The Italian

A few times through my life I’d heard rumblings. I once asked my father if the stories were true, too. He told me that most people are jealous of success, and that of course it would be rumored that they were criminals.

Jealousy was the root of all evil, he told me, and I believed him.

Maybe it’s not true. Maybe this is all a big mistake.

I glance at my watch again. Where are they?

The door opens with a flurry of activity, and I stand and watch as they run in.

“Rico!” my mother cries. “Are they all right?”

I make eye contact with Roberto, my mother’s driver, and he drops his head.

He already knows. He isn’t a driver at all. He’s a bodyguard

.

The three of them look up at me, their faces filled with hope, and my eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Mother’s face falls.

“They didn’t make it, Mamma.”

“No. Stefano?” my grandmother cries.

I shake my head as my face twists in pain.

“Nooooo!” my grandmother cries out. Her step falters, and she stumbles in shock.

Francesca grabs the wall for support as men come in from around me to hold up the girls as they each fall apart.

This is why the men stayed. They knew I couldn’t do this alone.

“No, Enrico, no,” Mother wails as I hold her in my arms. Her shoulders shake, and I can hardly hold her up. “Tell me it’s not true. It’s not true! It can’t be true.”

To the sounds of sobbing, my gaze falls to the carpet once more, and I wish I was anywhere but here. My beautiful family has fallen apart.

It’s a dark day.

The darkest.

* * *

I stare into space as I sip my amaretto. It’s dark outside, and my apartment is quiet.

This afternoon, we went to the morgue to give a formal identification. After that, the doctor had to sedate my grandmother and mother. They completely lost it.

Francesca is lying down, and my brothers are on their way. I’m sitting here with no idea what to do. Lorenzo, my father’s best friend, is in the apartment, quietly trying to help. How can he? This is irreparable.

Men are out on the street, subtly surrounding the apartment, and I know we are now under guard. From what, I don’t know.

The door buzzes. I go to the intercom and see a familiar face. It’s Mario, the family solicitor. We know him well. He attends all our family events. He’s been around for years and years. I open the door and wait until he comes into view.

“Rico,” he whispers sadly. We hug and cling to each other for an extended time. His presence is only adding to our reality.

“Please come in.” I step back, and he walks past me into the apartment before turning to me.

“I need to talk to you.”