Prologue. Fourteen years ago #2
“No. Mamá, I’m okay! I’m alive, Elio’s here, I’m here!” I caught her hands, and she tried kicking me. “Mamá, please, stop—” She drove her head right into my jaw, and I tasted blood on my lip, but I still tried to subdue her.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed.
“No, look at me! I’m here now! I’m here—”
She fought me. I didn’t want to hurt her; she was so fragile that I feared I’d bruise her wrist if I tightened my grip.
I loosened my hand, not letting her go because I knew she would turn to find the nearest object to hurl at me, and when she did turn to reach for a vase, I wrapped my arms around her from behind, holding her tight, locking her back to my chest.
“No!” A scream tore out of her. “Let me go, Ricardo!”
“Mamá, it’s Elio! Try to listen to me, please!” The desperation in my voice rumbled from my chest.
“Fuck off! I will murder you, you son of a bitch! I will fucking kill you for killing my baby!” As she screamed, she forcefully tried to squirm her way out of my hold, but I held firm, even though my head was a bit foggy from the alcohol.
We both staggered on our feet, and I must have stepped on something because I was falling to the ground, still holding her.
To shield her head from hitting the bedpost, I swirled us around and took her position. My elbow landed on a shard of glass, and the back of my head connected forcefully with the iron pole.
I saw fucking stars for about two minutes, but I still held her firm, even as she kicked her feet, jabbing her elbows into my stomach.
Sweating with the effort, I tried to keep her steady. I tightened my hold around her, her back pressed to my chest as I locked her legs with mine, ceasing her movements.
“Please let me go! Don’t hurt me!” she cried out in panic.
“I will never hurt you,” I told her calmly, feeling warm liquid slide down my scalp to my neck; I knew it was blood. The sharp pain at the back of my head was almost blinding. “Never, Mamá.”
“Then let me go, Ricardo.”
“It’s Elio. I’m Elio. Por favor, come back to me.” I rocked her back and forth gently. “Por favor,” I whispered.
My grip tightened.
“You killed him. You killed my only child.”
My chest tightened. “Mamá, you’re scaring me. I’m not your only child, and I’m here, goddamn it.”
“You killed my Elio.”
I dropped my head to the crook of her neck from behind. “I’m alive, Mamá. I’m okay. Listen to my voice.”
She calmed as she mumbled, “He’s dead.”
“No, he’s very much alive. He’s holding you. You gave birth to him on this day, nineteen years ago; you said he smiled at you even if he couldn’t see you; you said he refused to let go of your hand. You said you sang him a lullaby in Spanish every night. You said he was priceless.”
“Priceless,” she whispered.
“Yes.” I held her tighter, kissing her hair. “I’m here.”
“Here.” It was barely above a whisper, and I knew she was passing out.
“I’m never leaving you. Ever.” I rocked her back and forth, looking around at the mess in the room, knowing it would freak her out when she woke up.
I stayed that way for five more minutes before laying her on the bed and proceeding to clean the room. When I was done, I went to her bathroom to grab a medical kit before cleaning her wounds and tucking her in.
I watched her for a few seconds and then exited the room.
I forgot my shoes, my bruises, and that I needed to calm myself down as I charged down the hallway, aiming for my father’s study.
I didn’t bother knocking; I just barged in. The fury swirling in my veins was fucking blinding. My chest heaved as I watched the two men sitting opposite him stare up at me with frowns while my father looked at me with disappointment.
“Elio, what is the meaning of—”
“Out!” I bellowed at the men.
They looked baffled, and my father gasped.
When no one moved, I sneered. “If you make me repeat myself, I will make sure the both of you regret ever fucking leaving your homes. Try me.”
A second passed before they hastily got to their feet, and from the pinned castle emblem on their suits, I could tell they were two of my father’s highly respected capos, and I still didn’t fucking care.
When they left, my father shot up from his seat.
“You do not disrespect—”
“Quiet!”
