though over the decades, the central space has been illuminated mainly by electricity.
I look in my mother’s direction and give her a blue smile, the weight on my shoulder lifting momentarily at the knowledge that this whole ordeal will be over once the greedy fucker gets his golden ticket.
On cue, my father places a trembling hand over the scanner located at the main entrance of the vault, his footprint and my mother’s being the only ones granting further access.
In utter silence, we enter the wide space, nearly suffocating under the humid, ominous air of the cave. Trepidation simmers deep down in my gut, in my fingertips, in my immature heart that thought it had surpassed fear long ago. Compared to this, I’ve only known adrenaline.
A dead pulse reverberates in my ears when Sullivan finally puts an end to his charade and plucks out the key from his pocket. In those brief moments, time comes to a still and folds back into itself; all the while a malignant feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.
He approaches the main chamber of the vault, inserting the key and twisting it once, twice yet…the clicking sound never comes, the door doesn’t budge, the air won’t enter my lungs.
Incredulous, I look at my father in horror, the taste of betrayal sinking in places few have ever been imprisoned. No, he couldn't have been so careless with our lives. Could he?
My own fucking father. I want to knock the light out of his eyes, to ask him what he had done to my dad and the exact location of the pit he had buried him in. Because, at this point, I can’t recognize or understand him, nor do I care to.
I bite the inside of my cheek, breaking the skin as my eyes descend on this stranger, who as of this moment is no longer my father. His eyes, a latent black like my own, now swim with the anguish of a man on death row waiting for his turn on the electric chair. He has no right to be remorseful, not when he is the sole one to blame.
He handed an abductor, a cold blooded killer who apparently won’t stop at nothing, a forged key. I can’t even imagine whatever was going through his head when he gambled with our lives as if there were multiple to bet on. My chest burns at the thought that we had discussed it prior and he lied to my face, assuring me it won’t be the case.
He placed above his flesh and blood, the poison chosen time and time again by this doomed bloodline – greed.
I look at him while he looks at the floor, full of indignity and regret, a piece of me dying at the sight.
"What have you done?" I whisper, at a loss of words.
Sullivan sighs, sounding genuine for once, as he places his hands on his hips. "Bad move, Vincent dear," he shakes his head, seeming unable himself to grasp my father's nerve.
A second. A lifetime passes, as our lives tip down on someone else’s balance.
Nothing exists. Not hope, not salvation nor judgement.
Just the consequence of disloyal hands as life follows its cruel course.
Silence, humid as a tomb then…
The deafening sound of a single bullet echoes throughout the cave, spiraling in my ears as snakes sink their sharpest fangs into the writhing pulp of my heart by the hundreds. No –
Petrified, I latch my gaze on the source…and my life is ripped out of my body the second I see her.
At first there is only the crippling sight of pooling blood coating the floor and the wide spray of crimson covering the wall nearby. The scene pierces me, point blank in the chest.
There’s a bleeding hole in her temple, a trail of smoke rising from the open wound resembling a candle's wick after it's been snuffed out. Mamma.
Cold, so cold, the earth is shaking. Everything is quiet, numb, and…and I feel nothing. I can’t, I – I’m feeling everything no human being should ever feel. Because this is not real. It can’t be. Mamma.
My knees hit the ground as my eyes remain paralyzed over her lifeless body, splayed on the cold cement. Mamma.
Bile floods the walls of my throat while my insides twist and untangle, the brutal shockwaves created by the horrid image before my eyes cracking my skull in half.
Animalistic screams and wails follow me as my hands feel the thick wetness of her blood, so much of it now coating my palms.
Static, I feel it on the back of my tongue as I drag my body towards the woman that has given me life, a hand to cling on to; who has thought me what unconditional love is, never asking for anything in return other than for me to be all right.
With shaking fingers I remove the bloodied caramel strands stuck on her forehead and take her still warm hand in my own. I raise it to my face and let it hover over my open mouth that shakes with a mute scream.
Come back. Don’t leave, come back.
My brave, spirited, loving mamma.
What have they done to you?
"Where is it, Vincent?" a voice asks through the fog as my head floats underwater, not caring to come up for air ever again.
My father's leather shoes appear in my line of sight, his palpable pain merging with mine like hot salt water poured over an open wound; debilitating agony emanating from him in surging waves.
How dare he?
Arya’s terrorized screams become even more violent by the time I crawl on the other side of my mother’s body and drag her to my chest, her delicate frame shaking against mine on the edge of hysteria as she fights at the same time an asthma attack.
It’s all too much. I don’t know want to do with all this agony. How can I rip it away from her when I can’t even bear mine?
Amidst the sobs I hear a voice – a command, in the distance. I'm suddenly forced back to the present when I vaguely hear something about silencing someone, but my abused mind can't fully process it.
