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Two
Fernando
Fourweekslater
A slight breeze tickles the back of my neck. It's the only relief from the thick heat of the heavy sun. Leaning against a tree, I watch the funeral service from a distance. The priest is reciting Bible verses in front of a closed casket. People fill the seats in front of him, most of whom I've never seen before. Death has a funny way of bringing everyone together, whether it's for a good reason or bad.
It didn't take long for Zacharias to be accused of his daughter's murder. If he had to, there's no doubt he'd take the blame a thousand times in order to keep the man he loves safe. Only Enrico, Zacharias, Andres and I know the truth. Samantha was killed at the hands of her fake fiancé.
As vindictive and cruel as it sounds, it had to happen. It was either her or all of us. She was unhinged and fell too far into the dark to ever come back. She killed her own mother, as well as her biological father, and harvested organs from not only them but also innocent people. She nearly killed the man she’d grown to know as her father and her own brother, along with me. I was able to get away with only a few scratches and bruises. Not all of us were so lucky.
The awful things she did can't be undone but at least she can't cause harm to anyone else. I hope wherever she is, she has found peace and is happier. Anger often consumes us, turning us into someone we no longer recognize. I've had my fair share of similar moments I’ve had to pull myself out of. If you don't control the anger, then it'll own you.
It's easier to hate and be vengeful than it is to walk away. It takes more energy too. All it does is allow the other person to have the upper hand. The longer they have a hold on you, the more they win.
I can't afford to lose more than I already have.
Enrico stands up to say something about his sister. My advice given to him a few weeks ago hasn't been forgotten. He only mentions good memories, leaving all her bad hidden from the rest of the world. Doesn't matter if they already heard differently from others. These are all the memories he wants to remember her by, if only for a day, and no one can take them from him.
Blocking out the hurt and pain keeps him standing taller and more at ease. Otherwise, he'd be too choked up to speak. Despite his efforts to shove all the agonizing feelings behind his positive words, I can still see the gripping sadness in his eyes.
I've been in his life long enough to be aware of how often he wears his heart on his sleeve. Enrico bleeds emotions. The way he feels so strongly about everything is what I admire most.
He put them all out in the open the last time we spoke, both in words and actions. Once his lips pressed to mine, I panicked. I didn't know what to do. I only knew what I wanted, which was for him to take what he needed. It wasn't the right answer, but taking care of him is all I know how to do now. It's growing hard to distinguish where to draw the line and to remember there is one.
He was more settled and calm when we touched. Seeing him at peace made me want to give him more, and it was getting confusing.
Not to mention dangerous.
Not only do I normally enjoy the company of women, I'm also supposed to be someone Zacharias trusts with his son. I'm more than willing to bet that allowing Enrico's tongue in my mouth goes against my duties as a godfather, along with everything else I'm supposed to be.
I'm Zacharias's right-hand man and one day, I will be Enrico's too. As of now, we manage clubs and hotels together. I've stayed dedicated to this family for years, with zero intentions of ever leaving. They are all I have now.
I walk closer so I can listen to Enrico's poem recital. It was the first one his sister ever read to him. Reading poetry eventually led to him writing it. He was angry when I stumbled upon a poem he scribbled on a napkin and left in one of the main cars. He ripped it from my hand and shredded it into tiny pieces. They fell at his feet, sweeping away in the light breeze along with his confidence.
He was ashamed of being the person on the other side of those words. Men like him weren't supposed to think or talk in flowery sentences. They were supposed to be hard and lack the ability to feel.
He forgets, he's nothing like that and isn't meant to be. He sees it as a weakness while I view him as stronger because of it. Hours after he stormed away from me, I went into his office and left a brand-new notebook with a pack of unopened pens on top of his desk. Behind the gesture was a message I hope he received.
To keep going and not stop.
Once you allow them to control who you are, the easier you are to bend and break.
His words are beautiful. Each verse takes my breath away, leaving me smiling at the very end. He truly has a gift. Having such an effect on another person is a powerful thing, but I've been aware of his way with words for a long time now.
Plopping down in one of the front rows, I offer Enrico a reassuring smile as he folds his paper up and shoves it back in his pocket. His bottom lip trembles, and I hate being the reason for his nerves returning.
It's understandable for him to not know how to respond. He's embarrassed. He's been avoiding me for weeks, and I don’t like being the person who made him uncomfortable. Does he feel like I've pushed him away, or were the drugs he was on the reason for the kiss, and he's worried I'll treat him differently now?
Either way, I need to find out in order to help free the tension between us. It's hard to run a business with a person who keeps leaving every room you enter.
“Come fight with me again,”I beg with my eyes.
He pauses in front of me, his pale hazel eyes heavy with exhaustion. Reaching for his wrist, he pulls at a pair of rubber bracelets. The gloved fingers of his temporary prosthetic hand slip underneath to tug hard at each one, releasing them as quickly as they can. They weren't being worn for decoration but for comfort, and also for reasons no one else will understand but him.
Each time he flicks them against his skin, he sucks air in through his teeth, and the tension in his face slightly falls. It doesn't take long for it to come back though. I can tell by the way he grabs at the rubber again, twisting and turning it until his skin turns colors. It's not as easy as before. He's still adjusting to not being able to close the hard to control prosthetic fingers as tightly as he could his real ones, which makes it more difficult to have a good grasp on things.
The frustration is hard to miss. Especially every time he holds a pen or a gun. He was right-handed. It was hard for him not to feel like everything was ripped from him when he has to relearn how to write or shoot all over again.
