My father’s shrill tone rings through the house, shattering the idealism I have. It was short-lived – mine and Manuel’s moment – but I cannot wait to see what shit storm has hit my father now. I can hear him getting closer, hear his stomping steps, and feel the heat that radiates with his evident anger.
“Shall I get the wine?” I whisper to Manuel teasingly. He nods, trying to stop the laughter that’s overcoming him. “Or will we need to hit the scotch?”
“This entire life is a shambles!” my father’s bellowing tone continues to get closer than ever. He barges into the kitchen and looks at Manuel and me with such a venomous gaze, I feel a need to protect my brother from whatever is about to billow from my father’s mouth.
“What’s happened now?”
“Another mess up!” he shouts, the veins on his neck convulse with his aggression. “Do you know, since letting Zane be your hit, this entire life has turned on his head and gone to hell. Now, now I don’t even know what the hell is going on here. I want a job to go right.”
I resist muttering that the past handful of jobs has gone perfect, but I know that’ll rattle his cage.
“I’ll ask again,” I start, waiting to reiterate myself. “What’s happened now?”
My answer isn’t a verbal one. No, it’s answered as I watch movement and see three figures walk into the room. They all three stagger in, each dirtied with dust and blood. Each of them sporting their own wounds, each looking despondent as hell as to what just happened. I stand up, immediately find myself rushing to Zane’s side.
“I’m okay,” he tells me, pretending he’s not feeling some sort of backlash of the evening.
“Yeah, all right,” I quip sarcastically but take note of his hesitance to allow me to help him. “I’ll go and grab the first aid kit,” I mutter, my hands falling away from him and I rush from the room.
As I make my way to the downstairs bathroom, I find my hands beginning to shake as my heart thuds heavily over and over again. They’re hurt. All three of them hurt somehow because of the job given to them. My head races over the thoughts, striving to see sense and I take note of the one pit of dread that’s screaming out louder than most – will Zane now see sense?
On autopilot, I dig through the cabinet above the sink in the bathroom, taking everything I need – the first aid kit, antiseptic wash, gauze, anything I think we’ll need. Once they’re bundled into my arms, I race back to the room, my head swirling a million miles a minute.
“This is all driving me insane,” my father bellows, his yells tight with agitation. “Everything is fucking up and I’m getting sick and tired with all of this. You’re my blood and things are just looking embarrassing for me.”
“Knew there was a reason Costello didn’t want me on this,” Giovanni gloats, laughing at the state of them all.
“Shut the fuck up,” Enzo grunts, shifting slightly, an arm wrapped around his obviously tender ribs. “Costello lost a lot of good men in that explosion.”
Explosion – the word resonates, echoing around the room until it burrows into my mind. They were caught in an explosion?! Zane notices that I’m frozen in the doorway, unmoved, staring like a deer caught in the headlights. He goes to move, obviously to comfort me, but I move quicker and set all the things down.
“I want you out of my face,” Enzo states to our father. “You make it sound like we’re the fuck-ups in this, when really this life is falling down around you and you just won’t accept it. The life you grew up in, Papà, no longer exists. There’s no hierarchy in what we live in. It’s just one fucking war. The Dio Lavoro has been losing value and this just goes to show that men like you and Costello aren’t invincible and untouchable.”
“Thought we could do with these,” Carlo announces as he comes back into the room with a golden box. I know what’s in them – cigars. When the chips are down, you smoke – or drink. Whichever the fuck takes your fancy, I guess, and while Zane and Enzo accept a cigar, I wonder where the closest bottle of tequila is.
My father leaves the room – angered, bitter, and downright seething by the sudden attack Enzo has unleashed – and Giovanni trails behind him. I have no idea what was fully said, but from what I heard from my father before the boys came home, I can assume he blames us and no one else.
I look to see as he now sits before me, cigar hanging from between his kissable lips. There’s a cut on his brow, the blood running like a ribbon down the side of his face until it starts to hit his shirt and spread across the crisp whiteness. Immediately, I tend to that wound first. The moment I touch the cut, his bright blue eyes look up at me, and the look is so powerful, my eyes water. My hands pull away, and unbidden emotions that I don’t want to face overcome me.
"This is just the beginning," I whisper, dousing a piece of cotton in water.