Thirteen
Selene
I hang up the phone, and my fabricated smile falls from my face, as do the silent tears that accompany it. I’ve never been gone this long, and the distance is slowly eating away at me. I’ve done many things in my life that have caused me pain, but being back here—facing the misery I spawned—while simultaneously being away from home, is clawing at my brittle heart.
I need to get back, but until I get what I came for, my hands are tied. Just another penance I need to see through, while I wither away from the endeavor. I feel as if my whole life is a combination of sacrifices and calamities, with only a few stolen moments of joy to keep me going.
When will I ever be at peace?
When will I wake up from an endless black night and see the sun again?
They say home is where the heart is. But what happens when your heart has been split into so many tiny fragments, that ensuring its survival seems almost redundant?
With him at my side, at least I’m blessed with one loving soul to dote on. I can pour into him all the love I have inside, knowing it will never convey how much he means to me. He is my whole world, and I would go to the ends of the earth to guarantee his safety and happiness. I just have to keep this in mind and maintain my resolve. I’m doing this as much for him as it is to placate my desire to repair an unjust wrong.
But being back in Chicago and seeing Vincent, Dominic, and Giovanni again feels like a cruel punishment I must overcome. Just being in the same room with any one of them, witnessing with my own eyes what my disappearance has done, is crippling.
Even though Dominic—behind his brute, hard exterior—still holds that same sweetness I fell in love with, I know his hands are far too tainted with the blood of the Outfit’s enemies. He lives out his days on autopilot; an obedient machine to do the famiglia’s bidding without thought of how he loses a bit more of his tender heart with each life he so apathetically takes. The grim stains on his calloused hands become harder to wash off, and I wonder if he even realizes it anymore, how he dies just a little with each new kill. My childhood protector has become a nightmare to behold.
Then there is Giovanni—a boy who loathed the life he was born into just as much as I did. Yet now he is the brains behind every deal, every syndicate accomplishment, and every crimson-soaked dollar they make. His logic and know-how have obscured any compassion or leniency he was so quick to give as a child. The boy who wept in my arms the day he took his first life, has grown into a ruthless man who doesn’t bat an eye at sending someone to an early grave. My best friend, my confidant, and my accomplice in all things has lost his cocky lust for life and turned into a fearsome mastermind.
If my heart didn’t hurt already with these revelations, then one look at Vincent would be the final nail in my guilt-ridden coffin.
Vincent—the lost boy I so desperately wanted to save and condemned wholeheartedly instead. His arsenic tone and regal, frozen form is nothing but a carefully placed mask to hide the poison running through his veins. I’ve worn masks all my life, enough to recognize one in my presence. Both Vincent and I were masters at it, but before, his disguise was placed to protect those he cherished; now it’s to conceal that there is nothing to merit such a sentiment. His mask hides the fact he’s become hollow—just an empty vessel pretending to still have a heartbeat when there is nothing at all left to give him life.
All that exists now is hate.
Hate for himself.
Hate for the living and the dead.
Hate for his life.
And of course, hate for me—the catalyst of his downfall.
They have become the judge, the jury, and the executioner of the Outfit, and I doubt there was ever a threesome quite so haunting in the history of mafia empires. Even rivaling the Cosa Nostra’s legendary cutthroat trio—’Lucky’ Luciano, Meyer Lansky, and ‘Bugsy’ Siegel. Those notorious gangsters have nothing on my rotten men.
Wasn’t it inevitable that they would become these cruel, vindictive men? That fate was already clearly designed this way, foretelling us all what role we were destined to perform, including my own?
When I left, they all lost their anchor and their compass of morality. Yet they managed to hold on to their bond with each other, fiercely enough not to lose their souls completely—a small mercy, considering that they were all just as broken and flawed as I was.
They are at least alive, even if they’re not a hundred percent whole. That was the point of me leaving, wasn’t it? But if I truly believe that, then why am I conflicted with so much agonizing guilt?
It’s one thing hearing about their transformation from my mother’s benevolent lips; it’s entirely different witnessing it with my own destitute eyes.
And what does it say about me, that even though they are the reason behind so many cold-blooded murders and atrocious crimes, I feel nothing for those whom they have trespassed against? I don’t have one ounce of compassion for the plight of those unknown faces. I am completely unrepentant in my concern for only the souls of the three men who cause such destruction. Regardless of their hideous acts, they still have my heart and always will.
I look around the depressing motel room and feel suffocated being confined within its ugly walls. I need to breathe fresh air and seek solace beside someone who understands what I’m going through and doesn’t think ill of me for it.
Only one person comes to mind—the one I could never abandon, and in turn, could never forsake me.
I pass the cemetery gates and keep my eyes peeled to my surroundings. I usually prefer to come here early in the morning when there is less of a chance of running into other mourners, but today I’ll just have to rely on the setting sun and the late hour to conceal my visit. I walk the familiar path to my mother’s grave when I catch a recognizable form kneeling beside a tombstone—one that I desperately try to avoid, too ashamed to even face his final resting place because of the part that I unknowingly held in his untimely death.
I hide behind one of the various maple trees surrounding the turf-grassed area, and steady my breath while watching Vincent converse with his departed cousin. It’s difficult to make out his words, but a small flicker of hope ignites inside me when I see him offer a tiny smirk with his heart-filled words.
