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There’s much gossip going on. People speculating what’s next for the Sorrentino name. With Pa dead, me missing, and Giovanni back from what was supposed to be death, uncertainty breeds among everyone. It lingers in the air as Pa’s buried.
No one’s more theatrical than Uncle Claro. He delivers a eulogy that brings many in the audience to tears. It’s a performance worthy of an Oscar as everybody applauds in celebration of his brother’s life. A real winning moment for the underboss, who never was given the spotlight.
Now, it’s his time. All it took was for his brother to die. For me to go missing. For Giovanni toalmostdie.
With both of us here today, things didn’t go as planned.
He spends the rest of the afternoon socializing, working the others in attendance. If there’s one thing that can be said about our uncle, it’s that he likes to hear himself talk. He’s an entertainer at heart, always mingling, looking for ins. Connections he can make with others.
From his stories, when he was serving his fifteen-year sentence, he did the same in prison.
Once the funeral reception winds down, Claro breaks away from the others. Some of the men from his crew follow him. He gives them his marching orders, tasks involving his business operations and other affairs he needs handled.
It’s not until he sends the last guy off that he returns to his den. Just like the afternoon of Giovanni’s funeral, he’s going off for a drink and cigar.
The door to the den opens with Claro loosening his tie from his fat neck. He’s only half paying attention. Under his breath, he mumbles something about assholes hanging around too long. It’s not until he looks up that he stops short.
My brother’s waiting for him, seated in one of his leather chairs. The shock deepens the many creases in Claro’s face. He can only stare before coming to his senses, giving a hollow chuckle.
“Nephew, I didn’t expect to see you today. You…you didn’t attend the funeral.”
“I did,” Gio answers calmly, his glass of cognac in hand. “I just didn’t make it known. I don’t need attention when I pay respects.”
“Few should want attention when the day was about your father,” he says. He steps away from the door. “Are you here alone? I didn’t see Louis—”
“No,” I answer from behind the open door. I hobble forward and push it shut, revealing myself to him. “He’s not alone.”
Claro’s eyes bulge when he sees me. I’m no pretty sight given everything my brother’s done to me, but I’ve never cared about my looks. It doesn’t matter if I repulse Claro as he takes a step back and glances between Giovanni and me.
“Now you’re fucking with me,” he says in his loud, abrasive voice. “Is it Halloween and nobody told me? Why are you walking around looking like some mutant? Your hands—seriously, what the fuck’s going on?!”
“I shot Giancarlo in the face,” Giovanni answers mildly. He sips from his cognac. “As you know, I never died.”
Claro dabs at his forehead with his pocket square. “Real shock it was. Wemournedyou, Gio. Searched high and low for who was responsible. You know we almost started another turf war with Lovato Senior because we wanted to avenge you?”
“Who’s we?”
“Me…your father…everybody,” he stammers.
My brother’s gaze is paralyzing. It’s enough to lock you into an uneasy trance—the electric blue making your insides chill into ice. Claro knows what it means when he stares you down in such a manner. My brother’s coolness is nothing to take lightly. It’s always a precursor to bloodshed.
“You gave an excellent speech out there,” Gio says after his pause. He holds up his glass of cognac. “Pour yourself a drink. Sit down. We need to have a talk.”
Claro scoffs, spittle flying. “You inviting me to sit down inmyhome? How generous of you, Giovanni! You’ve got some balls, and that’s what everybody loves about you, but how about we remember where we are?”
“Sit down,” Gio repeats. His order is clear. He’s not giving any other option.
“What’s this about? You two show up in my den, one of you drinking my liquor, the other looking like Freddy Krueger, and you think you can order me around? It’s the audacity for me!”
Regardless of his rant, Claro obeys. He shakes his head and drops into the nearest armchair. Since he’s walked in, sweat’s beaded on his forehead and stained the pits of his white dress shirt. Our father often joked he sweated like a pig, but even for him, this is excessive.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Gio says with another sip of his drink. “I thought I’d catch you up on everything that’s happened.”
“Like you shooting this one in the face?” Claro jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to me. “That’s a story I’ve gotta be drunk for. Don’t tell me you two were scrapping—you always played rough when you were boys. Your father said it was nothing to worry about. I don’t think he thought one of you would blast the other’s face off.”
“Portofino was great,” Gio speaks as if he hasn’t said anything. His attempt to change the subject has fallen flat. “Falynn and I stayed at the family villa. You remember that villa, don’t you? We spent summers there. Pa used to bring me, Giancarlo, and our mother there. Then you’d tag along sometimes.”
“It’s…it’s a great villa. How about I pour more drinks?”