"No, don’t touch her!" I scream with a shredded soul as a foot kicks me in the ribs before an arm forcefully rips her wrecked with pain frame away from my weakened hold.
Before I can react, the beast hits Arya’s temple with the back of his glock without hesitation, her frail body hitting the hard floor like a dropped flower.
"You'll find it to your right, behind the kidney-shaped stone," my father's hollow voice echoes in the cave. He doesn't move a muscle, as if he has left his body completely with eyes showing no sign of life.
"Fottuto traditore, it was here all along!" I say on a loud whisper, poison dripping from my livid lips; all the years I thought him to be a mentor, a role model as a man and father going down the drain in only a second.
"Oh Vincent, you’re such a lad after taking one for the team and still keeping the game going," Sullivan cheers, the words seeming muffled in my ears. It doesn’t matter anymore.
My fingers brush over my mother’s cheek, the color gradually draining from her olive skin as her blood continues to pool under my jeans.
It’s over. It was all for nothing.
Maybe if I had been there today, they couldn't have taken them; if I had pressed my father harder and insisted for the truth, I could have prevented this, if I had ripped that ring from his finger and pushed that damn button earlier we wouldn’t be here.
I could’ve stopped him. Should’ve bit Sullivan’s throat off with my bare teeth, bargained; fucking offered myself like a sacrificial lamb, if it meant she would still be breathing.
If, if, if — It's too late for 'ifs' now.
The vague sound of the key turning and the vault door opening makes me feel sick again. I want to go after him and take a goblet; gouge his eyes out with the rim, then stuff his mouth with a gold bar while my knife digs into his stomach in search of the damned rubies he just choked on.
Of course, he makes a show of it as he gasps and rejoices while we grieve our soul’s worth on the floor.
A matter of minutes or hours pass, his goons coming and going, with their hands full of whatever they found valuable enough.
The irony – thieves stealing from fellow thieves. A snake eating its own tail. I’d give it all away in a heartbeat if only…
Was it worth it dad? Protecting what in the end mattered most to you? Cagnalia.
I can faintly hear Sullivan saying something to one of them as I take my mother's hand in mine. Silently, I brush my lips over her gradually colder skin, my right one holding Arya’s limp fingers while fighting for space against the cuffs restricting my movement.
"Bravo! Quite the promising collection you have here Vincent, even better than I expected," he whistles before – before.
"Finish them all, but leave the prince to me; I want to do the honors."
Time stands still, but I force my mind to react and assimilate his words. Everything moves in slow motion as I try to shield my comatose sister, but it's already too late.
This is carnage; it has been from the very beginning.
The disembodied footsteps of one of his men echo across the wide space like an axe dragged across glass, dread flooding my soul as I pull her closer to me and turn us both away from them.
It's done before it begins.
I look behind my shoulder for a split second, only to witness his dead eyes being trained on my sister’s head before his meaty finger squeezes the trigger with a sadistic ease I’ll never be able to erase from my mind.
One single bullet was all it took for her to cease breathing. For her tender life of only fifteen years to be extinguished. She will never get to learn to play the cello, be the main act at the Paris Opera Ballet or have a daughter she will name Anabelle, like she had planned since she was six.
Deaf, I close my eyes, a part of me begging for my heart to stop beating just so the pain will no longer exist. The other wants a bloodbath, to erase them all from this damned earth and force them to share the same hell I’m going through.
Perhaps this…this isn’t real. Can’t be. But it is.
Arya’s head now rests on my mother’s knees with her arms outstretched, even in death trying to protect her. Our guardian angel.
My father lifts his head with pain-stricken eyes, the outline of his mouth contorted into a monstrous shape as he stares at her frail, lifeless body curled into itself; as if she knew what fate had prepared for her long before we did.
He utters a silent "I'm sorry" to no one, a lifetime of regret passing between the two of us, as I refuse to let him avert his gaze.
I want him to face me and what he has done to the people who recklessly entrusted their lives to him. Fools, we all have been fools who ultimately built sandcastles on the land of a thief with no loyalty but to himself and his precious stolen riches.
Another set of footsteps approaches us, someone’s shadow falling over mine from behind. I feel the tip of a silencer looming over my head and implicitly forcing me to witness my father in his last moments.
I don’t avert my eyes; the sound of one last bullet taking with it whatever has been left of the boy I had been hours before death came and found me.
He collapses on top of my mother, the piercing image of him on top of her staining my mind with the notion that regardless of words, actions mean everything. My father spoke of love, and he did love...the gold.
I’d like to say that I feel nothing out of spite but I’d be lying to myself. Instead, I take the soul stabbing anguish, the jarring disappointment, the vicious betrayal and stack them all in a drawer never to be opened again.
Now I know . I know how it feels to lose everything, to be nothing.
