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BENEDETTO
What do you do when someone you care deeply for is having the worst day of their life?
You let them.
And hope to fucking hell they don't do something stupid.
The last time a woman I cared about came crying to me four years ago, and to try to get over the hurt very quickly and find comfort, she made the stupidest decision anyone with brains in their head could ever make.
I bite my lower lip.
I can't comfort Rosaline right now, even though I wish I could.
I'm the last person she wants to be around right now anyway. And it doesn't matter what place I speak from, she will neverlisten to me. As far as she is concerned, I'm a devil doomed for hell and if she could she would want me to begin my eternal damnation immediately.
I puff and shake the feeling of guilt off.
Anyone with a father like Paul would have celebrated being rid of him, but not my sweet Rosaline.
I know she doesn't deserve to be hurt like this. She doesn't deserve a man like me making her life more complicated while trying to help her.
I am capable of everything I've been accused of and more. I'm not going to play the saint or attempt to pretend I care that much for the despicable old man that was a terrible father to a woman I care deeply about.
To him, she was nothing but a means to an end, a means to keep himself relevant. He wasn’t man enough to fit in with the big bulls, so he used his daughter to pave his way through marriage, selling her to the best bidder.
And I understand that it is how this world works. But I understand doesn't fucking mean I think he deserves to live and keep at it.
Good riddance to disgusting rubbish.
He had it coming. Paul’s end was conspicuous.
Everyone could see that it was only a matter of time before someone came for him. And even though I feel sorry for her loss and wish I could have done more to keep her from experiencing it, I don't feel the slightest bit sorry for a man and father as selfish as Paul.
He got what he fucking deserved and that's it.
Not my circus, not my fucking clown.
I don't expect her to understand because Rosaline grew up in a bubble. Only a girl like her, born into a mafia family, would still never get the hint that life was not like a romantic movie.
I slide both hands in the pockets of my sweatpants and watch her cry her heart out as Lawrence holds her to his chest, trying to comfort her.
At least he looks like he gets it.
His father is dead. It's painful.
Been there, lived that.
But he must not fall apart. His own father would not want to see that. Every capo wishes for an underboss that the enemy would never see sweating it.
And with his stoic reaction, Lawrence just passed the first trial to fit into his father’s shoes.
He begins to mutter something to her that sounds like words of encouragement, but I'm using the movement of her spine straightening and her shoulder deflecting at intervals to know she probably does not like what he is telling her.
I take my eyes away from them and look at my sketch, the one she threw on the floor. My room is full of sketches of her. It's been an outlet for me to exert every emotion and pull I have felt towards her this week of not seeing her. I've been sketching to the point that my fingers feel numb.
It's been one week of reshuffling my mind and it's been the worst week of my life. I've not been able to discover any shady transactions by Claudio. I wonder if it is because he feels it all belongs to him already, so he doesn't need to steal.
Lawrence leads Rosaline inside the house and I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial Orazio.
