“What’s up?” he asks, a small, cheeky grin on his lips. He clearly knows what’s to come.
“I love you, Zane Maverick,” I whisper, drawing him in closer. "Just don't ever break my heart again. It's too painful and I'm scared I'll never recover."
“I did it two too many times. Now I refuse to do anything but love you,” he murmurs, his voice solemn and honest. “This is where our happy ever after starts.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I always imagine these sorts of days to be greeted with rain drops so heavy they weigh down every difficult step. The skies should be so overcast they match how consuming your grief is. Days like today should be swathed in every negative weather forecast to mirror the doom and gloom a funeral procession moves with.
Except today, it’s bright and sunny, the heat sizzling across the asphalt while the grass preens with bright greens and beautiful blooming flowers bask in the sunlight.
Today is a walking contradiction, approached by hypocrites and fakes who will offer crocodile tears and make themselves believe that, for one second, they knew who Manuel Abbiati was and who he was bound to be. They’ll sit in the pews among us, watching with careful gazes and momentary sniffs as they watch my family pull together through a hard, unforgettable service. They’ll watch my father – the man who lost a son – and wonder why he no longer gets comfort from his remaining children and why one is missing. They’ll wonder what happened, gossip, assume, and create make-believe stories that will, in no way, encompass what really happened that fateful day. They’ll follow us, as they always have done, but they will never know the evil that is deeply rooted in the Dio Lavoro.
I steal a quick glimpse up at the church, and that same feeling of foreboding that this building delivers has barely changed, but now I don’t feel quite like a fraud taking a step inside. I sought confession, offered my soul naked and vulnerable to the only man who could help offer me repentance.
“C’mon,” my father coos under his breath, a hand coming to the lower part of my back, guiding me forward. “Let’s get this over with.”
As much as we want to say goodbye to Manuel, none of us want this prolonged agony that goes with it. I cannot wait to make it back home to the confines of my room and hide away from the world. We’ve trudged through the passing days with little enthusiasm. As we recovered physically, our emotional scars and burdens seemingly flared to life. Words became futile, unity became prevalent, and my father became very much the outcast.
I straighten my posture and look ahead into the illuminated church, the stained glass raining down beautiful rays of light, fooling everyone that today is not about Manuel getting his final farewell.
I shake my father off as I follow in suit my brothers as they help bear the coffin on their shoulders, aided by Zane and two of our more loyal family members. Enzo and Bruno were adamant that our father would have no input, and while we have to offer some sort of bond, I won’t allow anyone to be fooled that we are a complete family anymore.
I beg my feet to walk graciously, and I find I just follow the footsteps laid before me by Enzo. My eyes are fixated on nothing but the wooden box they carry, each step was taken with poise, but I can tell my brothers are far from serene. None of us are stupid enough to, for one moment, forget about our cause on this day. I’m just filled with immense pride that my brothers honor our fallen as they do. This is Manuel’s final walk, his last journey with us, and we are all very much by his side for it.
As it should be.
They say dying can be the hardest part of life, but I’d beg to differ. Living is the hardest because with every wayward beat of your heart, pain continues to travel around your system, haunting ever cell of your being. Dying is the easiest part of life because finally you can take that one breath and finally find peace. You can say goodbye to the fight and finally slip into a painless oblivion ready for your next life to begin its metamorphosis.