44. Hendrix #3
My restraint on being harsh to my mother must’ve died with Carlo, because through a bitter laugh, I respond with, “Jesus, it’s almost as if you’ve been too wrapped up in royal corrupt dick to remember who your daughter is.”
Auntie mouths off something, but gets drowned out quickly by Vic. “That’s enough, Hendrix!” he yells, as if having any right. Which Saint must agree with because he takes a warning step toward his dad.
“Yell at her again, and I’ll paint the floor red with your new friend.” The tail end of Saint’s threat comes with a nasty glare at Matteo, resulting in the guy flashing a gun at his waist.
Saint’s close reference to Vicious, whether intentional or not, isn’t lost on Vic. Or me, for that matter. Same goes for Halo around his knuckles, and the actual gun he’s flashing back at Matteo.
I sneak a glance at it, trying to hide my confusion about where it came from, then decide the best course of action for everyone’s safety is to wrap up this Western-style stare down.
Straightening my posture, I turn my best authoritative voice on for Matteo. “Tell Dante Salvini his services are not required.” My eyes slice to the other three. “Because unless any of you can figure out how to bring Carlo back from the dead, I won’t be leaving the mansion until I’m fucking ready.”
Even though it’s useless, I let them stew for a bit, and when no bright ideas pop into their heads, I shoot out, “Good. It’s settled, then. I’m staying put.” With a tilt of my chin to Matteo, I snap, “And you are getting permanently the fuck out of my house.”
Vic implores the guy not to leave, my mother too, but Matteo doesn’t so much as glance at them…and, in a shocking turn of events, he strides over to me.
“As you wish,” Matteo declares, holding out the box. “But first, a gift.” I stare up at him, speechless, unable to move as he follows up with, “Just for you .”
The emphasis on “you” comes as a crystal-clear shot for everyone else in the room. Making it known there’ll be consequences if anyone tries to interfere.
I retrieve the box from Matteo. Then, once I’ve managed a full grip, he turns on his heels and walks out the door.
The silence is loud between all of us, but grows deafening when I slide my gaze to Mom, Vic, and Auntie, who seem annoyed, but not surprised Matteo listened to me instead of them.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
The clock on the wall proceeds to taunt me.
Tick. Tock.
I’ve been sitting on my bed in the same position for over a half hour, hugging my knees to my chest, eyes burning as I partake in the world’s longest staring contest with a shoe sized gift box.
A gorgeous shoe sized gift box, to add. Silver, wrapped intricately with a white bow, similar to the ones you’ll find on Macy ads during Christmas time. Shit, I can almost s ee the chick in a Santa hat gasping, along with the cutesy festive boyfriend handing the present over to her.
Tingly. Fucking. Adorable for sentimental bitches.
The only problem about this one is it wasn’t gifted to me by some dorky guy in a Santa hat.
It was gifted to me by Dante Salvini.
Head of the most notorious, dangerous, crime family on our side of the country.
Who I’ve spent months in secret uselessly digging into.
Being guarded by one of his men.
Being lied to by my family about why.
The answers I’ve been looking for should have me tearing open this box, hoping to finally get some, but now that I may come face to face with them…I’m no longer sure I’m ready.
I meant what I said earlier about Carlo’s death, and how it emptied a huge space in my heart. But what I didn’t realize is what it added—a ton of regret for being so damn stubborn.
Refusing to listen when he tried to do his job protecting me.
Not backing down from my need to get into adult business.
Maybe if I did, Carlo would still be alive.
After all, it was he who insisted going to the store was dangerous.
And it was me who guilted him into it anyway.
Therefore Carlo’s murder, although a custom to his lifestyle, is partly my fault. Another facet, like the struggles Saint tried to hide, I’ve been too lost in my grief to realize.
Reaching for Carlo’s gold horn, I squeeze it to help muffle the sob ripping past my throat, because the last thing I need right now is an audience to my shame. Saint may have agreed to give me space, yeah, but no doubt the extent of it lies behind the bedroom door.
As for the others, well, given they didn’t dare to say a peep when I stormed into the elevator, tells me they must be heeding Matteo’s warning pretty well.
I stare at the door, waiting to make sure no Saint sized quarterback bursts through it. Then, when I’m met with nothing but silence, I proceed to take some time thinking and breathing through cries.
Am I ready to see what gift Carlo’s boss felt the need to give me?
