Page 343 of Vicious Saint
I pick up the note first, swallowing hard as I read it:
I leave this for you, signorina, in case I can no longer protect you.
With a deep sense of longing in my chest, I run my pointer along Carlo’s pistol, tracing the initials C.V. on the custom grip which seems to have been newly restored.
Carlo Vitale.
Nostalgia has my smile heavy as I pick up the gun with both hands to examine it, remembering like yesterday when I convinced Carlo to teach me how to shoot.
Well, more like everything up to shooting…
It was a Sunday, around midnight, just after Saint outed me to Theory, and I was stuck like glue to my feelings. We were sitting on the hood of his truck in the Riverside parking lot, me smoking a cigarette and Carlo trying to cheer me up with one of his many Sicily stories. This particular one was about a farm he went to as a kid near his family’s house.
It didn’t take long before realizing cow talk wasn’t helping, so Carlo switched toaskinghow he could cheer me up.
Which he would soon learn was a huge mistake on his part.
Because…enter Hendrix’s morbid curiosity.
Carlo’s failed attempt at managing it.
And us arguing until we compromised on him teaching me how topretendto shoot.
I’ll never forget this night, not only because of how badass it was, but because it was the first time I saw Carlo’s paternal side.
The way he exhausted the importance of gun safety.
Nervously called out for God every time it fumbled in my hands.
Made me pinky promise to never use one unless necessary.
Every instinct of Carlo’s was the exact type I’d imagine a father to have with his daughter…down to making sure they would live on even after his death.
While the rest of him becomes just a part of my history.
I don’t realize how loud I’m sobbing until Saint barges in the room like a lunatic.
“Jimi!” he yells, jumping onto the bed. “What the fuck happened?”
My vision, even though blurry, is unable to leave the gun.
Pretty sure that’s when Saint realizes I’m actually holding one.
“Is this…?”
I nod.
“Why the fuck would Dante give you Carlo’s Smith & Wesson?”
“He didn’t,” I say, rubbing away the tears from my eyes. “Carlo did.”
Saint inches for the gun, and on impulse, I cradle it to my chest.
“No. Nobody touches it.”
If Saint is offended, he’s doing one hell of a good job not showing it.
Probably has something to do with how horrified he sounds.