His mouth clamped shut; surprise and caution filling his wide eyes.
“My mother’s sick. You will not turn a blind eye to it anymore.”
“Elio—”
“It was not a fucking request, Father.”
I was running on adrenaline. I couldn’t—on an average day—speak to this man like this. But I was done keeping quiet.
“She’s getting worse,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said in Italian.
I gawked. “She hurt Enzo. She hurt me! Don’t you fucking see it!” I responded in English because I realized he was trying to take control.
“Your mother is fine! And you will not speak to me this way, boy!”
I walked over to him, got in his face, gripped the collar of his shirt, and yelled, “My mother needs help! She needs help, you bastard! Help! It can only get worse! What if she hurts herself? Hm? What do we do then? What the fuck do we do? She dies, then what, hm? Speak, you fucking bastard!”
His eyes searched mine. Twitching. “You sound more like her than yourself.”
I frowned in confusion. “What—”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, son?” he asked also in Italian.
I paused, realizing how my breathing came in short gasps. My gaze flicked to my tight grip on his shirt, and I instantly let him go, stepping back.
“I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “No. No. I am not taking any chances. Get some shoes, boy; we’re getting a diagnosis.”
Fear clamped my gut. “I said I’m fine!”
He shot me a glare. “Do you want me to use force? I will.”
There was no countering that, and in a few minutes, we were on our way to the family hospital.
“If we can get Mamá—”
“I don’t want to hear nothing of your mother,” he snapped.
We arrived at the hospital, and the process started.
They ran tests, did bloodwork, a scan to rule out anything neurologic.
The doctors asked a hundred questions. It took time.
I remember the antiseptic smell and a nurse’s high voice, not her exact words.
I remember how the late night bled into morning, how the processes were expediated, how when the sun came up, I sat in a room where a psychiatrist told us I had major depressive disorder alongside some other brain things I’d blocked out because I felt the shift in my father’s demeanor, and his eyes had darkened in the way they did when he was looking for quick solutions.
A few minutes later, we were driving back home; the car was silent until he spoke.
“You’re joining the army,” he announced.
I snapped my head to him. “What?”
“You’re joining the fucking army.”
“Why?” I asked, baffled.
He was wise enough to pull over to the side of the road but left the engine on as he responded. “Didn’t you hear the diagnosis? You’re crazy, and I promise that I will work it out of you.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“You are.”
“I’m not fucking crazy!”
“You are!” he yelled back.
“I can’t even get into the army. You think they’d let me in, knowing my health conditions?”
“I will get you in. There’s a more private and secret base for people like you. I’ll make the calls.”
“This is insane. You can’t just—”
“Look at you!” he yelled suddenly, the vein on his forehead throbbing. “A fucking disappointment. Despicable and weak like your fucking mother.”
“I’m not weak. Depression isn’t weakness,” I gritted out.
“Oh, it is, and you are weak.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exact—”
“No!” I glared at him with disbelief, my heart hammering. “No, I carry this fucking family on my back while you fuck and cheat your way through Italy. I am there for your wife and your children; I’m there for you! I’m there for fucking everyone but myself! Why the fuck wouldn’t I be depressed!”
He looked at me like I was a stranger. “This. This right here, this despicable behavior, is why you need to get your head rearranged.”
“I don’t need anything—”
“If I say you need something, then you fucking need it! Do not counter me.”
“You’re the one who’s crazy. If you send me away, who’s gonna look after them? Who’s gonna hold Mamá when she forgets who she is again or what year this is? You can’t do that to them, to me.”
“You are joining the army, and you are getting your head on straight.”
I shook my head, looking ahead, my breathing ragged as I said, “How can you not see that you’re ruining my life?”
“I am making you better.”
Looking back at him, I ignored the anger in his eyes and focused on his ignorance and fear. “No, Papà, you’re making me worse.”
That seemed to shut him up. He cleared his throat.
“I am your father. You are to listen to me and do what I say. I know what’s best for you.
