Fragile Longing

His eyes flickered with excitement.

“We tortured him to death. It took us two days, but in the end, he begged for mercy. We cut his dick off and ended his miserable life.” As I uttered the words, my own frustration flooded me again. For so long, I’d worked towards the ultimate goal to ruin Remo, and it had all been for nothing.

Father nodded. “They . . . they all do. Did you do the honors?”

“I did.” The lies flowed easily from my lips, maybe because they were easier to stomach than the truth. I still had trouble accepting that Remo was back in Las Vegas, that he’d be going on with his life, and not just that . . . he had Serafina to parade around as his triumph over the Outfit.

“Maybe the girl can move on now. If she sends those kids to a boarding school far away, people will eventually forget they exist,” Mother added.

I swallowed my bitterness. Serafina had moved on, but no one in the Outfit would forget about the black-haired Falcone spawns any time soon, nor about the events that created them.

Father watched me closely, and I quickly masked my feelings. Of course, he caught on to my troubles. He was too good at reading people. “Are you still hung up on the girl?”

Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. I wasn’t sure what I felt anymore. Until a few days ago, I’d felt a strange sense of longing whenever I’d seen Serafina or just thought of her, but after what she did . . . my feelings had done a U-turn.

Marco had a very peculiar opinion about women. He said they were all opportunists at heart, easy to sway toward whatever direction suited them best. They chose the option that brought the biggest advantage. I’d always considered his musings the result of his bitterness toward his mother. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Surely, not all women were that way? But in our world, many chose their own advantage over loyalty.

Serafina had chosen a life at the side of a Capo, in the spotlight, with her children as successors to the Camorra throne. She’d just as quickly come running back to the Outfit once she realized that Remo Falcone wasn’t fit to be a father, that he didn’t share his throne. Women meant nothing to that madman.

“I have to say I’m happy Sofia is going to become a Mancini. She’s more down-to-earth, easier to control. She’ll give you less trouble than her older sister,” Mother said.

I wasn’t sure what Sofia was. I didn’t know her, and I wasn’t sure I had it in me to change that any time soon. I’d had enough of the Mione women for the time being. The problems arising before me were plenty. Getting to know my soon-fiancée wasn’t a priority.Father clung to life until Christmas. He was too weak to eat downstairs in the dining room, so we took our plates upstairs to share a meal with him. Emma had decorated the windowsill and headboard with tinsel and baubles to give the room a less depressing atmosphere.

Emma talked about her new hobby—pottery, a way to pass her time now that she couldn’t do ballet anymore. Mom and I kept up the conversation with tidbits of our daily life and gossip making the rounds. Father was too weak to speak more than a couple of words, but he listened, his chest rattling with every breath. The worst thing about his broken state was that he was still fully there in that broken body, his eyes alert and hungry for life, but his body unable to go on.

The days that followed the Christmas holidays dragged on, with Father getting worse every day. Walking into his room became harder every time. I didn’t want to see him so lifeless and weak, I wanted to create a bubble of denial similar to what I’d felt when I’d visited Emma in the hospital after her accident. But denial didn’t alter the truth.

On the last day of the year, I entered the master bedroom and found Father gasping for breath, his face scrunched up in pain with Mother bent over him, crying. She glanced at me. “I don’t know how to help him. I just don’t know.”

Father’s eyes met mine. “She . . . needs . . . to rest.” He coughed, moaning in agony as he did.

I grabbed Mom’s arm and led her out. “Lie down on the sofa. You need to rest.” She didn’t protest. She wrapped her arms around me. “You and your father are so strong. Emma and I’d be lost without you.”

I nodded, then gently pried her arms off me and returned to the bedroom, closing the door. Dad slumped in the bed, every ounce of tension leaving his muscles and the determination in his face with it.