Maybe not.
Was Carlo ready to die protecting me?
Yes . He was. He made it known on several occasions.
But the idea of being loyal to a person and actually dying for them are two very different things. Therefore I owe it to Carlo to man up and face whatever’s inside this stupid box.
Wiping the moisture from my cheek, I mutter, “Fuck it” and snatch the box off my bed, allowing myself no more than three seconds before tearing off the bow.
I toss the ribbon, listening to the pounding in my chest as my fingers clasp the side of the lid. Then, with my eyes squeezed closed I rip it off. And wait. And wait some more before opening them again.
What I find has a harsh gasp expelling from my lips.
A small, simple handwritten note, resting on top of the absolute last thing I ever would’ve imagined seeing again.
I pick up the note first, swallowing hard as I read it:
I leave this for you, signorina, in case I can no longer protect you.
With a deep sense of longing in my chest, I run my pointer along Carlo’s pistol, tracing the initials C.V. on the custom grip which seems to have been newly restored.
Carlo Vitale.
Nostalgia has my smile heavy as I pick up the gun with both hands to examine it, remembering like yesterday when I convinced Carlo to teach me how to shoot.
Well, more like everything up to shooting…
It was a Sunday, around midnight, just after Saint outed me to Theory, and I was stuck like glue to my feelings.
We were sitting on the hood of his truck in the Riverside parking lot, me smoking a cigarette and Carlo trying to cheer me up with one of his many Sicily stories.
This particular one was about a farm he went to as a kid near his family’s house.
It didn’t take long before realizing cow talk wasn’t helping, so Carlo switched to asking how he could cheer me up.
Which he would soon learn was a huge mistake on his part.
Because…enter Hendrix’s morbid curiosity.
Carlo’s failed attempt at managing it.
And us arguing until we compromised on him teaching me how to pretend to shoot.
I’ll never forget this night, not only because of how badass it was, but because it was the first time I saw Carlo’s paternal side.
The way he exhausted the importance of gun safety.
Nervously called out for God every time it fumbled in my hands.
Made me pinky promise to never use one unless necessary.
Every instinct of Carlo’s was the exact type I’d imagine a father to have with his daughter…down to making sure they would live on even after his death.
While the rest of him becomes just a part of my history.
I don’t realize how loud I’m sobbing until Saint barges in the room like a lunatic.
“Jimi!” he yells, jumping onto the bed. “What the fuck happened?”
My vision, even though blurry, is unable to leave the gun.
Pretty sure that’s when Saint realizes I’m actually holding one.
“Is this…?”
I nod.
“Why the fuck would Dante give you Carlo’s Smith & Wesson?”
“He didn’t,” I say, rubbing away the tears from my eyes. “Carlo did.”
Saint inches for the gun, and on impulse, I cradle it to my chest.
“No. Nobody touches it.”
If Saint is offended, he’s doing one hell of a good job not showing it.
Probably has something to do with how horrified he sounds.
“Just…put the gun back in the box, Jimi. Okay? We don’t even know if it’s loaded.”
“Don’t…care,” I tell him in between sniffles.
“Well I fucking do. And so would Carlo.” Saint raises two cautious hands in front of him. “Please, baby. Before you hurt yourself.”
At this point my chest burns, nose is clogged, and my entire face down to my neck is drenched with tears. I’m drowning in sadness, yet somehow Saint’s fear is even more palpable.
So, after deliberating with my emotions, I decide to do what he says, barely getting the lid closed before Saint’s got the box headed for the nightstand. “This doesn’t make sense,” he comments after a few heavy seconds of silence.
A sad chuckle leaves my lips. “Of course it does. Carlo was nothing if not a pathological neurotic.”
“So you think he, what? Told Salvini to give it to you if he died?”
I find the letter from Carlo on the bed and pick it up to read again. Finding myself smiling, again , but this time a little less heavy.
“That’s exactly what he did.”
“He cared a lot about you, Jimi.”
I huff, then tilt my head to face him. “Almost sounds as if you liked him.”
“Like is a stretch. Respected, maybe. Especially since he’s the only reason you were able to come home to me.”
My gut twists with the reminder, but seeing the lengths Carlo has gone to secure my safety, it no longer feels right to dwell on survivor’s guilt. Instead, maybe it’s time for me to thank him.
Celebrate his life…
Starting with never taking mine for granted.