Page 40 of To Hell

“At least I know him, don’t I?”

I exhale, trying to tamp the rage now simmering in my loins. Not at him, but at the mention of a past I would do anything to fucking keep behind me.

“Who is Virgilio?” I ask him the question because, in truth, who is that stupid boy who ruined things for everyone around him?

“Don’t turn this around,”

Cesare shakes his head, “You know something. I know when you are lying, and I know most days you have lied to me to make me feel better, and I accepted those lies, but today, I won’t let you lie to…”

“Fucking drop it, Cesare,” I roar.

“I need to know the truth, Ettore,” Cesare insists, his voice firm. “What happened before I lost my memory? Who is Virgilio, and why do I feel such a strong connection to him? Just tell me,” he shouts, coming to glare in my face, and the first impulsive thing I do is lift my hand.

My hand hangs midair, my heart hurtling to my stomach, and my pulse drumming in my ears.

I’m not like him. I’m not like my father.

My lashes flutter at the realization that I am about to hit Cesare. And the sullen look in his eyes cramps my heart.

I gently drop my hand on his face. “I’m not like our father,” I exhale, then cup his face with both hands, resting my forehead on his.

“Our father would never do that,” he shakes his head, scoffing at me like I have lost my mind. I nod, letting go of his face and stumbling back to sit on the edge of my desk.

“You are right,” I nod again. “The father you know to be our father would never do that.”

“What are you saying?” He comes closer, his eyes dwindling with confusion and concern, “Do not fucking lie to me or try to take this one back, Ettore.”

There is no better time to let the truth out than now. There is no better time to ease the heaviness of the shackles I have been carrying all alone.

He should know. And perhaps, I should make peace with the past so I can move on to my future.

“You are not Virgilio, brother,” I gulp, my stomach flipping and my blood simmering in my narrowing veins, “I am.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

VIRGILIO

Whoever believes that truth brings freedom is fucking delusional.

Now that I have let the truth out, I cannot fucking find any.

I feel agitated. I’m composed, no doubt, but I feel like I need new skin because the one I have covering me is itchy. I can’t feel my pulse.

You are Dante, Dante Messina, and we are both the legitimate heirs to the Messina Cosa Nostra Clan.

The flint in his eyes came first, followed by the ferocious vibration of his head as if he could not process all the information at once and then the gripping of his hair.

I fucking should have held my tongue. I should have found a fucking soft landing or allowed him to come around to the truth gradually, as the doctors had suggested it would perhaps happen, even though it was nearly impossible because of the severity of his brain damage. But Dante’s nightmares proved the doctors wrong.

I stare in frustration at the ceiling of my office, my index fingers constantly tapping on each other.

I grit, needing something to exert the force inside of me. Any fucking thing at all would do at this fucking point. I stand and start to pace in the darkness, hitting my toes against the foot of my desk but using the pain as a welcomed distraction.

I was living through a haze at some point in my life, constantly wanting to stay high and continuously running away from the nightmares and the voices. Getting high was a way of slowing me down. It closes me in and shuts everything else out.

I could think. I could bear the weight of what I had to fucking do for myself and my family. But I was a ghost. I was too fucking numb, and I knew I needed to stop. I was fading, I couldn’t eat, and even now, it’s still a problem.

But at least I get to unleash my frustration on the punching bag. I get to burn myself out until I can’t feel my bones.

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