Page 557 of Not Over You

It was her sacred day. It was mine, too, because it was hers. It was the time we came to grieve together, even if we were worlds apart.

There were two sides to us. One side was hate. The other was love. The church-goer felt nothing but hate for me, while all I felt for her was a love that men like me rarely feel for anything but money. Our feelings were twisted up in each other, and neither of us could break away from the hold.

She loved to hate. I hated to love.

We were bound by memories, by our feelings, but our future was killed by ruthless consequences.

It was the reason we both met here every Sunday. She punished me through her peace. I absorbed it so I could never rest in it.

Every step I took during the week would always lead me here. To this moment. When I was reminded of my death every time her eyes met mine. She controlled the amount of light in my life. She held the power to turn it off or on.

Before her, it was constant darkness. A life that I always fought my way through. Anger existed inside of me that I could never truly explain. It rested right underneath the surface of my skin. Dormant like a disease. Everything was a fight for survival, even though I never went without a day in my life.

I blew out another cloud of smoke as I tilted the seat back some. The sound of her laughter rang outside of the open window, echoing through memories, bringing me back to the first time I’d ever seen the light.

My Lucila.

LILO

THE PAST

My chest feels tight. My breaths are hot and too hard to catch. A pain in my rib burns, but I ignore it as we take our time walking to my house.

Me, Russell, and Sebastiano had been out ratting the streets all day. Some of the guys in the neighborhood around our age—twenty-ish—decided to play ball in the street, like we used to do as kids. It was supposed to be fun, until a slide into home got questioned. Integrity was on the line, and then Russell, who everyone calls Ghetti, for spaghetti, threw a punch.

Blood streams down the side of my face, along with sweat. My rib throbs instead of burns now. One of them hit me with the bat to get me off his buddy.

Ghetti is going on and on, like usual, about how fucked up those guys are and how people never change. Sebastiano and I say nothing. Ghetti’s our boy, but he’s known for trying to get over on snakes. Everyone says he gets it from his old man, who’s a well-known loan shark in our neighborhood.

His old man’s sitting on his porch stoop, enjoying the sun and a cigarette. He nods toward us and we stop for a second. He slaps Ghetti around playfully, asking questions. Ghetti goes into a rendition of the story that Sebastiano and I know is bullshit. But he’s always made rocks into mountains. His old man eats it up with a shit-eating grin, probably knowing Ghetti’s pulling his fucking leg. He doesn’t care. Ghetti is a good storyteller.

Ghetti mooches a cigarette from his old man. While he relaxes his jaw muscles and imagination, his old man eyes me and Sebastiano.

“Looking good,” he says, nodding at us. “Thought about the offer? You—” he nods to me “—especially. He’s impressed.”

I shrug. I’d been doing some work for a known man in the neighborhood, Paul Gallo, doing whatever he asks of me. And I made in a day what I’d have to work a week for at the bakery. Still, I’m not ready to commit yet.

Sebastiano stays quiet. Even though he’d stuffed the money in his pocket, he complained to me about it after. He’s not sold. I’m not sure if he’ll ever be. But if things start to progress, it’ll be either in or out. He’s going to have to decide soon. Russell’s a shoo-in because of his old man. He’s been primed his entire life for the family business. But I have a feeling I’ll be going in a different direction. Russell has it in him to be what his father is. Gallo sees something different in me.

A knee breaker.

He told me so himself, after taking me by the neck, shaking me some. A move a father would make. Something my father never did. He’s always too busy looking down at me from his high horse.

I say nothing as I keep walking. It’s not every day a man like Paul Gallo takes interest in just any guy off the street. But he sees potential in me, and that makes me as good as golden, if I want in.

“Lilo!” Ghetti comes running up behind me, trying to keep his pants up while the cigarette bobs in his mouth. His lips are shut tight, curved to the side, to keep it from falling out. “Hold up!”

I keep walking, but eventually Ghetti and Sebastiano catch up. The smell of the bakery reaches us before we even make it there. So does the line. Valentino’s is a neighborhood staple, has been here for three generations, and has always been son-run.

It’s Friday. It’ll be even busier on Saturday when regulars want to get their fresh-baked bread for Sunday dinner. The only day Valentino’s closes, for our own tradition of Sunday dinner. Other than that, it only closes for weddings and births.

“This place is never slow,” Ghetti says, dropping his cigarette. “Shit!” He stares at it for a second before he picks it up, takes one last drag, and then stomps it out. “It’s like your folks give stuff away.”

“They do,” Sebastiano says, his tone respectful. “Valentino’s always gives back to the community. My grandpa told me that when he was going through rough times, his grandpa—” he chucks a thumb at me “—always had two loaves of bread for him to take to our family.”

“You’re so fucking sentimental,” Ghetti says, laughing.

Sebastiano narrows his eyes, not liking Ghetti somewhat making fun of him. Sebastiano has respect for the family business and even for my father. I see it in his eyes whenever he’s around. I suspect one day he’ll be one of the neighborhood guys who works for him, pledging his loyalty to the great Michele Valentino.

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