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As we start to carry Giulio to his final resting place, Franco falls in behind me while Dario takes up position behind Elio, and the weight of the casket lessens.
Angelo and Damiano also join us, and walking to the hole in the ground, I glance at the chairs, forming a half-circle around the grave.
My soul feels numb by the time we place the casket on the green straps that will keep it suspended over the hole.
As the other men go to take a seat, Franco stays next to me while I look down into the hole.
This isn’t right.
Giulio was supposed to bury me. Not the other way around.
Minutes later, Franco whispers, “Everyone’s here.”
I nod, but my feet refuse to move.
More minutes pass, then I growl, “You can start, Father.”
The priest’s voice begins to drone, but I don’t hear a word.
I keep staring at the fucking hole I’m supposed to leave my little brother in.
I feel a hand on my lower back, and turning my head, it’s to see my mother. Her face is streaked with tears.
Lifting my arm, I wrap it around her shoulders and pull her tightly to my side.
She was a mother to Giulio, and today, she’s burying a son.
My eyes burn as if they’re on fire when she sobs.
The rage swirls like a tornado in my chest, creating chaos and destruction.
“Mr. Torrisi?” Father Parisi says to get my attention.
I have to say something.
Sucking in a deep breath of air, I turn around and lead my mother back to her chair. Once she’s seated, I place my hand on her shoulder and look at everyone who’s come to pay their respects.
It’s not just my men. An army of soldiers crowd the space around the grave.
I’m supposed to say something about Giulio. Maybe share a funny or sentimental moment.
When I open my mouth, there’s only fire and brimstone as the words rumble from me. “They killed my brother. We will hunt every last person who was involved. We’ll fucking burn New York to the ground.”
A chorus of agreement sounds up.
Turning to the casket, I move closer again and crouch down to grab a fist of dirt. When I straighten up, I bring up the last memory I have of Giulio.
‘Don’t stay out late. We have a lot to do tomorrow,” I mutter to Giulio.
He comes closer and steals a fry from my plate. After popping it into his mouth, he chews before saying, ‘You’d make a good father. You’ve had me to practice on.’
‘Because of you, I’m never having kids. You’re a fucking handful,’ I say with a playful tone lacing the words.
The infectious smile that’s synonymous with Giulio tips his mouth up. “I won’t be late. Don’t go to bed too early, old man.”
“Fuck you,” I growl.
His laughter fills the open-plan kitchen and living room as he walks to the elevator.
