Achille didn’t try another hit on Arturo because it would’ve been too suspicious. Arturo’s trusted group was small, and his locations were not known until he had already arrived. It would’ve been too blunt of a move. With me gone, things were simple. All he had to do was bide his time.
We all stood with our guns drawn, waiting, Arturo’s gun pointing straight at my heart. Then Arturo’s hand moved, and his bullet hit Vito straight in his heart. The boy hit the wall, slid down, his glasses askew, his mouth hanging open.
Arturo turned his gun toward Achille, but with the speed of youth, Achille whipped his gun up to Arturo’s head and pulled the trigger. Arturo’s knees gave out and he fell to the floor. I didn’t miss the look on his face before he lost the battle with death, though—anger. He was always so fucking hateful, and not even death could steal it from him.
Achille and I circled each other, our weapons still drawn.
“Even for a dead man, you lose, Vittorio.” He sniffed. “You always considered me the dumb one. I might not be as smart as you, but shit happens for a reason, and I’m good at piecing things together. I had a vision while I was at the hospital earlier today, digging through the morgue, looking for my missing son. Tito Sala. He saved you that night.”
“One shot, Achille,” I said, sick of the game. But the mention of my uncle’s name had me hesitating to pull the trigger. If he had Tito, there was no telling what kind of sick game he had in play. “One of us is going to finish this. One shot. That’s all you have to kill me this time.”
Achille took a step back, going for the kitchen. I moved with him, move for move. He stopped right outside of the room, where there was a closet for hanging up coats. Arturo had it put in because he didn’t like anyone touching his things. After Palermo, he thought twice about what, or who, could bring him down. “Unforeseen circumstances are a bitch, Vittorio.”
He opened the closet and Tito fell out. He was bound and gagged. Achille held him up with one hand, sticking the gun to his temple. Tito’s glasses were gone, and his eyes blinked at me before they fully opened. Once the situation made it to his mind, he shook his head, trying to speak. I knew what he wanted without him having to use words. He was trying to tell me not to sacrifice my life for his.
I couldn’t make the shot.
Unforeseen circumstances.
There was no way I’d sacrifice Tito’s life for mine. The man was the angel who stood between death and me. If anyone deserved to live life, even if it was to save them, it was this man.
“Put the gun down, Vittorio,” Achille ordered, pressing the gun to Tito’s temple even harder. “Now. Or your good uncle is as good as dead.”
Raising my hands in surrender, I let the gun fall to the floor. Tito started to fight, but it was no use. I had already surrendered.
My wife was safe. My son would be safe.
Achille would kill me, but he would never touch them. Rocco would see to it. Especially after I sacrificed my life for Tito’s.
“On your knees, Vittorio,” Achille ordered. “On your knees!” he roared when I refused to move.
I kept my hands up, putting them behind my head, but I refused to kneel. He was going to kill me anyway. I’d be damned if I went down on my knees for any mere man. I only bent, broke, went down for one person on this earth—a woman, my wife.
Slowly, I took my hands down, reaching for the rosary around my neck. I pulled it out and kept it close to my heart.
The gun pressed against the back of my head, and once more, I found peace in my darkest hour.
28
Mariposa
Before Capo left, he had given me a blue box tied with a blue bow. He told me to open it after he left. As soon as he was out of the door, I wasted no time opening it.
The first thing I found was a note on top of blue tissue paper.
Mariposa,
That night, the night I took you to old man Gianelli and Jocelyn, you told me your favorite color was blue. Except you said boo instead of blue. It was the first time since my mother left me that I remembered smiling and feeling it. The last time will be the moment I walk out of the door to our home and think of you—you don’t say boo anymore, but you still do something to me that has no word to define it.
For that, I owe you my life. It wasn’t me that saved you that night, but you that saved me.
What lies beyond the surface of this box cannot bring back what you lost at my hands, but maybe that lost part of you can start to find its way back.
Capo
Under the tissue was an album full of pictures. Photographs that I never thought I’d see. My mom. My mom holding me as a newborn. Numerous pictures of me until I was five. It seemed like she only kept her favorite ones. Photos that were important enough to bury and keep hidden.
I had texted Capo after, spilling my guts. I had been too afraid to tell him in person all of the things I needed him to know, afraid that maybe my words would jinx something, and he’d never come back to me.
