Page 3 of Her Dark Salvation

A soft light illuminated the short set of stairs that led up to the front door of my family home. My sister stood at the top of the steps and hugged her shawl close around her shoulders. She folded her arms when she saw us and glared.

“Marco. Antonio. Era ora. You’re late.”

I stood on the bottom step, and with my height, met her eye to eye. “Gina, la mia cara sorella.” I kissed her on either side of her stern mouth. “We were busy with work.” I opened my eyes wide with innocence and penance.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile, but then I delivered my killing blow. I winked. She huffed out a laugh and punched me in the shoulder. “Fine. You deal with Mamma. You know how she gets if her sauce gets cold.” She opened the door and waved us up the stairs.

Warmth, light, and the smell of Mamma’s cooking mingled with the crisp winter wind.

Tony groaned and pushed past me. “Braciole! Ottimo!” He stopped when he reached Gina and greeted her with kisses before he removed his hat and stepped inside.

“Antonio!” Mamma called from the kitchen. “Finalmente! It’s getting cold!”

I chuckled.

My sister arched an eyebrow. “You better get in there.”

“Go. Tell Mamma to start. I need a minute.”

She narrowed her eyes.

I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m fine. Just need to clear my head.”

She hesitated, but patted my hand and went inside, shutting the door behind her.

I leaned against the inside of the stairwell and faced the cold Boston night. I pulled out half a Cuban cigar I’d cut earlier in the day and considered how something so simple could change so much.

The flick of the match crackled through the quiet, and I puffed, each drag longer than the last until the cigar was lit. I pulled the thick, fragrant smoke into my mouth and held it there, letting the flavors swirl on my tongue and sting the back of my throat. The conflict of sensation calmed my nerves, and ease spread across my shoulders.

Twenty-three years. I’d worked for the Valenzano crime family for twenty-three years.

The red end of the stolen cigar burned hot and intense. Like my life. So easily snuffed out.

We’d lifted the illegal Cubans from a truck bound for New York three years ago, one of the last shipments that made it into the States before Kennedy’s embargo. I’d kept an eye on the specialty importer, knew when cargo was set to leave the docks. The Valenzanos were connected with the New England Teamsters. The drivers handed me tips, and I gave them a cut. They were smart enough to know a planned hijack was better for their health.

Me and Tony made a shitload off that haul. So did Big Frankie. It was the job that tipped the scales. Six months later, we were made men.

Smoke swirled through the night, and guilt churned in my stomach. The Valenzanos had saved me and Tony, and the weight of that debt wasn’t something I could easily shake. We were family, brothers, bonded by the demon blood that ran through our veins and the oaths we’d taken to Cosa Nostra, and I was about to sever one of those bonds.

I stepped into the street and looked back at the row house I’d bought for my family as soon as I’d earned enough to get us out of the rat-infested shithole we used to call home. Through the gap between the curtains, Gina threw her head back in laughter. Tony stepped into view, and she grabbed his arm, covering her heart as she laughed. Tony continued his story, his face relaxed and amused.

I turned back to the street—cold, dirty, unforgiving—a stark contrast to our bright and inviting home.

I’d done what I’d needed to do to protect my family, to make sure we didn’t go hungry. So had Mamma.

A memory flashed, a scene from a movie I’d tried to forget. I pushed it away, disgusted. I didn’t want to think about what Mamma had sacrificed to put food on our table. The blood that stained my hands was for her. To make sure she never had to sell her blood again. To make sure Gina was never faced with that decision.

But I couldn’t protect them if I starved to death in a federal penitentiary doing hard time for narcotics. It didn’t matter how much I owed Big Frankie. The DeVitas came first.

A sharp blast of wind struck my face. I chewed the bitter end of my cigar and popped my collar against its brutality.

The front door opened and shut with a click, and my sister stepped up next to me, her sweet perfume cutting through the earthy smoke. “She’s grumbling about ungrateful sons who no longer appreciate their mamma’s cooking.”

I chuckled and tossed the butt of my cigar onto the pavement, snuffing out the final smoldering ember with the toe of my shoe. Gina shivered beneath her shawl and rubbed her arms. I placed a hand on her shoulder and led us inside.

The light and warmth of home wrapped its comforting arms around me, and I paused to take in the familiar scene. Gina walked into the kitchen and sat next to Tony. They picked up their animated conversation, loud and fast Italian interrupted with bouts of my sister’s infectious laughter. The scrape of cutlery on china and the trickle of wine into crystal. Mamma served up thick slices of steaming braciole, and Papà poured wine while getting a lecture, “Not too much!” Garlic, tomato, and parmesan beckoned.

We’d come a long way since my childhood. No more haggard faces huddled over thin soup and stale bread in a one-room, basement apartment.

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