It’s as close to smiling as I’ve seen on him since my return, although he never was one to share those frequently in the past either. Growing up, I used to think that Vincent’s smiles were as rare and beautiful as shooting stars. They didn’t occur often, but when they did, they lit up the sky with their beauty—so stunningly exquisite that you’d forget to breathe when beholding such wonder. My chest tightens within my ribcage, melancholy taking ahold of me when I think about how those precious grins must have died the minute Pietro perished in my arms. And when I left, I made sure he never found a reason to smile ever again.
My back stiffens as Vincent stands and says his goodbyes to the family that no longer exists. Every last Romano lies here waiting for the day Vincent will join them. I grind my teeth and inwardly growl menacingly at them. If I have my way, they will wait an eternity to get their hands on another Romano.
Except for Ciro—that one the dead can have.
I push the evil name away from my thoughts while I watch Vincent turn his back on his family’s plot and walk up to the grave I intended to visit. He kneels on the snow-covered ground before my mother’s tombstone and whispers something to her I wish I was privy to. He stays at her side for a full ten minutes, continuing on with his secret conversation. He finally stands with his head bowed and leaves a parting gift for her that I’m unable to see properly from my hiding place. His long black coat hides his wet knees but not his distinguished form.
Before I can stop myself, I stand before him, halting his exit. His saddened, hazel eyes, turn to cold slits at my appearance.
“I see you’re still here,” he sneers, scouting the cemetery to make sure we’re not being watched.
I shrug off his remark and bridge the gap between us instead, getting as close to him as he allows. I hear his intake of breath, not comfortable with our proximity, but right now I need to look into his eyes and see the truth embedded in them.
“Why do you come here?” I hush softly, waving the white flag of truce; even if it’s only while we stand on this sacred ground.
“To pay my respects,” he answers sternly.
“Why pay respect to my mother, though? She was no one to you,” I continue, searching his handsome, sullen features to their full extent.
“That’s not true,” he relents, breaking eye contact and looking above my head into the distance.
I place my gloved hand on his cheek and bring his attention back to me. I feel him flinch with the unexpected contact, making me yearn to hold him and never let go. But this one touch is all the bravery I can muster when it comes to Vincent. I’ll fall apart at his feet if I try to embrace him, only to have him reject me.
“Tell me the real reason why you come,” I whisper, my eyes locked on his. There is a small softness to them that begs to come out, and I take one step closer, breathing in his ingrained grief and lament.
“Because no one else does,” he says at last.
“And?” I plead further.
“And because I failed her,” he admits somberly.
“Everyone failed her, Vincent,” I reply, stroking his cheek softly, relishing that he’s letting me do so, but hating that his skin can’t feel my warm touch through the leather glove.
“The Outfit should have done something,” he murmurs beneath his breath, his eyes losing the flicker of tenderness, only to be replaced with the hate he is determined to feed.
“You can still do something about it. You don’t have to let her life of suffering be in vain. There are other women in the same predicament who need someone to intervene. You have the power to inflict change, Vincent. Be better than your predecessors. Only you have the power to break the cycle.”
He takes a step back as if injured by my proclamation, pulling away from the small contact I wanted to preserve.
“It might have been easy for you to break away from famiglia tradition. But to most of us, it isn’t that simple. We live by the syndicate code of honor and die by it, too.”
“What honor is there in turning a blind eye to an abusive husband and father who torments his family? Or having young, innocent boys kill as part of their initiation? Tell me, Vincent, where is the honor in selling a young girl off into wedlock to someone she doesn’t love?” I try to reason with him.
His eyes ice over, and the veil of animosity and rancor rises back to its full, ugly glory.
“If I recall correctly, you ran away from such a fate. Forgive me if I don’t congratulate you on your nuptials. While you were marrying the man of your dreams, we were left here picking up the pieces of your treachery and destruction.”
“Vincent—”
“Go back to where you came from, Selene, before I’m reminded that honor demands I offer up your head for your betrayal,” he snarls back, leaving me cold and bereft with his parting statement.
I’m unable to move, trying hard to compose myself after such a confrontation. I deserve his wrath. I deserve his judgment. I even deserve his hate. Still, having it all thrown at me at full force, it’s as if I’m being strangled by death itself.
My shaky knees wobble as I take the first steps toward my mother’s grave, eager to unburden all my woes and secrets to her eternally prone ears. I freeze in place when my eyes land on the gift Vincent left for my beloved mother. A familiar white rose lies on her granite tombstone—one I have become accustomed to finding on each of my visits.
However, a new flower lies next to its snow-colored companion. Entwined like two lovers in a passionate embrace, the pair of roses look delicately out of place in these forlorn surroundings, yet completely in their element while at each other’s side.
I trace each petal with my finger, unable to prevent the hope that springs to the surface.
Maybe my lost boy isn’t as lost as I think him to be.
Maybe he’s trying to find his way, just as I am.
I kiss each rose gently—first the white, and then the red.
I close my eyes and let out a small prayer for us to find each other; if not in this life, then in the next. Just as these two roses are only complete when in each other’s arms, I fear the same applies to Vincent and me.
Either by fire or ice, our love will always burn. Not even death can change that.