I look at my family, piled like red coats that were once white on a forgotten floor. They do not look back at me.
A foreign venom takes over my body and soul like plasma over dead matter. And even though I'm alive and dragged to my own ending, I'm still on the floor with them. Just as lifeless and cold, resting on a pile of limbs that not long ago were my home.
Two men haul my unresponsive body by the arms, my blurred vision meeting a heinous creature who cannot be called human, whose soul is the most putrid of its kind. His eyes, looking like two ring worms, watch me with an air of superiority before he takes my jaw in his slimy hand and spits at my feet.
With a calmness and coldness I've never truly possessed, only feigned because, up to this point, life has been nothing but a game of cards to me – I lift my head and look him dead in the eyes.
I shed my loud rage, choosing to utter the last words that will ever escape my mouth with dignity and the knowledge that no matter what will happen from this point on, they’ll all be dead. I don’t care how, I don’t care when. I just know it will happen, weather I’ll be the one holding the knife or not.
"All you walking corpses, listen carefully…there will come a time when each one of you will beg for the mercy of death, only for the knife to sink deeper," I say before tilting my head with unblinking, possessed eyes at Sullivan. "There are no words for what will become of you, but know that no one will be able to identify if you’re human or not after I’m done."
No more than a second passes before he spits in my face, the butt of his gun hammering into my nose and breaking the bone while he laughs his heart out. I don’t feel a thing.
"I like your style, but it's a tad dramatic without a sobbing audience, don't you think?" he asks, gripping my jaw in his hand once again. "You’re a pretty fucker, but I think you’re in need of a final makeover before you kiss the ground," he says with a sick smirk before pulling from his pocket a lighter, which by the strong smell I assume is filled with kerosene.
I make peace with it before it happens, closing my eyes loosely as I feel the blue flame burning the skin of my cheeks and melting the one of my jaw as if it were made of wax. The hellish fire eats at my flesh with a slow, torturous pace controlled by a sadistic wrist, the excruciating pain bringing me close to fainting.
At this point it would have been an easy way out, but I have never resorted to being a coward, which is why I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me at his feet.
Above and beyond, no physical pain he may try to inflict compares with the one of the soul shattering scene behind me.
I let out a prolonged strangled scream, having left little power in me to control my body’s reaction to whatever is done to it.
"Marcus, pass me the knife! He deserves to die with a smile on his face after everything he’s been through," I hear some of them laugh at his barren words, some choosing to keep silent. It makes no difference.
I’m not fully aware of what is happening when the flames finally stop. I might be foaming at the mouth, but I can’t tell for certain.
In my bones, I make a promise to myself that even if I meet my death here and now; I will hunt him down until the end of time, with the hounds of hell following close behind. This may be the end for me, but it is only the beginning of what he has unleashed.
My breath halts at the contact with the cold steel against my throat, the blade digging into my flesh. This is it.
In a way, I'm almost grateful that I don't have to live a life where they are just a memory; while theirs was ripped away in such a hellish way, just for some figures in a bank account.
Suddenly, in a cruel twist of fate, the deafening sound of an explosion erupts from somewhere nearby, its vibrations shaking the underground walls as if in anger. Streams of dust fall over us all as my father's men flood the wide space, my ears being barely able to withstand the piercing sound of bullets echoing throughout the cave.
None of that matters though; my gaze never wavers from the bastard who now knows that he has lost, just like I did. However, his life amounts to nothing while I cannot resurrect them or turn back time.
Meaningless, that’s what everything is now.
I see the distraught and panic in his vermin eyes, even the men who were keeping me upright a minute ago abandoning him in the chaos.
With a resigned sigh he lowers the knife, letting out a desperate growl as he bares his teeth, his collected mask finally falling on the floor and exposing the vicious monster hiding underneath.
A second is all it takes for him to raise it back up and with a swift flick of the wrist to slice my throat open. Blood sprays all over his face while I raise a hand trying to stop the gush as my knees give out, unable to support my weight anymore.
My skull hits the cold ground as the screams continue and the tires screech while the smell of gunpowder hits my nostrils in split segments. There’s no peace, no war, just life – the kind that now is slowly leaving me.
Before my vision blackens, I make a last effort to turn my head towards them, but it’s a losing battle. A bitter acceptance follows instead as I close my eyes, waiting…
When darkness finally comes, those gray eyes and that long, long, shadowy hair follow me into the void and hold me in their ancient warmth as I sink in waters that drawn us both deeper and deeper.
"Stay with me," she whispers and I listen. I do, I do it all…for her.
Are we home yet, Ombra?
bastardo, it . n. (derogatory) bastard, an unpleasant or despicable person.
Fottuto traditore, it . Fucking traitor.
Cagnalia, it. n. (insult) scum