Page 3 of A Beautiful Crime

Another sharp inhale. It might as well be a knife digging in my flesh. “The Fiore’s never beg like dogs. I did not raise you to behave like one.”

“Yet you want me to be obedient like one.” It must be the fear. The terror that has taken root and bloomed inside me to make me defiant.

You see, I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop my thoughts from escaping my lips.

I have always complied with my papa because I feared his wrath.

Perhaps since I’m lost in my own fear my defiance is breaking through the surface. Cracking the docile woman he groomed me to be.

“I expect you to behave like a Fiore,” he corrects me. Papa loathes correcting others. He calls them dense. And if my papa considers you dense then you’re worthless to him and his Famiglia. “And a Fiore does not beg nor do they defend a traitor.”

“A traitor,” I echo, my voice rising with my uncontrolled anger. Another mistake. I’m consistently and effortlessly making mistake after mistake. “He’s my younger brother! Your son!”

“And a son he is no more.” His voice has taken on a hardened edge. Collected yet rough. Papa never allows his emotions to control him. He’s the master of dissociating himself from his humanity. I wonder if there is any humanity left to him at all. “The minute he betrayed the Fiore Famiglia he stopped being my son. He stopped being your mamma’s son. He stopped being your fratello. Elio Fiore is no more.”

My papa is emotionless. The execution of his youngest son by his eldest daughter is simply a business transaction. A means to an end. Something that must be done.

Whatever happened to redemption?

The same redemption we hear of every Sunday at Mass.

Whatever happened to forgiveness?

The same forgiveness I see those atone their sins for in confessional.

What is the meaning of any of it?

Of redemption?

Of forgiveness?

What is the meaning of God if he’s making me act like I have the right of who lives or who dies?

Why do I sit at our Catholic Church every Sunday and listen to our Priest give his sermon and then literally say to hell with it?

I open my eyes, the tears stained with mascara on my cheeks.

I look at my younger brother.

Full curly onyx hair with a natural cellophane of sapphire. Dark brown eyes that blend eerily with his pupils. Olive skin that is blemish free but has scars from serving for The Fiore Famiglia. A mouth that is gagged with a dark cloth and duct tape to keep it secure. A frame that is too broad and muscled for the cold unforgiving metal chair my papa has him expertly bound to.

I may not have agreed with what my younger brother has become. A man who is bloodthirsty and selfish. But he wouldn’t have become that man at all if my papa hadn’t groomed him.

He told him countless times how the world is his for the taking. How there isn’t anything he can’t have. All of the power could be his.

Papa made my brother greedy.

And with that greed came selfishness and an even bigger ego to match. And the three of them combined formed a deadly combination for my fratellino.

“There must be another way. There has to be another way,” I whisper to myself sadly but unfortunately my papa hears me.

“This is the only way,” his voice is harsh. I hear the crinkle of plastic growing louder as he nears me. My heart drops out of my chest and plummets to the very pit of my stomach.

He lays a gentle yet firm hand on my shoulder.

His fingers burn through the cloth of my blouse branding my flesh.

I feel his warm breath grazing the top of my head. I try to listen for his heartbeat but I’m met with silence.

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