PROLOGUE TWO
THIRTY YEARS AGO
ZIGGY
I got into position and gave the ready signal to Argie, our team’s hooker, and waited for him to confirm that the other prop was set. A second later, Argie signaled that Dal was in place, and we moved as one.
I drove forward with the strength in my legs, pressing against the opposing team’s loosehead, but winced as a sharp pain shot through my arm.
Something was wrong. This wasn’t the normal ache I got when I was nervous and my brain tried to overpower my body.
With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I shouldn’t be able to feel anything–especially not chest pain and a tingling arm.
I forced myself to focus on the play and stayed in motion even as tunnel vision closed in and my lungs refused to cooperate.
I’d worked for years to reach this level and wasn’t about to let the weak bullshit my sister insisted was anxiety sideline me.
When the scrum broke and the ball went in motion, I made it my mission to squash any opponent who got close to Argie.
He was sprinting toward the championship score that would put us in front of recruiters and give me a chance at life outside New York and away from the watchful eye of my family.
I locked onto the ball so hard that the darkness wasn’t just framing my view; it was floating across it. I knew I was falling behind, lagging so far away that I wouldn’t be able to help anyone. I pumped my arms and pushed my legs even harder, but it was no use.
Suddenly, my face exploded with pain. I’d just face-planted in front of hundreds of people, including the scout who had talked to me about a spot on the New Zealand team I’d always loved to watch. I had to get up. I had to run, fight, push, scramble for position, and protect my teammates.
I had to . . .
“Azeglio, if you don’t wake up and talk to me right this second, I’ll smother you with a pillow. Do you understand me?” I heard a sniff before my sister whispered, “You foolish asshole! How could you do this? Please wake up, Zig. Please!”
“Frankie, come on, let him sleep. The doctor said it could take some time,” Rico said softly as she let go of my hand. “Sit down with me, sorella, and we’ll watch over him together.”
“What happened?” I choked out. My throat was killing me, and my tongue felt like sandpaper, but that discomfort was nothing compared to the fire in my ribs. I knew without a doubt that I was out for the season. “How did my ribs get broken? Who did I hit? Did we win?”
“Who did you hit?” Frankie asked in horror. “You hit the ground, dumbass! I can’t believe you don’t . . .”
“Fuck! I tripped, didn’t I?”
Rico placed a hand on my arm. “You had a heart attack, Ziggy.”
“I what?” I managed.
“You had a fucking heart attack and died right there in the middle of the pitch,” Francesca said through her tears. “It took forever for them to bring you back.”
“A heart attack?”
“You’ve been out for days, man. Once they got you here, they rushed you into surgery and fixed the problem, so you should be okay.”
“Should be?”
“It wasn’t sudden. Apparently, your heart has been stressed for a long time. It’s a valve issue.”
“The cardiologist looked at your records and decided it might have been brought on by an infection. They tested your blood and found strep.”
“Again? I don’t feel sick anymore.”
“But when you did, you didn’t go to the fucking doctor, did you?” Rico asked. When I shook my head, he spat, “Fuck Dad. Just fuck him!”
Our father had always insisted I was the weakest member of our family, and I’d spent my entire life trying to prove him wrong.
He thought even less of me than he did of Francesca, which was saying something considering his views on women.
He never let me forget that I was a sick baby, a sick child, and a disappointment in his eyes.
I could barely remember a time when he wasn’t that way.
Only Frankie, the oldest, remembered what life was like before our mother was killed.
She had stories of how much they loved one another, of how caring they had been toward us.
She also had stories of how quickly things changed after the attack that night and a theory about why our father became so different after the shooting.
We all wondered how our lives might have turned out if our mother had lived. We knew our father wouldn’t be quite so hard and heartless if he had her by his side.
Not once had he ever cheered for me or congratulated me, no matter how hard I worked.
And apparently, he had good reason. I was as damaged as he had always believed.
Today I proved him right, and that realization hurt worse than the thought of never taking the field with my team again.
Worse than losing my opportunity to move overseas, away from the Romano name, where no one knew me–where no one other than my coach and teammates expected a damn thing from me.
“I got here as soon as I could. Is he okay?” my twin brother, Aurelio, asked frantically, pushing past the guards outside my hospital room.
As soon as he reached my bedside, he wiped the tears off his cheeks and leaned down to stare into my eyes.
“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me, Zig. What the hell, man?”
“I was just playing, and then . . .” My eyes shut of their own accord, and I couldn’t force my mouth to finish the sentence. As sleep dragged me under, it hit me that instead of proving my father wrong, I’d proved him right.
I was the weakest Romano, and I always would be.
◆◆◆
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
“Ziggy, open the goddamn door!”
I shook my head to clear it, listening to my wife mutter under her breath before she slapped the door again.
She didn’t hit it nearly as hard as she had when I first rushed in here.
I heard her sob. “I can’t do this anymore, Zig.
It shouldn’t be this fucking hard, but it’s not getting any easier, especially when you refuse to talk to me! ”
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and hit the speed-dial button I’d used way too often lately.
As soon as my sister answered, she asked, “Is it happening again?” My only response was a wheezing gasp. She let out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve gotta talk to someone, Azeglio.”
“I am right now.”
“A medical professional, Ziggy!”
“You are one, Frankie,” I wheezed. “I need help.”
“You need to open the fucking door and let your wife help you instead of calling me while I’m a thousand miles away and can’t do a .
. .” She stopped when I started coughing, gasping for even a scrap of air.
“Breathe with me, Zig. Let’s talk about .
. . um . . . soft, fluffy things. Five fluffy things. Work with me here. Name five.”
“Rabbit . . .” It took a second, but I choked out, “The Zs’ hair.”
“Someday they’re going to hate that you think their hair is fluffy,” Frankie said with a forced laugh. “Come on, little brother. Give me two more. Take a slow breath in and exhale while you think.”
“Blanket.”
“What color blanket do you think is the softest?”
The sheer ridiculousness of the question told me I was already calming down. My sister had helped me do this since we were children. I’d always lived in terror of anyone else discovering my weakness–especially our father. Rico and Relio were good at helping me, too, but Frankie was the best.
“Your hair.”
“You think my hair is soft and fluffy? I’m hanging up now.”
I managed a laugh before I took another deep breath. Frankie asked, “What are five sour things?”
My mouth watered at the thought, but the list came easily. “Lemons, limes, grapefruit, your attitude, those candies the boys like.”
“There you are, Zig,” Frankie whispered in relief. “Can you tell me what happened to set you off this time?”
“She’s gonna leave me,” I answered, letting my head hang forward in shame.
“That’s what happened?”
“No, I can’t talk about it over the phone, but she’s leaving me, Frank. She already packed up the girls’ rooms, but I’m gonna leave instead. I told her she can have the house and whatever else she wants.”
“And what did she say?”
“That she knew I’d roll over like the weak little bitch I am.”
“She said what? Oh, hell no. That bitch . . .”
“That’s not what she said, but that’s what I heard, Frankie. That’s what I always hear.”
“Because you still hear Dad’s voice mingling with your own self-doubt. They’re both so loud you can’t hear the people who love you telling you it’s bullshit.”
“I wish it was.”