Page 3 of Rotten Men

“Why should he fake anything anymore? Everyone knows what he is, so why hide the truth for appearance’s sake? No one would believe him anyway,” Gio snarks, cool and collected beside me.

Although his remark is filled with malice, Gio has learned to keep the fire inside him tempered until the right circumstances call for his rage. And Silvio—unapologetically showing he is done playing the attentive husband—is not worth the effort.

Dominic shifts on his feet, and from my peripheral vision, I see him scope the landscape.

“Anything wrong?” I question, alert, wondering if Dom has encountered an enemy close by, looking to take advantage of such a vulnerable moment to take us out.

In the past year, tension has grown high between the syndicate and the Cosa Nostra in New York. Apparently, they have taken issue with how fortunate our businesses have grown and wanted an alliance between bothfamigliasto get a piece of the action—an alliance I have no interest in. Still, the word ‘no’ isn’t something my competitors on the East Coast are used to hearing, and I wouldn’t put it past them to strike at us on holy ground. Cemeteries were built to welcome the dead, after all. If I’m not above such an attack, why should they be?

“No. Everything is fine,” he mumbles under his breath. His straying eyes beg to differ.

“If everything is alright, then why are you scoping things out like we are about to get gunned down?” Gio asks, picking up on our friend’s sketchy behavior.

“I just… Well, I was just looking around because… I mean…” Dominic starts, oddly apprehensive, running his hand behind his neck.

“Spit it out, Dominic. You’re giving me a migraine,” I order, annoyed.

“Well, I thought maybe she’d come today,” he replies, and my back stiffens at what—or better yet, at whom—he’s referring to.

Gio looks onto the grave and mums his lips, leaving me to explain the obvious to my hopeful and naive friend.

“She’s dead, Dom. Don’t waste your time looking for ghosts,” I advise, offended that I have to spell it out for him.

This fucking day is hard enough in my attempts to putherto the back of my mind. I don’t need Dom and his hopes to add to my burdens.

“You don’t know that,” he answers bitterly.

“Dom—” Gio warns, but my behemoth friend won’t hear reason.

“No, Giovanni. He’s wrong,” Dom insists, and I grind my teeth at his blatant defiance and stubbornness.

“No, he’s not. She didn’t come to be by her mother’s bedside for the past three months while she was battling for her life. It won’t be today when Anna Maria’s fight is finally over,” Gio respond unemotionally, and his solid reasoning is enough to silence any other unwarranted outbursts from Dominic.

The first rain of autumn starts to fall upon us, and I wonder if the god these people believe in is now remorseful for his actions.

Too bad. Some things you just can’t take back.

The sound of raindrops hitting the ground becomes the soundtrack to Anna Maria’s final farewell. One by one, each mourner walks up to the dismal casket and throws a red rose into the abyss. In my hand, I hold the only white rose that will meet the brown finish. Aside from the blood I have to spill, red is a color I refuse to touch voluntarily, no matter what the occasion. And the purity of white feels more of an appropriate parting gift to such a docile woman.

“Goodbye, sweet friend,” I hear Giovanni’s father whisper under his breath. “One day we’ll meet again.”

Carmine DeLuca passes by a blasé widower, without giving him any feign condolences, and walks over to us three with true sorrow in his eyes. Even though I know it’s just a simple farewell, my heart struggles to keep its beat steady with the thought of the only family I have left disappearing from my life as suddenly as Anna Maria did. Gio and Dom are all I have now.

DeLuca turns toward Giovanni, placing his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you back at the house,figlio.” Gio nods and lets him retreat with the rest of the remaining funeral crowd.

I turn as well, but I won’t be heading out yet. Knowing me all too well, Gio and Dom follow me but give me enough space to do what I have to in peace. Not far from Anna Maria’s crypt, lies the rest of the Romano lineage.

My mother.

My father.

My cousin and brother, Pietro.

And sadly, my teacher and beloved uncle.

Which death affected me most, I wonder?

It’s been a decade since Pietro’s been gone, but old wounds still fester at a mere scratch. The tombstone, high and mighty, engraved with profound, yet simple, chosen words: ‘Here lies Pietro Romano. A beloved son and loyal brother till the end.’

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