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“I do grieve for her.”
That’s because you didn’t know her.
“Yeah?” I feel my throat tighten as I fight back emotion, and I think about those baby-blue eyes filling with tears, the whimpering sounds coming from behind her palms, and the way she kissed me like she wanted my soul. That girl. Breaking into tears for me. Splitting in two. A total stranger coming undone. That was mourning. That was grief. I don’t know what about. But I wish I did. “Sure. Well, I’m not sure I am.”
“And Butch mourns her, se,” he says smoothly. At the mention of my father, my chest tightens. That’s fucking true; our dad adored and despised that woman, for she stood beside him through it all. Rough times. Adultery. TheCosa Nostracontrolling our every move. And, well, he doesn’t know just how tainted she really was. Not like I do. He’ll never know. Max, Bronson, and I could never drop that burden on him. Not while he still tackles his own inadequacies as a father.
We don’t blame him for his absence when we were children… Not anymore. We’re men now. Just men and no longer in need of an explanation.
Love and hate are far too complex to understand. He wasn’t emotionally available—it’s as simple as that. He is trying to be now, though. Clay continues, cutting into my thoughts. “You should have been present for him, Xander, at the very least.”
“Well, I’m home now.” I turn down the empty driveway, not long before stopping outside the house. “So, I’ll go check on the old boy. Is there anything else?”
We leave it at that, my important oldest brother, no doubt eager to get back to his pregnant fiancé and me, well, I’m dying for a wank. I wander into our family home under the cloak of darkness, normality clings to me until I hit the front door and then that false state crashes to my feet.
I grip the handle.
She’s dead.
And it’s quiet like the dead.
Like you, Mum.
Did you give this house life?
Pushing the front door open, I step into a dark lobby. Every globe is off, where usually the halls are lit enough to navigate the various open-plan spaces. And while the moon usually bathes the sprawling windows in light, tonight, the wooden blinds are drawn, making the house dark, ominous, and lacking vitality.
The reason is simple and unemotional; Dad has relieved the maids. The soldiers—Cosa Nostrapaid guards—aren’t at their stations either.
Since only two bachelors live between these many walls and passages, he has probably advised them that night shifts are no longer a necessity.
He had them all for her.
There is no movement or sign that anyone is awake as I walk toward the billiard room, but I want to check. Sensing the sadness, I’m not surprised when I see him.
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and stare at my dad passed out in his chair. It’s quiet. The record player, which used to spin tunes, with Frank Sinatra and Ferenc Hegedus, collects dust.
I gaze at the near-empty bottle of Ballentine’s beside him, at the ashtray to his side, stuffed with several hours’ worth of cigars, and finally, at the man slumped over, alone, and still clutching his half-full whiskey glass protectively to his chest.
I smile sadly at him. That man won’t allow a drop to spill, not even in his slumber. The golden-brown liquor fuels his heart. And blinds it.
His head has dropped forward, positioning him awkwardly in a way that will surely earn him one hell of a crook in the neck tomorrow.
He’s a big motherfucker. Always has been. Where he used to be lean and covered in fine-tuned, agile muscles, he’s bulkier in his old age. Thicker skin. Tighter muscles with less elasticity. Still, I just see Max in thirty years, and women still see something they like to look at.
They have told me as much.
I walk over to him and lift his thick arm. Lowering my shoulder, I sling it around my neck, causing him to grumble something about ‘not being a dumb fuck and leaving him be.’
I chuckle and drag the old boy to his feet. Taking nearly all ninety kilograms of ex-champion boxer onto my shoulders, it’s like sliding a damn fridge along a carpet.
Manoeuvring with him, listening to him protest, I manage to get him to the sofa several feet away before dropping forward with him, pulled down by his large frame.
I unthread his arm from my neck. Sighing, I take a moment. Press my forehead to his. Enveloped by the scent of Romeo y Julieta cigars—sandalwood and peppers—liquor, and him.La Famiglia.
I want to whisper those condolences. The bullshit ones everyone else said tonight, but he wouldn’t believe me. He knows that my brothers and I hold little love for that woman. He is alone in his grief. That’s a sad place to be.
I’m sorry for your loss.
