The Italian

We fall silent again, lost in our own thoughts.

I drag my hand down my face. I’m exhausted—too tired to think, and too tired to focus on anything other than how fucked up this all is.

Francesca, our sister, walks in and sit beside me. She’s beautiful, with long dark hair and porcelain skin. She’s much fairer than her brothers but with the same brown eyes. I put my arm around her and pull her close. “You okay, baby?”

“Not really.” Her tear-filled gaze falls to the fire.

I hold her close. “Where’s Mamma?”

“Inside.” Her eyes find mine. “Are we going to be all right, Rico… without Dad?”

My heart sinks and I hold her closer. “Of course, angel. I’ll make sure of it. You’re safe, I’ll look after us now. I’m here. Lean on me.”

She holds me as she cries, and I close my eyes to my own pain.

The four of us, the Ferrara children, sit around the fire, and we weep.

* * *

I sit at the table wearing my black suit. I’m waiting for my mother to get ready for her husband’s funeral.

The house is deadly silent.

When my father passed, he left a hole.

His jovial laughter is missing—his wise face, too. His deep voice and the way that he made everyone around him feel loved have gone.

His strength.

He’s deeply missed, and I am empty.

I have nothing left to offer. Grief is all I can see.

Lorenzo has stepped up and taken over for us. He’s caring for our family, easing our pain as much as he can.

My mother is quiet, pensive, and barely holding it together. The pain on her face is unbearable.

Francesca is heartbroken and won’t speak at all. When she does, it’s through her tears. She’s only fifteen years old—way too young to be left without a father. I die a little inside every time I look at her.

“Your mother is nearly ready,” Lorenzo says behind me.

I nod, the lump in my throat hurting. “How do we do this?”

Lorenzo falls into the chair beside me and closes his eyes. He, too, is in pain.

“How do we say goodbye?” I whisper.

“We put one foot in front of the other and do what we need to do.”

“Then what?”

His eyes rise. “We avenge their deaths, Enrico,” he whispers. “We have the names. We know who is responsible. Let us take them out.”

His profile is blurred as I stare at him through tears.

“We can’t go forward without your lead, son.”

I drop my head, defeated. “I can’t take over. I don’t know what I’m doing.”