The Italian

I press my hands to my head as I begin to panic. Loud sobs come from behind me, some of the men openly crying now.

What the fuck is going on here?

The doctors and nurses work on my grandfather.

People are running around and calling out different instructions.

Clear…

Clear…

Clear…

The room is a clusterfuck of panic.

They pump his chest to try and restart his heart.

I feel a strange detachment, as if I’m watching this from way up above.

No, this day cannot be happening. All of this… it can’t be happening.

The line on the monitor goes flat, and I hold my breath.

“No, no, no,” I begin to chant. “Don’t go, don’t go.”

The doctors and nurses work on him and work on him, until finally, they stop.

The commotion dies down and the room falls still. An eerie silence fills the space.

It’s as if I can feel his energy leaving the room.

He’s gone.

After a moment, the nurse closes his eyes with her hand, and the doctor turns to me. “I’m so sorry, sir. We did everything we could. His injuries were too severe.”

I stare at her, numb.

“We will leave you alone to say your goodbyes.”

The medical team turn and leave, and I’m left with a waiting room full of strangers.

I kiss my grandfather on both cheeks through my tears.

“Look after one another,” I whisper.

I brush his hair back from his forehead as I stare at his beaten face. My tortured eyes rise to meet Lorenzo’s who is now on his knees crying, and I nod.

Granting him silent access to say his goodbyes.

I stand at the back of the room and watch on as one by one the men come and kiss my grandfather goodbye. Each one whispers words of love and respect to him as they openly weep. My mind goes to my grandfather—the loyal, wonderful man I know…

Knew.

Who was Stefano Ferrara?

Where the hell does my family’s money come from? If it’s old money, how far back does it go?

My stomach rolls at the thought. This is a mistake. A terrible mistake.