Page 105 of The Deal

I now regret keeping my distance for so long. He may not have led the kind of life I wanted or agreed with, but that man loved me, that I am sure of.

The priest is waiting for us by the door when we enter. “Alessandro,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Father,” I reply. “This is my partner, Chloe, and my son, Giovanni.”

“It’s nice to meet you both. I’m sorry for your loss.”

His condolences only seem to exacerbate my guilt. Only three of the six people attending today knew Papa intimately. I know I’m not giving my father the send-off he would’ve liked, but my family’s safety is my priority. I have to put them first.

“My brother, Dante, should be arriving any minute,” I say, cutting off further conversation.

“Okay. Take a seat,” the priest says, gesturing to the pews ahead. “We will get started once he’s here.”

“Thank you.”

I’ve already informed him it’s going to be a small, intimate service.

Given the kind of life my father lived, I didn’t disclose any more than that. I didn’t see any need to elaborate further or risk the priest denying him a church service. Lord knows that man needs all the hope and prayers he can get if he has any chance of making it to the pearly gates, but I fear his redemption is out of our grasp.

As I pass, I dip my finger into the holy water, make the sign of the cross, and bow slightly in front of the altar. Although I no longer live the Catholic lifestyle I was raised in, I still carry my faith.

My mother made Dante and I attend church every Sunday as boys. We both stopped going after she passed, but I have fond memories of those happier times when I was blissfully unaware of the darkness that shrouded my father or of the man he truly was.

My eyes move to the coffin that sits to the left of the altar, and that sickly feeling in my gut intensifies. I can’tseem to bring myself to imagine Papa lying peacefully inside in the black three-piece suit I picked out for him to be buried in.

I pause at the foot of the heavy, dark mahogany box containing his bullet-riddled remains. Its surface is polished to a deep, almost sinister sheen. The brass handles gleam, and intricate, gilded patterns line the edges, sharp and deliberate, much like the man it holds. The lid is adorned with a simple yet elegant gold cross, symbolising holiness, which almost seems laughable considering the life he led.

Although I’ll be heading back to Griffith in the morning—alone—for the private burial, it was imperative to have his coffin transported here for the service today. Dante needs to say a proper goodbye to our father since he’s not well enough to travel with me tomorrow.

My brother has yet to show any external signs of being affected by the incident, but I’m afraid, like me, it will hit him when he least expects it.

Images of that day flash through my mind as I stand there. My father’s body slumped over at the head of the table where he sat, enjoying his traditional Christmas lunch, eating and drinking with my brother and his men moments before the bloodbath ensued.

Christ, the blood.

The sight and smell still haunt me. It stained the marble pavers with dark, sticky rivers, like the roots of a tree branching out. The once pristine white tablecloth was soiled with splatters and pools of red—it was everywhere—as the numerous victims bled out from their wounds. Even the once crystal-clear pool was a sickening crimson colour.

My breath comes in shallow bursts as my chest tightens, just like it did that day when realisation set in … he was gone, wiped off the face of the earth. I’d never get to see him again or tell him despite all of our ups and downs, I did, in fact, love him.

My brother had been transported to the hospital before I arrived at my father’s estate, and when I asked the officers present about his condition, my voice came out raw, desperate, clinging to some hope that I hadn’t lost him as well. But they showed no humanity. The only response I got was a shrug.

A fucking shrug.

I even heard one of the motherfuckers in the background chuckle.

It was a strange moment, one where a surge of anger suddenly overtook my grief. I wanted to scream, to throw them off his property … off what now felt like sacred ground, but I knew I couldn’t.

They never saw the father who raised me, the man who was everything to our family. The person I once idolised as a boy and hoped to emulate when I was older. They didn’t see the good he often did. They only saw the criminal, the man who lived on the wrong side of the law.

To them, he was just another body, just another case. A statistic. Afucking inconvenience.

I stood back and observed as they went through the motions, snapping photos like they were at a car wreck, documenting things as if taking inventory in a warehouse. There was no urgency, no feeling, just the hum of routine, utterly detached from what was now my reality.

It was hard to watch them desecrate his memory with every click of their cameras, every impersonal step they took through the place that had once been his kingdom.

The hardest part to grasp was that they left him there—right where he took his last breath—baking in the relentless, unforgiving Australian summer sun for hours.

It was all so undignified for a man who once held so muchpower. I found itcoldand sterile; it felt like a slap to the face. My father was like a god in his world, someone who deserved respect, but to those men, he was the scum of the earth. Another meaningless life erased.

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