Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Luca
R age coursed through my veins as surely as the blood that kept me alive. Heat shone through my eyes, and my fangs descended. Fully turned and ready to fight.
Matteo pounded the heavy bag. Civilians sparred in the ring. More lifted in the weight room. Vito tracked my entrance from behind his desk.
“Where’s Marco?” I unzipped my hoodie and tossed it on a bench.
The two men in the ring paused long enough to spare me a glance. Matteo backed off the heavy bag. Vito got up and made his way across the gym.
“You better cool down, boss,” he said.
The calm in Vito’s gruff voice sent heat straight to my eyes, making them flare with vengeful fury. “Dove! è! Marco!”
“Qui!” My uncle’s voice rang through the gym.
I spun around.
Marco walked out of the locker room in gym shoes and boxing shorts, taping his knuckles. “Cosa vuoi, Luca?”
“You know what I want. I want what you owe me. I want what you owe my father.”
He turned his attention to the ring and lifted his chin at the two men gaping at us. They scrambled out.
He finished his wrap with fluid, automatic motions. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked, nonchalant.
I took off my shirt, tossed it on the bench, and grabbed a roll of tape. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Vito grabbed my biceps. “Don’t do this, Luca. This isn’t what you want. Think of Gina.”
I jerked my arm out of his grip and glared. “I’m thinking of my father.” I bit the edge of the tape, ripped it, and started wrapping my other hand.
He shook his head and backed off, disappointment evident in the downturn of his mouth.
Marco watched me from the corner of the ring. I finished taping, tossed the roll onto the bench, and didn’t waste any time. I climbed between the ropes and threw up my guard, dancing on the balls of my feet. Rage fueled each hasty movement.
He stepped forward, arms at his sides, stoic and impenetrable. “I’m going to give you one for free. One punch to get it out of your system. But I won’t hold back after that, capisce?”
“Arrogant prick.” The words flew as quickly as my right cross and hit Marco with an audible crack. Blood sprayed and splattered the mat. It dripped down his face, and his eyes flared to life.
“Fucking idiot,” Vito grumbled from the ropes and tossed Marco a towel.
Marco’s eyes blazed an angry red as deep in color as the blood he wiped from his broken nose. “Feel better?” he asked.
“A little,” I said, still bouncing on my feet. I bared my fangs, and with a surge of power, they sharpened to their full length. “But I’ll feel a hell of a lot better after I break the rest of your face.”
Marco snorted and shook his head. “Fucking hothead,” he grumbled. “I thought Vinnie beat it out of you.” He brought up his guard. “Sounds like you need another lesson.”
I threw up my fists in just enough time to block Marco’s wicked left hook. The punch struck my forearm like a battering ram. Christ, he was fast. But so was I. And bigger after all the hours I’d spent in Vito’s gym. I went after him in a fury, a series of jabs ending in an uppercut that Vito once told me was as powerful as Marco’s. He blocked every punch.
My power flowed freely, something I hadn’t allowed since my twenties. It surged with each beat of my heart, pumping strength and speed into my muscles, and every impact between my fists and my uncle’s skin tore down walls I held in place with unwavering control.
He handed me over to Vinnie, left me to be tortured like some common thug.
I went at him from a different angle. Jab. Jab. Marco blocked the punches, and I danced away.
And for what? For trying to avenge my father? For trying to avenge his best friend? His brother?
I lunged, threw a quick left cross and a right hook. Block. Block. His red stare never wavered, but he wasn’t striking back.
I bared my fangs and screamed. “Fight me! Fight me, goddammit! Why won’t you fucking fight me?”
I wanted him to pound me into the mats. I wanted him to hurt me. I wanted him to punish me for what I’d done.
“Fucking hit me!” I let my right hook fly; he blocked it. “I stole from you!” Jab. Jab. “I trashed your club!” Cross. Uppercut. “Anna almost died!”
Punch after punch, I swung at him like a rabid animal. He took everything I threw, his guard up, waiting for the next barrage. Sweat poured down his face and mingled with blood. It dripped down his neck in red trails that matched his eyes.
I’d clung to his legs, screaming, crying, my little fingers wrapped in the fabric of his pants. I’d held on with every ounce of my six-year-old strength, pleading with him to stay. I begged him not to leave me like my father had left me. Like my mother.
The remaining power in my blood surged like a tidal wave and the final wall crumbled.
“I hate you!” The ugly truth flew from my lips as fast and furious as my fists drove into his stomach. “You left me, and I hated you!”
He doubled over from the impact of the punches and my words.
