49. Forty-Nine
FORTY-NINE
HARLOWE
The cemetery was quiet except for the wind rustling through the trees and the distant sound of traffic beyond the iron gates. I stood in front of the gravestone wearing all black—a simple dress that felt too heavy for the warm afternoon, sunglasses hiding my swollen eyes.
Tears streamed down my face despite my best efforts to hold them back.
“I’m sorry I haven’t visited in a while,” I said softly, my voice breaking. “Things have been . . . complicated.”
A small laugh escaped me, bitter and wet. Complicated. What an understatement.
On the grass beside the gravestone, my son sat cross-legged, picking dandelions and examining them with the intense focus only a two-year-old could muster.
His dark hair was almost black in the sunlight, falling across his forehead in soft waves.
When he looked up at me, his eyes were the most striking shade of gray, like storm clouds or polished steel.
Just like his father’s.
“I named him after you,” I whispered, crouching down to brush my fingers across the engraved letters on the stone. “I hope that’s okay. I wanted . . . I needed him to carry part of you with him. Part of the good in our family.”
My son held up a dandelion that had gone to seed, its white fluff catching the breeze.
“Mama, look! I can make a wish!”
“Go ahead, baby,” I managed, my throat tight. “Make a good one.”
He squeezed his eyes shut with exaggerated concentration, then blew hard. The seeds scattered on the wind, dancing away toward the other graves.
I turned back to the stone, my hand trembling as I traced the dates carved there. Too young. He’d been far too young.
“His eyes,” I said quietly. “Those impossible gray eyes that see right through me. And his stubbornness too—God, you should see him when he doesn’t want to eat his vegetables. He sets his jaw exactly the same way.”
A sob caught in my chest. I pressed my palm flat against the cool marble, wishing I could feel warmth, wishing I could feel anything but this aching absence.
“I wish you could have met him. I wish . . .” I stopped, swallowing hard. “I wish so many things.”
My baby boy crawled over to me, his small hand patting my knee. “Mama sad?”
“A little bit, little dove.” I pulled him into my lap, burying my face in his hair. He smelled like sunshine and the strawberry shampoo I’d used that morning. “But I’m happy too. Because I have you.”
“And Daddy,” he added matter-of-factly.
“And Daddy,” I agreed, fresh tears spilling over.
I looked back at the gravestone, at the name carved there in elegant script:
Luca Virelli. Beloved Son and Brother.
“He survived,” I whispered, knowing my brother couldn’t hear me but needing to say it anyway. “After everything—after the bullets, after all that blood—he survived. The doctors said it was a miracle. Four gunshot wounds and he still fought his way back to me.”
My voice dropped even lower, barely audible over the wind.
“I killed our father that night. I stabbed him in the chest and watched him die on the floor. And I don’t regret it. I know I should feel something—guilt, remorse, anything—but all I feel is relief that he can’t hurt anyone anymore. That he can’t hurt the people I love.”
Little Luca wiggled in my arms, reaching for another dandelion.
“I’m trying to be better than them,” I continued. “Better than Father, better than the legacy he left us. I’m trying to give this little boy—your nephew—a life that isn’t built on blood and violence. Arrow is trying too. We’re both trying.”
I pressed a kiss to my son’s dark hair.
“I hope you’d be proud of me. I hope you’d understand why I chose love over loyalty to a family that only knew how to destroy.
I hope . . .” My voice cracked completely.
“I hope wherever you are, you’re at peace.
You deserved so much more than what this life gave you.
” My voice cracked. “God, I miss you so much.”
Luca turned in my arms, his small hands cupping my face with surprising gentleness.
“Don’t cry, Mama. Uncle Luca is with the angels. Daddy said so.”
I pulled him close, holding him tight enough that he squirmed in protest.
“You’re right, baby. He is.”
I stood slowly, lifting my son onto my hip. With my free hand, I touched the gravestone one last time.
“I’ll come back soon,” I promised. “And I’ll bring him with me every time. So you can watch him grow up. So you can see what came from all this darkness—something pure and good and innocent.”
As we walked away through the rows of graves, Luca waved over my shoulder.
“Bye-bye, Uncle Luca!”
I didn’t look back. If I did, I’d never be able to leave.
But I carried my brother with me anyway—in my son’s name, in my memories, in the determination to build something better than what we’d been given.
The cemetery gates closed behind us with a soft clang.
And somewhere in the distance, I could have sworn I heard my brother’s laugh in the wind.