Page 103 of The Devil's Den

“No,” Dom throws in. “He died.”

“Oh no.” Her brows huddle. “I’m so sorry.” A breath whooshes out. “Your parents were the best of us. I hope you know how much they meant to me, and that I miss your mother’s friendship dearly.”

“I’m sure she’d say the same.” Dante speaks this time. “How’s Connor?”

Her smile is soft, her fingers brushing away the hair sitting against her cheek. “He’s great. An accountant now. Married. Three kids.” She laughs, fondness etched in her gaze.

“Good for him,” Dante adds. “Tell him we said hello.”

“I will,” she murmurs, silence falling for long seconds.

“You had something for us?” I jump in, wondering what in the world she’d ever have that we’d want.

“Oh, yes.” Her words come quick. “Give me a minute to get it.” She runs up the stairs, and Enzo shifts toward us. “You think she knows who lives in our house?”

“We’ll ask her,” Dom says as she rushes back down the stairs, carrying a shoebox.

“When the police were done investigating, they let me take some stuff from your home. I—I thought maybe by some miracle you guys would return and I could give this to you.” Her voice breaks as tears slowly journey down her cheeks. “And here you are”—she wipes under her eyes with the back of her hand—“in my house again.”

“What’s in the box, Mrs. Cuzamano?” Dante stands, growing closer, a hand on her arm.

“Pictures.” She smiles.

Dante’s hand drops away, his chest expanding with a sharp inhale.

“I saved every photo your mother kept in that house,” she explains. “Baby pictures. Family photos. Everything is here.” She sniffles, lifting the box in her grip. “I knew exactly where she put them.” Her laugh is filled with a sweet sadness. “After all, she loved showing me your baby photos when I’d stop by for coffee. She was so proud of her boys.” Her hands extend and Dante takes the box from her.

“Fuck.” Dom rises while I’m unable to move, something tightening and burning in the back of my throat. “Open it.”

Dante gradually removes the top, then they’re sitting back down between Enzo and me. Their hands dig into the box, finding photo after photo of the family we had once been.

“Mom…” Enzo chokes out, and slowly my hand finds a photo too, staring at one with all of us at a carnival in town. I was maybe a few years old, planted on Mom’s hip, my dad’s arm around her, my three brothers in front, holding ice cream cones. My face is smeared with chocolate, and the smile on it is pure happiness. My vision blurs, and shit…this is hard.

Quiet blankets the room, each of us gripped with more emotions than we can probably handle in her presence.

“Thank you.” Dom’s words are laced with sadness as he peers up at her.

“Nothing to thank me for.” She moves to sit on a love seat. “I’m glad I managed to save that part of your family for you. It was my hope I’d get to share them with you one day.”

We continue shuffling through picture after picture, and I can’t seem to stop. My heart, it fucking hurts, because I’d do anything to have them back. Just one last hug. A kiss. Anything. Even to hear their voices. But there’s only silence that beats where their hearts once did.

“You think the people next door would let us look around?” Dom asks, putting the photos in his hand back inside.

“Oh yes. She’s very nice. I’ll come with you if you want.”

“That’d be great.” He nods.

My fingers don’t want to let the photo go, as I stare at it again, wishing I could remember that day. Remember us this way. But I can’t. The darkness has stolen any bit of light I once knew.

* * *

“This is damn weird,” Enzo whispers as we wander into what was our dining room.

“Tell me about it.” Dante scoffs. “It’s like we’re haunting a place we once knew.”

I trek beside Dom, behind our two brothers, my eyes wandering to every inch of this place. Enzo is right. Being here is strange and kinda sad. It’s different now. Our house. And not just the furniture or paint colors. The walls aren’t filled with photos of us. They’re bare, like we’ve been washed off. My mother’s pink, fuzzy slippers aren’t lying by the kitchen rug before the sink. That cotton candy machine she used to use isn’t on the counter either. It was my favorite thing, blue and pink cotton candy sticking to my fingers. But it’s like a ghost town here, nothing that would remind me of us.

We make it to the dining room, Mrs. Cuzamano and Betsy, the owner, talking quietly in the hallway. She was more than willing to let us wander around her home, even while knowing nothing about us. Her husband and daughter once lived with her, but then her husband died, and her daughter got re-married. She’s all alone in this house.

---