Sweat stung my eyes. My arms burned with strain. The last vestiges of my power flared to life, and I swung at his temple with everything I had left. His head snapped to the side.
“You! Weren’t! Fucking! There!” I jabbed at Marco’s face with each heated word.
He took it all, absorbing my anger and hate until my arms gave out and my swings didn’t reach his face.
“You weren’t there.” My voice cracked, and my body convulsed.
Tears joined the sweat on my face, but I kept swinging, empty, feeble punches that Marco brushed aside.
He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me into him, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
“You should have been there,” I cried, my body shaking through each pained sob. “Why weren’t you there?” I struggled to break free, pounding my fists against his arms and shoulders. “You could have saved him. You could have protected him.” The side of my fist thudded against Marco’s tattooed shoulder. “He needed you, and you weren’t there.” I lifted my fist to land one final blow. “ I needed you, and you weren’t there.”
My knees gave out. I sagged into Marco, unable to hold myself upright. He sank with me to the mats and wrapped his arms around me, holding me like a child. The pit of sorrow in my heart cracked open, and the loss and despair that lived there finally broke free. Uncontrolled sobs wracked my exhausted body.
“Nipote. Ragazzo mio.” Marco’s voice wavered with strain. He kissed the top of my head. “Mi dispiace tanto. I’m so sorry. The Lord knows how sorry I am. I’d give anything to bring Tony back. Anything.”
I shuddered and cried.
He pulled back and took my shoulders in his hands, holding me at arm’s length. “Luca.” His deep voice cracked over my name.
I sat back on my heels, shaking, and my arms fell to my sides. I stared at my palms, open and empty. There should have been something in them, something to hold onto, but there was nothing. I had nothing.
“Everything I loved that wasn’t taken from me, I destroyed.” I raised my eyes. Marco’s face was a mask of pain and guilt, and I couldn’t bear it. “I’m being punished for my sins.”
Marco’s eyebrows pinched together. “Luca. What happened?”
“I killed her,” I whispered.
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Marco’s face twisted in horror. “Mio Dio,” he whispered. He squeezed my shoulders and shook me. “Mio Dio, no. Luca, no. Lucia was in shock. She wouldn’t drink. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Papá loved her, and I killed her.” Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. “And now the only good thing that’s ever happened to me, my one chance at happiness…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “She’s the only light in my godforsaken life, and I killed her too.”
“Chi?”
“Siobhán. She’s going to die, and it’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about, Luca? What happened to Siobhán?”
“She’s pregnant,” I croaked.
Marco’s confused expression transformed into one of shock and just as quickly pity. But I didn’t deserve his mercy.
I hung my head, defeated and shaking and unable to face a future without Siobhán, especially when that empty existence was one of my own making.
* * *
Smoke swirled through the air and stung the back of my throat. I washed it down with the rest of my scotch, and the harsh bite soothed me. Mamma Gina grabbed the bottle and poured another splash into the crystal.
Marco leaned forward, grabbed my shoulder, and squeezed. “Bene, nipote. Bene,” he said around his cigar. “Calm those nerves.”
I exhaled a shuddering breath. He patted my shoulder, then sat back, holding an icepack to his swollen nose.
Vito had set it for him before we left the gym, and Gina refused to give him any whiskey without ice. Vito also gave me an emergency blood bag. I could barely walk after emptying myself in the ring, especially with how little I’d fed over the past month. The bag hadn’t been enough to refill the well, but it would get me through until I could visit a Source.
The unseasonably warm June air was moist with humidity. Gina’d thrown the kitchen window open to let Marco and I smoke inside, a rare occurrence I hadn’t witnessed since I was a kid. I puffed on my cigar and blew the smoke into the cobbled alley. Night had fallen, and the smoke swirled beneath the amber glow of the porch light.
One winter night, almost forty years ago, that same porch light made the snow falling outside appear to glow. My father and Marco sat in the same spots we sat in now smoking. The window had been cracked enough to let the smoke out but keep the warmth in. They chatted in Italian. Drank. Laughed. The scene was forever etched in my memory.
I swigged my scotch, a bracing mouthful, and set the glass on the sill where Nonna—now Gina—kept potted herbs. Tonight, it held an ashtray and our drinks. The smoke and the scotch and the open window brought a sense of rightness to the space we occupied, a sense of home.
“She’s strong,” Gina said from the kitchen table. “Tough as nails, that one.”
I huffed. “You have no idea.”
“Lucia wasn’t nearly as strong.”
Marco shot Gina a look, and I followed his gaze to my foster mother.