Leave the family to me; that is not your job.
Getting better is your job. You will take my place someday, and I won’t have you ruin my name, Elio.
You are a Marino. No Marino is a weak fuck.
The private base will remind you of that. Am I clear?”
I rested my back on the leather seat, clenching my jaw hard.
“Am I fucking clear, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” And then he started driving again. “You leave the day after tomorrow.”
I looked out the window, thinking of the promises I was about to break.
I did it all mechanically.
We reached home, and I was out of the car before he could call me back. I went straight to Mariana’s room, unlocking the door with the master key.
She and Enzo were on her bed, fast asleep. A book rested on her chest, almost slipping off.
I walked in, took the book from her body, dropped it beside her, and turned off the reading lamp.
I raised the duvet, covering them before leaning down to kiss both their foreheads. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
I left the room and didn’t sleep that night. When morning slowly crept in, I went to Elia. Told him I was sending him away. He broke my fucking heart, crying and begging me not to separate us.
I didn’t tell him the reason. It was better if he hated me. Knowing my father had other plans for me in that army, I wouldn’t be able to reach out.
I was going to be cut off. I was going to be tortured. This was his play.
Elia held me tight and made me promise I wouldn’t leave.
I knew he wouldn’t drop it; I’d been prepared for that.
That was why I suddenly remembered a drink I had gotten for him on my way here; it was why I walked to my car, brought out the chilled juice box, walked back into the safe house, and watched him drink while he told me what his homeschool teacher had said about whales.
It was why I watched him fall asleep suddenly, drove him to the airport, and handed him to the people who would take him to Los Angeles. It was why I stood there till the plane took off and disappeared from view.
I crouched down, covered my face with my palms, and let out a guttural yell that made my chest ache throughout my drive home.
I made sure I didn’t see Mariana, Lorenzo, or my mother that day.
The next day, I was on my way to the army.
The whole process was a blur.
They shaved my head.
Gave me the uniform. And took me to a different facility.
And throughout my stay there, I received very special treatment.
A year later, my father came to take me home. He was impressed by my progress. He gave me a hug that I didn’t return. I didn’t even look him in the eye once. The horrors I’d gone through, the things they’d done to me, the dark thoughts multiplying in my head with every second that passed.
The numbness churning in my gut.
I had been right. He’d made me worse.
But I knew my anchor was back home. Back at the compound, my family.
They were the only reason I was even remotely eager to return to that compound.
My father had taken me straight to the meeting house. We were there for about three hours before I was free, and I raced to my room to change out of the uniform my father had forced me to wear to the meeting with his capos.
But the moment I walked out of the room, and the building, all I saw was chaos, soldiers running helter-skelter—barking orders.
“Water … hurry up … they’re inside … fire … church … burning … stop the fire … quick!”
The voices filtered in and out of my head.
I will never forget the rage of the massive plumes of smoke erupting from the building, the overwhelming smell of gasoline that clogged my throat, the smell of burning wood, and the heat of the fire warming my skin from where I stood.
For a second, I couldn’t make sense of it.
Then the screams started, and my mind caught up. My heart tightening and dropping.
I ran—God—I’d never run as fast as I did in that moment, my aim was to burst through the flames as though that were possible. At that moment it felt possible, at that moment I wanted to cut off the hands clawing at my skin, holding me back from reaching them, saving them.
I watched the fire claim everything. My mother. My siblings. The church.
And I was too late.
I hadn’t been there.
I watched the footage from the church multiple times right after my father had gotten rid of everyone who’d witnessed or seen what had really happened so that he could create a narrative in his favor.
I watched and watched repeatedly—my mother bathing the church in gasoline, tying my siblings up. My mother’s delusion as she kissed each of their foreheads while they cried, the flick of a lighter, and then, nothing. I let every single detail of that video sew itself into my head.
Because I would need it.
I would need it for when I burned it all down, with my father and me as the victims of our own demise.