Page 5 of Luca

During the weeks before my father passed, he wanted to talk about Boston. It was the first time in two years he tried to bring it up. I didn’t want to know anything about his life there or the life I could have had with my biological parents, but I also didn’t have the heart to deny a dying man. It was a fucked-up situation all around. Sure, there was a part of me that was curious, but again, when I came back to the house two years ago, I put it all in a box and was perfectly content not opening it.

But I let him speak.

He told me how my father was always quick with a joke and people loved being around him. He had a way that made people feel at ease, which was crucial in his position. The men respected him, especially Francesco, which is why my dad was shocked when he gave the order for his murder. He said the times he saw my mother from a distance, she was smiling at my father, always excited to see him. He told me the love they shared was obvious to any outside observer, which is what he was since he spent so much time spying on them.

He debated whether or not to tell Francesco there was a baby, worried that his worst fear would come true—which it did. Francesco Cataldi didn’t care that there was an innocent baby involved. He wanted Elio, along with his young family, to pay with their lives for what he perceived as the ultimate betrayal. And because my father was as loyal as they came, he agreed to do the job, not that he really had a choice. He told me you simply couldn’t say no to the boss. Though when he fled with me, that was the ultimate fuck you to Francesco.

He also told me that not a day went by where he didn’t regret not running before he went to my parents’ house. He wished, down to the very marrow of his being, that he would’ve had the guts to walk away and leave Elio and my mother alive and happy with their baby. That he should have told Elio about Francesco’s plans. His biggest regret was the reason he made damn sure I felt loved and safe from that night forward. He couldn’t take back his cowardice, but he could spend his life trying to be the caring father he took away from me.

And when I look at it subjectively, if Frank hadn’t killed my parents, someone else would have. Once Francesco got something in his head, there was no changing it, according to Frank. And if that would’ve been the case, that person wouldn’t have spared my life.

I don’t know if my father, Elio, not Frank, wanted to leave with my mother and me and get away from the criminal life. Neither did my dad—Frank, not Elio. It was confusing when I thought about the two men. Elio was my father, who I have no recollection of, and Frank was my dad who raised me but wasn’t blood. And the kicker? Turns out Frank wasn’t his real name and Luca wasn’t mine either. Frank’s real name was Constantine Barelli and mine was Elio Luciano Romano Jr.—hence Luca when Frank changed our names. He wanted me to have some piece of my past, even if it was just a name, and I never knew where it had originated from. I’m not sure if Frank would’ve told me about our shared past had he not been dying, and I didn’t want to ask, too scared of the answer. Still, his reasoning wouldn’t have mattered because I know now.

Frank went on to fill me in on what he knew of the Monaghans. They were the Irish mob in Boston. Started as bootleggers and made a name for themselves in the protection racket after prohibition ended, then started illegal gambling rings throughout Boston. They had legitimate businesses they ran their dirty money through, namely four bars in downtown Boston, at least when Frank left Boston twenty years prior. He wasn’t sure what state the organization was in, too afraid to reach out to any of his old contacts and risk having Francesco find us. When he took me away from Boston, he told me Maeve and Cormac Monaghan had one son, Finnegan. That was all he knew about the Monaghans, not that I wanted the information. I was perfectly happy living in sweet denial.

My dad wrote the numbers to the four bars on a piece of paper that has stayed in my pocket since he handed it to me two weeks ago. He said if I wanted to get to know that side of the family to reach out, but be careful. He didn’t want me going after Francesco in any way, shape, or form. And he worried that Cormac Monaghan would try to lure me in with the promises of family loyalty and all that bullshit. It was a life Frank had led, and he didn’t want me to have any part in it, especially considering what would happen if Francesco found out who I was. Frank wasn’t worried about himself, knowing he was going to be long gone before Francesco could do anything, but he was worried for me, worried that Francesco would consider me unfinished business.

Though Frank never wanted that life for me, I want revenge. The feeling started not long after I came back after my dad unloaded his past on me. Even though I did a damn good job at keeping the maelstrom of emotion regarding my true parentage at bay, there were nights I would lie awake and think of the ways I could make the Mafia boss pay for depriving me of the life I could’ve had with two loving parents. But then the guilt would come when I thought about my dad’s disappointed face. He wanted me as far from that life as he could get me and never wanted it to taint me. So, like all the other thoughts that swirled in my brain when I thought about Boston, I’d shove those feelings in a box in my mind and shut it tightly.

Now, though? They’re front and center as I sit on this couch, feeling like I’m ready to jump out of my skin and having no dying father to distract me from it all. Frank is dead. My dad is gone, and it wouldn’t matter to anyone if I decided to act out my plans for revenge that have been simmering since I was eighteen.