She dipped her chin and raised her eyebrows at her brother. I knew better than to challenge Mamma Gina when she looked at you like that. So did Marco.
“I’m being honest,” she said in a tone that garnered no argument. “It’s about time we all started being honest.”
Marco shifted in his seat and placed his cigar between his teeth.
Gina’s expression softened. “Your mother was a gentle soul, Luca. It was one of the things Tony loved about her. She was innocent, na?ve at times. Her feelings ran so deep… I always thought that’s why she was so talented at music. She had a beautiful heart.” Gina’s eyes and voice overflowed with fondness and nostalgia. “But it was a fragile heart. So very fragile.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I turned away, unable to handle the sadness woven between her words. I needed Zio’s strength.
Marco’s eyes fixed out the window. The muscle in his jaw that twitched when he got emotional jumped, but aside from that, he remained still. A rock. I’d always seen him as cold and distant, but now I recognized it as strength. He’d protected his family the only way he knew how.
“Siobhán’s different,” Gina continued. “She’s a fighter. She’ll survive the truth, and she’ll survive this pregnancy. You need to trust her, trust in her strength. Trust how much she loves you.”
I glanced at Gina out of the corner of my eye.
“She loves you, Luca. It’s clear as day. And I know you love her too.”
“I can’t lose her,” I said, fear strangling my words.
“You won’t. Not if you fight for her.”
The oven beeped.
Gina’s chair scraped the floor. I brought my cigar to my lips and puffed, comforted by the burn of the smoke and the clank of dishes and utensils.
“I know you resent me,” Marco said, low and gruff. His eyes remained fixed out the window. “But—Dio, Luca—I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. It’s not like you came with an instruction manual.” He tossed the ice pack on the table and lifted his whiskey. He took a long drink and winced when he lowered the glass. “All I knew was I had to do right by Tony.”
He placed his cigar between his lips. The cherry flared red with each pull. It turned the tobacco into smoldering ash, remnants of the past.
“He had so many hopes for you. He wanted you to have the opportunities his parents wanted for him. An education. A home and a family. A sense of security. He wanted to give you the life he never had.” Marco’s dark eyes burned with the love I knew he felt for his best friend, my father. “But more than that, he wanted you to be happy.”
Marco searched my eyes. “That’s all Tony ever wanted for you, and when he died?—”
His voice caught. He snapped his mouth shut, and his jaw worked as he forced his emotions to obey. He brought his cigar up, took a long drag, and blew a slow, steady stream of smoke out the window.
“And when he died, all I knew was I had to give my brother what he wanted—a better life for his son.” Marco’s nostrils flared, his impenetrable control wavering under the intensity of the promise he made all those years ago. “I could never replace your father, Luca, and the Lord knows I did a shit job trying.”
The guilt I felt over what I’d done to the man who’d tried to protect me, who’d tried to do right by his best friend, overwhelmed me. “Zio, I—I’m?—”
“Fammi finire,” he said and held up a staying hand. “Killing a Shaughnessy won’t bring him back, and living in misery is the last thing Tony wanted for you.” He leaned forward. “You want to even the score? You want to honor your name and your father’s legacy?”
The burn in my throat was too strong for words. I nodded.
“Live, Luca. Live your life. With happiness and love in your heart. Live the life your father wanted for you, the life he never got to live.” Marco’s voice broke, and his eyes were rimmed with tears. He looked back out the window. “If you can do that, justice is served.”
He picked up his glass, drained the rest of his whiskey, and placed his cigar between his teeth.
“Mi dispiace, zio. Per tutto.”
“I know, nipote mio. So am I.”
The air changed, and the heaviness that weighed on my relationship with Marco lifted. Forgiveness replaced animosity, understanding replaced resentment, and peace settled over our family for the first time in decades.
The pop of a cork broke the silence. Wine trickled into crystal.
“Mangiamo,” Gina said.
We snubbed out our cigars and carried our glasses with us to the kitchen table. Marco sat at the head where he’d sat my entire life, his rightful place. Gina sat to his right, and he took her hand. I sat to his left, my father’s seat at the DeVita table. Marco held out his hand. I glanced up, and he nodded. I placed my hand in his and reached for Mamma Gina. She smiled and took my hand, running her thumb across the backs of my fingers.
Time brought us full circle. Our family was whole again, thirty-five years of struggle put to rest. We’d face our futures together, stronger for our scars, and hope filled the space in my heart where only revenge had lived.
I had a family, and with their support, that family would grow to include the woman I adored beyond all reason and another Moretti, born from our love.