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I could only catch fragments of the conversation, but the raw emotion in his voice was unmistakable. He ended the call with another expletive. Then, I dialed another number.
Despite the pain, I cracked a smile when Enzo demanded that Andrea, our family doctor, rush to the penthouse. The urgency in his tone was almost comical.
I strained to hear Andrea's response, imagining the doctor's annoyance at the sudden order. ’Andrea got a kick from defying Enzo’s instructions, and patience had never been one of Enzo’s virtues.
A chuckle escaped me, but the smile was short-lived as pain flashed across my back.
Enzo ended the call, and the room fell into a thick silence. My thoughts were a blur.
I couldn't help but dread Andrea's inevitable arrival. The man was not just a doctor; he was a scolder par excellence. The idea of his sharp, disapproving tones grating on my ears made me wince even more than my injuries did.
In this state, my mind wandered to Griselda. Her worried expression was etched in my mind—the mix of concern and surprise that played out on her features, especially when she noticed the blood on my shirt. It was a reaction I hadn't anticipated, and it left me feeling strangely exposed.
Griselda was already aware of my turbulent relationship with my father, but revealing the full extent of the abuse and the scars that ran much deeper than what met the eye was something I was still too hesitant to do.
The shame and humiliation that clung to those memories were difficult barriers to overcome.
There was a fear of how she might perceive me. I wanted Griselda to see the dedicated man who aspired for something and not the vulnerable, fractured pieces of a painful past.
Tomorrow was poised to bring a confrontation with both my past and my father, and I knew it would be a grueling battle. The wounds on my back were a bitter reminder of that.
Enzo shifted his focus from the phone to me, his eyes carrying a mix of concern and curiosity. "So, care to spill the details of this father-son visit that ended in your nursing wounds?"
I exhaled, bracing myself to recount the ordeal once more, this time for Enzo. There was a certain familiarity in telling the story, like replaying a script I had memorized long ago, yet each telling bore its weight, its own set of emotions.
"He summoned me to the family estate," I began, giving him a brief overview.
I stood in the hallowed halls of my father's study, the weight of his stern gaze heavy upon me. It wasn't my uncle, who usually stood at his side during these family reckonings, but my older brother Carlo.
Yet, my face remained an impassive mask, betraying no hint of surprise.
My father's silence was suffocating, stretching into an eternity. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to resonate louder, amplifying the tension. I shifted slightly, trying for a more comfortable position, while stealing a glance at Carlo. His expression was blank…as usual.
Carlo, my older brother, had mastered the art of emotional opacity, especially when it came to family matters. It wasn't a comforting demeanor, nor was it hostile; it was simply a void.
Through the years, I had tried to understand him. Yet, the mask never cracked, and I was left perpetually guessing what lay beneath.
In moments like this, I wished for a sign, a hint that Carlo was more than the stone facade he presented. I often wondered what kind of a burden it was to be the eldest son.
Carlo hadn’t always been like this. In our childhood, he had been different—a spirited and open-hearted brother. But as the weight of our family's expectations bore down on him, he changed.
It was as if the responsibilities and the realization of the world we were born into transformed him, shaping him into this enigmatic figure.
As the eldest, he bore the weight of our family legacy, a burden that seemed to increase as we grew older. Carlo realized early on that he had to fight for himself and, in turn, for our family's status and power.
The ruthless world of the mafia demanded it. The pressure molded him, turning his warmth into a steely resolve, his openness into guarded composure.
I saw the transformation happen gradually, like the fading of colors in an old photograph. The innocence of childhood faded, replaced by a hard exterior forged by the trials and tribulations of our reality. Carlo became the embodiment of resilience, a leader in the making.
Yet, even now, a part of me longed for a glimpse of the brother I once knew, the one unburdened by the weight of our heritage. I wondered what dreams he had to shelve, what aspirations he had to sacrifice for the sake of our family.
In those rare moments of vulnerability, when the walls he built seemed momentarily fragile, I glimpsed the remnants of that youthful spirit. It made me realize the battle he fought within himself—a struggle to maintain a stoic facade while dealing with the emotions that lay beneath.
Carlo's transformation mirrored the evolution of our family.
As we faced the challenging circumstances surrounding our father's inheritance, I hoped to glimpse a flicker of that brother I once knew. The brother who laughed freely, who played without worry, who shared his hopes and dreams with me.
But deep down, I had to acknowledge that the Carlo I yearned for might be lost in the labyrinth of our reality, forever concealed behind the mask he wore to navigate this world of shadows and secrets.