I stare at the beige wall across from me. My eyes find their way to the picture of me and my dad at my junior high graduation. It’s surrounded by other pictures of various birthday parties and fishing trips. I let out a long breath, my anxiety not waning one damn bit. Scrubbing my hands over my tired face, I get up from the couch and walk into the bright-yellow kitchen that my dad said was a cheery paint color when I told him it looked more like the color of a banana. Moving on autopilot, I open the refrigerator and peer inside, looking for something to eat even though I’m not hungry. There are casseroles from neighbors that sit covered, but I can’t bring myself to take them out. “Death casseroles” is what I call them. I thought it was fucking hilarious, but Mrs. Barker, an old woman who lives down the street, didn’t.

I open the cabinets, looking for what I don’t know, but finding the liquor bottle on the top shelf of the second cabinet gives me pause. That damn bottle of whiskey my dad was drinking the day he threw my life into upheaval. He stayed away from alcohol after that night, not wanting to put unnecessary strain on his body after learning he was in the end stages of congestive heart failure.

Taking the bottle from the shelf, I hold it in my hands. Part of me wants to smash it against the counter for no other reason other than I feel like destroying something that represents the worst day of my life. Another part of me wants to drink the rest until I’m so fucking numb that this day, the second worst day of my life, is a distant memory.

Fuck it. Option two it is.

Screwing off the cap, I toss it on the counter and take a gulp of the fiery liquid.

“Jesus Christ,’’ I cough out, nearly hurling the second I swallow the whiskey. My eyes water as I continue to cough, but the whiskey stays in my stomach. I was never much of a drinker aside from having the occasional beer at high school parties. Being a football player meant taking care of my body. There were a couple times I had hard alcohol, but only when it was mixed with something, never straight from a warm bottle.

“Fucking gross,” I say to no one as I stare at the amber liquid.

Instead of putting the bottle back in the cupboard, I grab a soda and ice from the fridge and pour a healthy amount of whiskey into a glass, topping it off with soda. Taking a sip, I nod to myself. Not bad considering I’m far from an expert bartender.

I return to the couch and grab the box that was in my father’s closet. I haven’t opened this since the day he showed me its contents.

Pulling out picture after picture is surreal. There are photos of his parents in there and a few more of him as an adult with various people who I don’t know. No names are written on the back, which seems reasonable. No photographic evidence or any shit like that. The only people I recognize are Frank, Elio, and Francesco.

My dad told me he took several photos off the wall before he left my parents’ house that night. He wasn’t sure why he did it at the time; he just knew he needed to. When he went back to his apartment and grabbed the cash from his safe and some clothes before meeting Rosa Cataldi at the church, he dumped them all in a box.

One thing about my dad was he always snapped photos of me growing up. He was hardly in any of them. I don’t know; maybe he was afraid of someone finding them and recognizing him or something, but I have a ton of pictures of me growing up. Grabbing the one from when I was a junior in high school from the wall, I compare it to the picture of me with Elio and my mother holding me as a baby. I have my father’s darker skin tone—kind of like a perpetual tan. Frank had the same one, but the eyes? All my mother. Dark blue with thick black lashes surrounding them. My hair is darker than hers, more like my father’s. I have the same cheekbones as my mother but my father’s jawline and nose. My smile is all my mother’s, too. That’s weird to see. Frank always told me I took after my mother, which is true, so I never questioned why I looked different from him. There were qualities Frank and I shared, sure, but when I see a picture of my biological father, it’s as though I’m seeing the other half of myself.

I take a long sip from my drink and get up to make another one, this time more alcohol and less soda.

When I sit back down, I can’t stop staring at the picture of me compared to my parents.

Fucking unreal.

My phone buzzes with a text from one of my friends I stayed in contact with from high school. I don’t answer, though. I simply don’t feel like talking to anyone.

After Frank’s diagnosis and the last year being pretty bad health-wise for him, I lost touch with a lot of people from high school. I don’t hold it against them in the least, though. This isn’t the type of town most kids stay in after graduation. Sure, some kids from my high school still live around here, opting to work and start their lives as adults, but most of my friends went to four-year universities right after graduation. That was always my plan, too, but I refused to leave my dad. I knew his road was going to be hard, and he was a proud man who would’ve had a hard time asking for help, even if he needed it. Of course, he argued, but I promised when the time was right, I’d finish my degree at a university. The right time being when he was dead, though neither of us said that. We both knew there was no way I was going to leave him to fend for himself. At least not after I came back after the three weeks I spent couch surfing.

The burn of the whiskey as I guzzle my last drink matches the burn in my chest. Who the hell does this Cataldi fuck think he is? He took my parents, and then, by some ugly twist of fate, the man who raised me is gone now, too. I have no ties. They were all stolen from me.

The phone number in my pocket feels like it’s burning a hole in my damn soul. I don’t know shit about Mafia politics. Hell, for all I know, the Cataldis and Monaghans get along just fine these days.

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