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“If I fucking talk to you, you answer. Understand?” I yell.
His face is pale. He finally looks up at me and I’m glad to see some fear in his eyes.
“Fuck you, Roman. I practically raised you.”
That was the wrong thing to say. The knife in my hand clatters to the ground and my hands ball into fists. I punch him in the jaw, and I continue hitting him until I’m pulled away.
“Control yourself, Rome,” Salvador says into my ear. “He can’t die that easily.”
I run my hand through my hair in agitation. When I look away, Salvador takes my place, moving to stand in front of the bloodied man.
“You killed Ricardo,” he starts. “When I first heard you were planning to go against him, I hoped you wouldn’t be stupid enough to cross a line. He would have spared you. Even after what you did, Ricardo would have let you live. You know why? Because you were his brother! You were his brother and you killed him!”
There’s heartbreak in his voice. I can understand where Salvador is coming from. The relationship he had with my father and Vincent is similar to the one I have with Tony and Michael. And now one of his brothers is dead, and the other is responsible.
“I didn’t want to,” Vincent croaks. He spits blood out onto the floor before looking back at Salvador. “I was pressured by the Russos. They wanted me to kill him.”
The admission does nothing to dull the embers of my rage. Of course they wanted my father dead.
“You idiot,” Salvador says. “And you did exactly what they wanted? Now they’ve abandoned you.”
“Ricardo was a coward. He always wanted to play everything safe. How long have the Russos toyed with us? And he did nothing. I told him time and time again to let us wipe them out. They’re growing stronger, Salvador. You have no idea what they’re capable of. Something’s shifting in that family. I regret what I did to Ricardo—”
Oh, hell no. He doesn’t get to fucking say that.
I’m about to move forward again but Michael grabs my arm.
“Don’t say his name,” Salvador warns. He proceeds to say a few other words in Italian, cursing him out.
Vincent hangs his head in shame. I watch as Salvador clenches and unclenches his fists, like he wants to punch him as well. Instead, he walks away. I move forward again, taking care not to move too close, just in case I lose it and kill him.
“You’re going to die today, Vincent. But only after we’ve made you suffer. When Tony’s done with you, I’m going to look you in the eye and put a bullet in your skull, just like you did to my father. I hope you rot in hell.”
It’s Tony’s turn to take over. He’s precise in his actions, taking care to stab and poke and slice in all the right places. He’s determined to draw out Vincent’s anguish, and I’m grateful. I revel in his screams. It goes on for hours. When I’m sure he’s utterly broken, I move forward and keep my promise. I avenge my father.
I wish I could say it dulls the pain. But the truth is, I feel nothing.
* * *
The funeral passes in a blur.They speak about my father’s achievements. They talk about what a good man he was, fair, honorable. My mother cries. My sister and I have to deal with all the people offering their condolences. It’s all fucking overwhelming. And I know that’s not the end of it. I’ll have so much more to deal with after the funeral is over.
Unfortunately, it seems I made a mistake in not grieving my father’s death as soon as it happened. By the time night rolls around, I’m still feeling empty. I should be feeling something. I should be mourning him. Hell, I should probably be crying, but I can’t. Everyone else has retreated to their rooms and respective houses. I asked Michael and Tony to leave me alone, and they did so without question. My sister and mother are fast asleep in their rooms, so the house is eerily silent as I try to come to terms with my emotions.
All I feel is this spine-chilling iciness. I want so badly to feel something, anything. I grab a drink from the bar and pour it down my throat, the bitterness a welcome sensation. I take another drink, but this time my movements are jerky, uncontrolled. I can feel myself spiraling out of control.
I exhale a shaky breath. “Fuck.”
In my twenty-seven years of living, I’ve never so much as had a panic attack. I’m not going to start today.
Breathe Roman. Fucking breathe.
It doesn’t work, though. All I can see is my father’s body on the ground. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. One second, he was there, and the next he was just gone. I launch the cup in my hand against the wall. It shatters over the fireplace.
Almost immediately, I hear a squeak of surprise. I whirl around to see Elena Legan standing in the doorway.
If I had to rank the people I would have liked to find me in the middle of a breakdown, she wouldn’t be anywhere near the top. Actually, I think she’s the last person I want to see me like this. I open my mouth to tell her to fuck off, but she steps forward and enters the room, hypnotizing green eyes fixed on me.
“What did that glass ever do to you?”
