Page 3 of Giovanni

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“Gio, not here, please,” Luciano reprimanded softly. “Mom wouldn’t want us fighting. Not today.”

Always the voice of reason, Luciano was too soft for our Family. The artist, the dreamer. Luciano had so much talent he could be anything if he would just put forth a little more effort. He lived in his dream world of colors and canvas’s. We all protected him as best we could. We gave him room to live his own life, and he never interfered with the family business. It was not his way. Luciano was more like our mother, while Salvatore and I were pulled right from our fathers’ loins. Carbon copies, right down to the dimpled chin and black hair. The only difference was my eyes were silver, while Sal’s were green.

“Turn around and pay respect to our father and Uncle, Sal. I won’t repeat myself.”

Salvatore did as he was told, begrudgingly, but he obeyed.

“I apologize, Luciano. You are right. Today is about our father and Uncle. There will be no fighting today. I give you my word, and so does Sal. Isn’t that right, Salvatore?”

“Yes. No fighting today.” Sal muttered.

The rest of the funeral went on without a blemish. When the priest finally finished, my brothers escorted our sister and mother towards the waiting car.

I stayed. I needed a few minutes to myself.

“Boss?”

“Give me a few minutes, Angelo. Tell the boys to take my Family back to the house. People will be arriving soon.”

“Want me to stay with you?”

“No. Go wait by the car. I won’t be long.”

“Sure, thing boss.”

Left standing by my father’s grave, I watched as cemetery workers approached. If this wasn’t a solemn occasion, I would have laughed at the fear on the men’s faces. They didn’t know what to do. So, they just stood off to the side, giving me the time I needed to say goodbye.

I didn’t know what to say to my father. Was there something prolific, something religious I should be saying to help ease my pain? The rain was still coming down in waves as I stood there looking at the deep hole in the ground my father would spend the rest of his afterlife in. It was morbid, I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Looking around, I saw nothing but headstones and one lone mourner not far from where I stood.

Surrounded by the dead, the cemetery was silent.

Only those who mourned paid respect to the dead.

Yet, I hadn’t cried.

I hadn’t broken down like my brothers. Luciano, ever civilized, mourned quietly and respectfully. Illyria talked with staff and other family members to ensure they had everything they needed. Antonio, eager to help, lend a hand, or listen, mourned properly. Salvatore got drunk and ran his car into a tree. He walked away without a scratch. Lorenzo found several prostitutes, partied, and got drunk again before my boys could get their hands on him.

I, on the other hand, had yet to mourn.

I stood firm, resolute, unwavering on my path.

I watched over everyone, making sure that in their grief, they survived to see another day.

Nodding to the cemetery caretakers, I stepped away from my fathers’ final resting place and headed towards my waiting car and Angelo. I heard a soft voice as I passed the other mourner, not far from my father.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Turning to face the mourner, I was about to reply with my standard thank you when I stopped dead in my tracks. Before me, drenched to the core, was a young woman in her mid-twenties. Even in the heavy downpour, I could see the tears falling from her sky-blue eyes. So big and sorrowful, they tugged at something deep within me. Her porcelain face was void of make-up, her lips a soft pink and full. Her hair soaked, was golden blonde, hung well past her back, almost to her hips. She was small, delicate, fragile-looking. Dressed in black herself, she said nothing else as she stared at the headstone before her. In her hands was a small chain and one lone white rose.

“Are you okay?” I asked, unable to take my eyes from her.

“Why does it have to hurt so much?”

“What?”

“Death. I don’t understand. He was everything to me. And now he’s gone. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”


Tags: Rebecca Joyce Crime