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24
Michael
I stand facing forward, at the top of the aisle in the chapel. Aside from my residence, it’s the only other building on this inland.
Next to me, Luca shuffles his feet.
Sebastian stands next to him, his dark blonde hair a contrast to the darker looks of the rest of my siblings bringing up the rear. Massimo, Christian and Xander are all clad in black tuxes and black ties…similar to mine. Hair combed back and gelled, and with their similar scowling visages, broad shoulders and towering height, the three resemble a American football team. Our parents certainly bequeathed their best features to them. Too bad, my father is a fuckingstronzo.
Adrian brings up the rear of the group.
From the other side of the aisle, the Don folds his arms across his chest. I meet his gaze, hold it. I slide my fingers to my side, and my fingertips brush the knife in its sheath that I have tucked into my cross draw sheath; even as I play the power game of who blinks first with my boss.
After a few seconds, he finally nods. "Good to see you finally settling down, son," he murmurs. His voice, low and deep, echoes in the empty church. Yeah… There are no other invitees. Just family. Which, sadly, includes the Don.
"I didn’t invite you to hear your opinion on the matter, Father," I growl. "You are here simply because—"
"Of her." He nods. "I understand; you’ll never forgive me for what happened to her."
"It’s your fault she’s dead.” I scowl. “Because you couldn’t control your temper," I say in a hard voice. Not one of us had been spared being beaten by him growing up. As the oldest, I had taken it on myself to shield my brothers and my mother whenever I could. More often than not, though, he took it out on her behind closed doors… And my mother never protested. It was her burden to bear, she’d say. She’d borne the almost daily beatings silently.
The day I had turned eighteen, she’d called me into the kitchen. Had fed me my favoritelasagne al forno.Then, she’d told me how I was now the man of the family and she made me promise to take care of my siblings, including my stepbrothers, when she was gone. A week after that, she had dropped dead of a heart attack. And with that, any gentleness in my life had gone out of the window…
Until I’d caught sight ofher.Why is it that seeing Karma had awakened the kind of protectiveness I had felt for my mother? Not that there is anything similar between the two of them. My mother had been blonde, slim, so tiny that seeing her boys all grown up and standing here today, it’s difficult to imagine them having come out of her.
The side door to the church opens, then an older woman steps inside the church. She wears her flowing mane of almost completely gray hair about her shoulders. She’s barely five-feet four-inches, but her erect posture makes her seem larger than life. She’s clad in a pale pink trouser suit and heels which, while fashionable, are also comfortable for walking. That’s my grandmother, who, at almost eighty is still agile, independent and doesn’t suffer nonsense from anyone. Not even my father.
I glance from her to him and my father raises his shoulder. "You know, I couldn’t have stopped her from coming, even if I had tried."
I walk forward to meet her. "Nonna," I bend and kiss her cheek, "you needn’t have come all the way here."
"My oldest grandson is getting married, and you thought I’d stay away?" She scowls up at me. "How could you, Michelangelo?" She scolds me, "I have been hoping for you to get married and have grandkids since you turned eighteen. You finally oblige me, twenty-one years later, and you think I wouldn’t come to witness it with my own eyes?"
"I’d have brought my new bride to visit you," I murmur.
"And when would that have been?" She glowers at me, "If, indeed, you did get around to doing it. You think I don’t how hard you work at building the business, that I am not aware of how ambitious you are, about succeeding," she jerks her head to the side, "him."
"I am still alive, Mother." The Don growls, "I’d thank you to remember that."
"What you haven’t learned, Byron," she says without looking at him, "is that respect is earned, not demanded."
"Who cares, how you get it. Respect is respect, Mother." The Don folds his arms across his chest. "One way or the other, I’ll get it, even from my own sons." He stares at me meaningfully.
I glare back at him. What a prick. How is it possible that he is my father? More to the point, how could he have come from someone as gracious and as caring as my Nonna?
She had been the one steady influence all through the turmoil of our growing years. And after our mother’s passing, she had insisted on being a part of our lives. And yet, not even that had stopped him from beating us up. If anything, after mother’s passing, his predilection to hit us had escalated. By then, I’d been strong enough to stop him. I’d managed to hold him back from hitting my younger brothers, though not even I could stop him fully.
When I had finally confessed to Nonna, she had been horrified. She had immediately moved us in with her…and confessed that she’d suspected but had no idea it had been so bad. I hadn’t been sure if I should forgive her, but she had intervened, and insisted that my father get help for his issues. Something my father had grudgingly agreed to do. I owed that much to her—that my siblings had been spared the torture of being around him. She had, at least, managed to salvage some of their growing up years.
Me, on the other hand… The damage had been done. Perhaps it’s the reason I’ve turned out so twisted, in my own way. Perhaps blood is thicker than water… Perhaps his violent tendencies were imprinted on me more than I realized. It is the only reason I can think of to explain my twisted needs when it comes to sex. Something I’d hope to keep in check with Karma, except every time I see her, my base instincts seem to emerge. Something inside of me insists that I claim her, that I show her what it means to be possessed by that darkness inside of me. My cock instantly thickens. Shit. That’s the last thing I need—sporting a hard-on while I am surrounded by family, and in church.
"Michelangelo," Nonna’s voice intrudes in my thoughts. "I hope you’ll forgive me," she says in a tone low enough that only I can hear.
I tip down my chin, gaze into her midnight-blue eyes, so like mine.
"If I had known, if I’d had even an inkling of how far he'd go with her, I would have stepped in," she adds.
I set my jaw.
