25
Mia
You could almost forgive yourself for thinking you heard a death knell, but instead of bells ringing out, notifying the town of tragedy, it’s the screams and crying of the women that fill the Moretti house. I can feel the vibrations of feet thundering up and down the stairs, the accumulated chaos sounding off from the other side of the house where Antonio’s father’s bedroom is. Whether it’s just in my mind or not, I’m sure I can tell the difference between the woman rushing from the heavy-footed men yelling for help, shouting instructions at each other.
“Call an ambulance!” I hear amongst the noise. It must have been no more than ten, fifteen minutes that have passed when I start to recognize the sound of sirens as they approach the house. At the window, I look out as a lone ambulance pulls to a stop. Three men jump out in paramedic uniforms and are immediately greeted by a couple of Antonio’s men. Two of the three paramedics enter the house, each with a bag. The third stays by the ambulance and I can see him immediately start to ready a gurney. Then, the chaos of the house lowers its volume, as if the whole mansion had started to hold its breath. I don’t know what’s going on, but that moment of anticipation, the quiet hanging in the house, ends abruptly as the house erupts once more with despair.
Then I see it, see him, the body of Lorenzo Moretti. He’s being rushed out of the building, followed by a wave of emotion by the entire family, blood or otherwise. The old man, with his gray, liver-spotted skin, eyes closed, lips apart, looks small and feeble, almost unimaginably the same man who fronted, arguably, New York’s most feared criminal organization. Part of me wants to curse him for having the opportunity, the option of growing old when he denied so many their chance at a full life. Yet it’s almost impossible to not feel sorry for the skinny, helpless being on the gurney as they lift him into the ambulance. One of his lifeless arms hangs to the side. Antonio takes it into his own hands before positioning it on the old man’s chest. The doors of the ambulance close. Both the Moretti brothers follow their father in their own cars. Antonio’s sister cries into the arms of Sophia, who seems to be shaking from her own sobs as well.
It seems Antonio was right, his father really was facing the last days of his life, and as awful as it might be, the pain the family is experiencing is sadly earned by their actions and any honorable treatment given to them would be unjust. It’s unusual for me to have such harsh feelings towards another person’s mourning, yet at the same time I can’t shake away my thoughts toward the ordeal that their victim’s families have had to go through, that those people suffer a far greater loss, without even having the ability of knowing where their corpses lie. My father, will I ever get to bury him? Or was he just left in a ditch with a bullet hole in the back of his head? It makes me sick to think about it.
So I sit on the bed, holding my knees to my chest and enter into a deep daydream of sorrow. Periodically I check the window, looking at the sky that’s now filled with impenetrable gray clouds, a dullness washing over the courtyard in front.
I remember a time when I thought the bookshop would be my prison, that it would be impossible to escape the small-town expectations of my father. And in those times of doubt toward any kind of future, I chose to lose myself in the pages of the books that lined the store’s shelves. To imagine another me, occupying the lives of those I read about, those who had travelled, fell in love, or were swept up by some kind of exotic, erotic romance. But now, as I look back, I realize that those small-town expectations were my father’s way of keeping me safe, away from this life.
He knew, from his own experience with this family, that chasing danger in an attempt to fulfill whatever dark void I’ve mistaken for desire is a game best left alone. Or at least that’s what I want to think, but truth be told, conflict runs through every part of my body, my brain. I recognize the voice that reminds me of how good it felt to be here, in Antonio’s arms, the one he chose to spend his time with. Even if only for a few days. But the reality in the form of Lorenzo Moretti’s death makes my situation all too real. While desire runs high, death will rise equally as high.
* * *
My presencehere must have faded amongst all the noise and mourning of this morning’s events. I hear cars approaching for the first time since the ambulance left. I move to the window and see that it’s Antonio and his brother who has returned.
He gets out of the car, exhaustion on his face. His sister runs out, throwing her arms around him, and around Huxley too. It’s almost possible to imagine them as children, to wonder what sort of siblings they were to each other. Close, I suppose, as volatile family conditions tend to do that to children. That’s what I’ve read, anyway, that no matter how fucked up their family is, or even if they’ll end up at each other’s throats, for them, the death of their father is a shared experience.
Unlike myself, sitting alone in this room. I have no family, no aunts or uncles, cousins, nothing. I have no real connections to anyone. The few friends I have are already heading toward that perfect life all us girls are dreaming of. Yeah, right. And with that road firmly set in their futures, they rarely have time to catch up with old friends. I doubt if they even know that I’ve been gone. I’m sure that the next time I hear from any of the girls from my school, it will be in the form of a wedding invitation.
So that begs the question, who do I—the innocent one in all this—have to hold me and console me while I cry over my own father’s death? The irony of the situation is thick. This family, who have controlled and dominated the lives of so many in this city, using no one’s judgment but their own to justify beating and killing so many, whose families are left without husbands, fathers, or brothers, are now there to console one another. While I, up here alone and feeling sorrow because of their actions, am left with no one to comfort me. Where is the fairness in that?
And, where do I go from here? With Lorenzo gone, does that make Antonio the boss? I’m not sure how it works, I suppose it’s not as straightforward as taking over the family butcher shop, plumbing business, or even the family-run bookshop. I guess there’s a lot expected of him. But the way I see it, my options are limited. Either stay here and hope that Antonio or one of his goons doesn’t get rid of me, as human life seems to be so disposable to them, or I escape.
For now at least, the excitement of the house has died down and the sun has long ago set, so I lay on the bed and let my jumbled thoughts take me to a place far away.
* * *
It’s morning and still,I’m alone. No Sophia, no breakfast, and even though the thought does pass my mind, I’m not ready yet to dive into the plate of old, cold meatballs and spaghetti. Better to save that for when the real desperation kicks in. One thing I do receive, however, is a buzz of activity for my eyes to feast upon in the courtyard outside. The place is full of black-suited men and women, all waiting outside to be picked up by the small parade of cars. I also notice Antonio standing off to one side, with Vinnie next to him. Instead of being consoled by the funeral’s guests, he’s being patted on the back or kissed on the cheek as if he ought to be celebrating something. I find myself wanting to laugh at the scene. The same people who were so obviously distraught yesterday seem to have forgotten all their horrors from the day before. I guess the ability to move on is a necessity for them.
This whole time a voice in my head is screaming out for Antonio to look up at me.
Look at me. Notice me, anything, something that tells me that you haven’t forgotten about me.