“Because it’s where they were waiting for her.”
Beside me, Cecilia sits in frozen silence, waiting to hear me tell her the story that all of us already know by heart.
“Things were different back then. Sure, we had security but not like we do now. Nearly all of the ranch staff was up at the summer camp with the herd so the place was almost empty. My dad brought me and Tye up to the camp for the first time. We were only supposed to stay for one night but we ended up staying for two. Meanwhile, Mom was back home with Getty and Fort, both of them too young to come with us. Two of our most trusted enforcers were watching over the house.
“My father had no shortage of enemies but there hadn’t been a Mafia war in years. Then a longtime rival, part of the west coast Delfino family, felt like he’d been disrespected. Dad was the target but he wasn’t home. The killers had already neutralized our security guards plus a poor cowboy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were waiting in the greenhouse. Mom went out there real early every morning, before we were awake. She loved her flowers. Maybe they told her if she went with them quietly then they wouldn’t go in the house and kill her babies. We’ll never know. There used to be a big willow tree outside the front gate. They stood her up against the tree, put a bullet in her head and propped her up against the trunk. In a sick joke, they tied up her arm in a way to make it look like she was waving hello.”
Cecilia lets out a small cry and covers her mouth. I feel an emotional tremor pass through her body.
“And that’s why every single fucking traitor we find gets cut from ear to ear.” Getty’s tone is lethal and he stares darkly into the brush. He spots a mid-sized jagged rock on the ground, scoops it up and throws it with such savage force I don’t even see it fall.
There’s more to tell.
How we’d been betrayed by a man who’d been part of my father’s crew for a decade.
How my father spent an entire year savagely deleting every single one of his enemies from the world.
How Fort and Getty, the sole survivors of the day, were alone in the house for hours until a friend of our mother’s stopped by with a peach cobbler and discovered a scene of unimaginable horror.
I didn’t see any of that.
But I have my own memories.
What I remember is two police trucks suddenly careening into camp.
I remember my father’s unearthly wail of anguish, a sound that I hope to never hear again.
I remember holding Tye’s hand at the funeral and how no one could persuade Getty to come out of the cabinet he’d crawled into because he’d scream when anyone touched him.
I remember Mel making us scrambled eggs while carrying Fort on her hip. She was the only one to realize we hadn’t eaten all day.
I remember the sound of the greenhouse glass cracking into a million shards when it was crushed by a tractor and how the colorful ruins of my mother’s flowers were scattered in pieces beneath the shattered glass.
“The Grimaldis took our side in that war,” I say to Cecilia. “And years later we repaid that debt by helping to track down every single participant in the wedding massacre that killed your parents.”
Her eyes are red and now her chin trembles. “I didn’t know that. My grandfather would never answer questions. They’re really all dead?”
“Every single one of them,” I say.
A lone tear slips down her cheek. On impulse, I brush her tear away with my thumb. Normally, my patience for tears is nonexistent. Of all the ways to react to a situation, tears are the most fucking useless.
Cecilia’s tears hit different. The twisting crunch deep inside my chest is back.
“Hey, now.” Tye, who can be sensitive when he wants to be, gently pats her shoulder.
Out in the brush, a pack of coyotes talk to each other in a shrill series of yelps.
Cecilia takes a calming breath and sniffs. “You said your father never visits her grave.”
She’s got a good memory. I barely recall telling her this.
“He doesn’t,” I confirm. “He has his reasons.”
Once in a while I’ll walk beyond the hill to my mother’s grave. So does Tye. Fort goes more frequently. But no one visits as often as Getty. He always leaves flowers, even in the winter. The funny thing is that he’ll never admit this but I know it’s him.
“Can we fucking go now?” Getty snaps. “I wasn’t planning on spending the night here.”
The ride back to the ranch is subdued with little talking. Cecilia is yawning by the time we pull through the gates.
