6. Nero
NERO
How does one walk towards their death?
If there’s a manual, it’d be mighty useful right about now. Landing in Rome, there isn’t anything to think or do to prepare me for Giovanni’s punishment when he hears of my failure. I’ll tell him she escaped, which isn’t a total lie, but my gut tells me he won’t care.
As I deboard and turn on my cell, notifications regarding a couple of missed calls from Elio come through, along with a text demanding I call him.
And this is it. This is the start of the end. If only I could say goodbye to Padre first.
Bracing for the cries of betrayal, I call him back. He answers immediately, and without greeting, demands, “Damn plane took too long to land. Get to the Mancini mansion. Zeno needs your support.”
Zeno? “Is…is he okay? What happened?”
Elio takes a shuddering breath. A few seconds of grim silence pass before he murmurs, “His father is dead. The Russians attacked.”
The Mancini villa has always held an ominous feeling, despite the tan outer colour and many arched windows that make it seem more like a vacation home than a mob leader’s mansion.
It’s difficult to explain, but it feels like blood stains the walls, even when it doesn’t.
Like agony and terror have flitted through them.
Screams that are silent now but weren’t always.
Which, probably since it’s been in Zeno’s family for ages, going through quite a few Capos.
Countless horrors surely echo in the walls.
As I reach it, a different ominous sense greets me. Silence that propels me down the hallway and into a sitting room where the remaining Mancinis are.
Elio is standing by the window, rapidly typing on his phone. He should be rallying troops, stepping in as interim Capo, and exacting revenge for his leader’s death, but as I scan the room, his reason for lingering becomes apparent.
On the couch is Zeno’s madre, Gabriella, sobbing into a tissue. Gabriella and Giovanni split up around the time of her daughter’s conception, but emotions lingered. At least, for her.
Serafina clings to her left side, her thin arms around her mother’s neck but widened eyes pinned onto her older half brother, who she’s looked up to from the day she was laid in his arms as a baby.
On her other side, Zeno’s bent in half, unmoving, with his head in his hands. Blood coats his arms and clothing, a foreboding sense settling in the base of my gut as I cross the room and kneel in front of him.
What do I say to a person who lost a parent? I don’t fucking know. So I go for silence instead, staring at my hands and waiting for him to show signs of life.
For a long while, no one moves. No one speaks. Serafina occasionally whispers to Zeno about “big emotions,” but she quickly gives up when she realizes now isn’t the time. She tucks herself onto Gabriella’s lap and yawns.
Nearly an hour passes between my arrival and Zeno lifting his head. His face has been rubbed raw, his eyes tinged with red, but it’s beneath the skin that really freaks me out. He’s…soulless. This isn’t my best friend. This is a guy who lost his father. Empty and maybe a bit broken.
Lost.
“He’s gone, Nero. He’s fucking gone.”
Sorry won’t cut it. Nothing I can say will make this feel better, so I simply whisper, “I know.”
“It was the Bratva. They shot up the bar… Killed him right in front of me.” He glares down at his blood-crusted pants, stained with the ghosts of today. “I will kill Ursin Volkov.”
Gabriella shoots me a tight smile, probably sensing Zeno’s impending explosion, and hoists Serafina onto her hip before leaving the room. The instant the door shuts, Zeno shoots to his feet, hands in his hair, and paces the room.
Guess she was correct.
“I want them gone—all of them. The Bratva fucked with the Cosa Nostra for the last time.” He whirls on Elio. “What the fuck were they after us for? What do you know?”
Elio’s brows come together. “Zeno, I don’t think now is the right time to—”
“I don’t fucking care what you think! Tell me what is going on!”
Glancing between us, Elio sighs and crosses his arms.
The end of Elio’s story brings a few different emotions.
Elio himself slumps like he’s gone fifty years without rest.
Zeno launches into a fit, flips the table, and rage-plans his revenge.
And me…I stumble from the room, already feeling intoxicated, and I haven’t touched a drink.
Yet.
This feeling must go away—be numbed into non-existence. I need to burn away the bile and for a substance to wipe the thoughts from my mind before it all goes to hell.
Giovanni Mancini’s death might be my fault.
My fault.
I was meant to kidnap Anastasia Petrov, and had I done so, the Bratva would have been distracted with getting her back. I failed, and they were able to move in and murder our Capo—my best friend’s padre.
In a way, I caused his death.
I stumble into the direction of the kitchen, needing to blur these thoughts. Wanting them gone so I can be the friend Zeno requires. I yank out the first bottle of liquor my hand touches, not bothering to check the label before twisting the lid off.
One drink to change my thoughts—my realization—then I can be there for Zeno.
Elio enters the kitchen, then stomps right up to the counter and covers the bottle’s mouth to prevent me from drinking. “Giovanni mentioned only this morning he sent you on a mission. What was it?”
“Shouldn’t you know?” I glare, jerking the bottle away from him.
“He refused to tell me. Said he didn’t want to curse it. Where the fuck were you?”
Shrugging, I say, “He sent me to Poland to kidnap a girl connected to the Bratva. Guess it’s pointless now.”
Elio’s gaze shifts to the corner before he shoves off the counter and disappears down the hall. A moment later, the front doors slam closed, so I return to my bottle.
The first sip burns my throat, making me cough. The second is chased with guilt.
The third…the third turns into a fourth, a fifth, a sixth.
Zeno lost his father because of my actions.
That isn’t a thought anyone can live with.
The next day passes in a blur. Zeno’s rampage takes him all over the house, shifting between two of the five stages of grief: anger and sadness.
Gabriella took Serafina home to Ostia to shield her from Zeno’s ever-changing emotions.
Elio’s trying to keep him together until they meet with the Commission, where he’ll be granted permission to become Capo.
Meanwhile, last night I discovered the bottom of that bottle I began. Hence the blur of today as I’ve been rocking a hangover for the morning, and another bender in the afternoon.
All of this is my fault.
Zeno must know. As the next Capo, he has to understand why I’m not worthy to become his second.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him.
Tomorrow turns into the next day.
Another bottle emptied.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him.
The following day, Zeno is ready to enact war on the Bratva, except I should be the one he murders.
Tequila has some fan-fucking-tastic benefits.
Drunk off my ass, it’s an excuse to avoid admitting the truth to my best friend and dealing with the downfall of it.
The Commission denies Zeno his rightful role, making Elio interim Capo until Zeno is older. They’ve forbidden us from attacking the Bratva too, which gives me a while longer to determine how to admit my fuck-up to Zeno.
Soon.