The aesthetic value of the gold watch was great, but this was dependent on the wearer. I was confident that I only found it physically agreeable when possessed by Adriano. He had black hair, black eyes, a black cross necklace chained across his neck, wore a black leather jacket daily, and I had noted how others’ chests heaved faster when they noticed him.People were afraid of him, of his high rank in theFamiglia, but I had once heard him described as ‘sunshine.’
It was impossible for Adriano to physically embody the sun; he would burn quickly, but this descriptor had been used to indicate that Adriano smiled and displayed a high level of happiness, which he always had done. I had bought the watch in gold for this very reason.
Adriano brought me peace. He was perhaps the only human being who could appease my differences. He had never called me defective, had never brought a knife to my flesh, had never done anything but tell me that Hugo Lucca had been wrong about me.
“Five minutes,” he continued. “Just stand there for five more minutes.”
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
Forty-five minutes later,I was not changing my socks. I was standing in the dark-paneled, shadowed confines of my father’s sitting room, permitting the other four Dons of the New YorkFamiglia’s Five Families to clasp my shoulders and quietly verbalize their family oaths.
I attempted to focus on anything that was not the touching, like how the scent of damp earth was carried in from rain-soaked shoes, how the worn brown floorboards creaked under the weight of each guest, how red all the furniture in this home was, how I wanted nothing more than to leave and go home to mine and Adriano’s estate instead.
That was not a choice, not while these men were touching me.
There was Primo Bianchi, Giovanni Gioffre, Tommaso Bonafede, Davide Ferrari, and now me, Milan Lucca. We were the Famous Five, as people called us, theFamigliaFive, the Five Families.
More like the four most suboptimal people to lead, and then me, who was the better choice.
I knew these unnecessary gestures of touching were signs of respect, but they caused an itch in my skin, my heartbeat tobecome exceptionally apparent in my chest, my hands to wring, and sweat to bead on my brow.
Don had not been my title for more than three days; to conclude that I was worthy of respect after a short amount of time would be naïve, so why did they want to respect me?
My chest hurt.
The room felt tight, claustrophobic.
It was too dark.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad said loudly, and I flinched, but that made my clothes feel too tight and uncomfortable, and the labels itched on my neck, and I had told him I did not like suits?—
Dad raised his hand, and I clenched my eyes closed as his palm smacked my face. It burned all the way to my neck this time, and I put my hands together, holding my own hand like Mommy told me to do if I ever felt alone.
“We’re not doing this shit today, Milan, do you hear me? Do you know what being like this means? Do you know what it’s called?” I nodded, knowing that I had caused Dad to malfunction as he ripped my hands apart. “Tell me.”
“D-defective.”
The dons extracted their hands suddenly, and I blinked my eyes open, realizing that I had been digging my nails into Primo Bianchi’s wrist. He narrowed his green eyes for a moment, but then pulled away like the others, joining the crowds of suited people to begin eating and drinking and communicating in conversation that made them laugh like this was not a funeral and having their noises in Hugo’s home was notoverwhelming.
This was unsustainable.
My feet, still heavy with my soaked socks, moved before my mind could understand where I was going. I quickened my pace toward the stairs and then hurried up, skipping some—which Idid not permit my body to do, but it appeared to occur despite that.
To go somewhere without a goal was inefficient. To arrive in my mother’s bedroom was inconvenient.
She was dead.
Being in her bedroom did not make her alive, so it served no purpose, yet I did not remove myself.
My mother had desired her bedroom to be white and clean, unlike the rest of the house. She had repeatedly stated during her rare lucid periods that the floorboards were as dark as my father’s soul and the red wallpaper and drapes as red as the blood he spilled, so her room had been decorated with sheer white drapes, a cream quilt and pillows, and fresh flowers in the vase on her windowsill.
Logically, this did not make sense.
Souls were not a part of the human cavity. They did not exist, and a house could not be reminiscent of one’s actions, but I believed she had attempted to convey her internal emotional distress this way. Though I could not easily identify the emotions she had possessed, I knew that my father had caused her severe emotional disruption with his darkened soul.
