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Wanting it.
Confused by it.
When it finally comes, it feels like the flatline is piercing my soul, driving deep into parts of me I don’t have a name for yet. At the same time, everything else ceases to exist: the cold kitchen, the stained floor, the hastily overturned chairs, the naked lightbulb swinging above our heads…
After a while, Antonio says a prayer in Italian, making the sign of the cross as he closes my father’s eyelids. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his gun. I watch—not really seeing—as he slowly screws a silencer onto the tip of the weapon.
“Tough luck,amico,” he murmurs. “I'll make it quick, out of respect for your mother."
I frown, not fully understanding. My grief is like a swamp. Nothing is moving fast enough. “W-what happened to the medic?”
“He’s not coming. Never was. O’Sullivan wants the job finished tonight… It’s a bad business so don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
“What—?” I stop when I find myself staring down the barrel of his gun, suspended two feet above my father’s lifeless body.
Time freezes.
I search Antonio’s face for traces of dark humour.
This is a joke, right?
I’m not getting it.
I’m not getting it.
“Sorry,amico.” He shrugs, but his smug expression is pissing ‘liar’ all over his apology. “Your father’s obsession with this ceasefire made him weak.” His lips stretch into a grim smile. “Better an Irish bullet than a red knife, eh, Frankie?” he adds, hiding the horror of his words behind my nickname. “The Russians wanted to slit your throat with a blunt blade. The British were eager to put their meat hooks to good use.”
“Don’t call me Frankie,” I say quietly. “That’s what my brother calls me.”Called.“You betrayed us, Antonio. You betrayed my father… Matteo... Vittoria!”
His jaw tightens at the mention of my sister’s name. I’ve never known him to hesitate before. “Listen,amico, there’s a shit ton of stuff going down you’re too young to unders—"
“I know that you’re a fucking traitor!” I lunge at him—aiming my fist at his face—not caring about the consequences because that’s the other thing about grief. It makes you feel invincible, like Superman. Like nothing else can hurt you when everything's been broken into pieces anyway.
But life isn’t fair.
I should have remembered that, too.
He pushes me off him easily—fifteen stone of muscle versus six stone of hurt. I lose my balance and go down hard, the back of my head smashing into the concrete floor.
“Dammit,amico.” His voice floats somewhere above me. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Why?” I croak. It’s the only word I have left.The only one with any power.
His reply is lost as the kitchen door suddenly flies open, and bullets start whizzing over my head. I watch them slam into Antonio, making a bloody hole where his guts used to be. He meets my gaze as he falls to his knees, and in his few last seconds on earth, he almost looks sorry for being a treacherousbastardo.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, refusing to look away. Owing my courage, in this moment, to my family’s memory. “I hope you burn in hell.”
Antonio blinks first. “But he promised—”
Bang.
The next bullet stamps a perfect circle in the centre of his forehead. There are no more words from him after that.
Who promised what?
“Are you Lastra’s son?”
I find myself staring down another barrel, this one attached to a black-eyed giant.
