1
MILAN
Everyone was touching me.
Repeatedly.
Including the rain.
Though that was an illogical conclusion to come to, because the weather did not possess appendages, the prolonged skin-to-skin contact with my father’s mourners had dulled the sensations in my body so that the rain did not feel much different.
It was abhorrentand utterly unnecessary to be standing in filth for a male who had been dead for three days, but I had been informed since childhood that the death of a Don in theCosa Nostrawas when our world had to become different, and respect was required to be shown.
I did not respect Hugo Lucca, yet I was still expected to stand in the rainandshake people’s hands to accept their unnecessary, falsified grief.
Puddles spread across the sodden grass of the graveyard, each one reflecting the gray clouds above New York, but I was also visible there and so was my body’s failure to comply ordinarily and without failure. My jaw tensed, my chest heaved,my shoulders rose and fell inside my suit as if it was too big, and my hands wrung together, twisting over and over.
These parts of me, the defective parts, had always caused me problems in this world, and I had not responded to Hugo’s corrective measures. I knew they were faulty, but somehow, they were the only parts of me that he had not been able to claim and take. The rest of me—my tall height, my jet-black hair, my dark eyes—those all belonged to my father, and I could not bring myself to look at them too closely.
“My socks are wet,” I muttered, attempting to fixate my overloaded mind on either the rain in my shoes, the wet fabric clinging to my shoulders, the mud sticking to my father’s coffin, or the Italian priest spouting nonsense about his life, not all of it at once. It was proving to be excessively difficult, and I was experiencing a high level of internal malfunction.
In these moments when my overstimulation was greatest, I sought the company of my Consigliere, my advisor, my closest friend, Adriano, and I was grateful that he was close beside me, perhaps even standing too close. He made me feel smaller than my over six-foot-tall frame, though he was a few inches shorter than me, if anything.
Ever since we were four years old, he had regulated my mind and understood me in ways that others had never tried to.
He protected me, and that made me feel…smaller.
“You can change your socks at home,” Adriano replied under his breath, running a hand through his un-gelled dark curls.
Adriano and I appeared very similar, though Adriano did not gel back his hair, and he typically dressed like a biker in black leather jackets and strange shoes. I certainly would never wear any of that, but Adriano was ordinary, and I was incapable of being ordinary.
My Consigliere was emotionally stable and did not pose a threat to my internal readings of the world. I had studiedhis unfamiliar, emotional social cues until I could identify his changes in behavior and what emotion he displayed. Many individuals were not so easy for me to read, and I could not distinguish their actions between what one would call ‘happy’ or ‘angry,’ but I could often figure it out based on Adriano’s cues.
When he spoke, his head leaned toward me, his hands remained clasped before him, and he did not blink, not once in thirty seconds. He watched the priest gesture to the damp hole in the ground that Hugo’s remains would be lowered into, not looking at me as he spoke quietly. This indicated that I should have been doing the same.
I found this to be nonessential.
I sighed. “That does not provide me with a current solution to this illogical ritual.”
A sound emanated from Adriano’s throat. Asnort.“It’s a funeral, Milano. Just stand there, be still, and stoptalking.”
“We have been standing here for thirteen minutes. This is irrelevant to Hugo’s lack of existence. He does not know we are here; he is deceased.”
Someone made a loud, unpleasant sound from the crowd behind us. I twisted to try and find them, to assess why this human being was experiencing apparent stress over Hugo’s death when they likely did not ever meet him, but Adriano’s firm hand on my forearm held me in place.
Adriano’s physical contact was the only kind that I tolerated. His presence was required for my mental stabilization, so I did not oppose it.
The sound occurred again, louder this time. It was some kind of crying, coughing noise. I turned again, trying to search for them, but it was impossible beyond the sea of black suits surrounding us.
“Milan,” Adriano grumbled.
“Why is that person making that incredibly disruptive sound? Did they know Hugo well?”
“Milan.” Adriano’s voice became reminiscent of an animal’s growl. “You are Don now, not just a Lucca anymore. You need to show up for these people, understand them and their grief, even if you don’t. That starts with understanding that they have ears and canhearyou.”
My eyes narrowed on my friend. “I have shown up enough. I have stood here for fifteen minutes now,andI appeared at the church and partook in the useless prayers. If their emotions are dependent on my appearances, they should attempt better emotional regulation.” I shook my legs, and the water in my shoes sloshed. “My socks are very wet.”
“We’ll leave in…” Adriano checked his watch, the one I had purchased for his twenty-ninth birthday last year.
