Mitch huddled into his coat, sitting next to his brother’s grave, shivering. His face seemed too pale compared to the color of his eyes and the darkness of his hair. His cheeks and lips were too rosy from the harsh slap of the cold and the violence from his mother’s nails. Something warm and robust wafted from his mouth, drifting out in drunken clouds.
An empty bottle of whiskey glistened in the light, dregs of amber coating the inside. His bicycle caught the light as well, lying on its side a few steps from where he huddled. The wheels were motionless, spikes bright silver and starting to frost over.
Brando handed me the flashlight. He leaned down, forcing Mitch to look him in the eye. Mitch’s eyes were glazed, and when he blinked, two fat tears slipped down his cheeks.
“He’s gone,” he said, and then wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, sniffing. “He’s really gone, Fausti.”
Brando nodded once, then put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder.
“I killed him. I killed my own kid brother.” Mitch sniffed even harder. He looked at me. “I did, didn’t I?”
I shook my head, no, feeling the sting of tears. No, it was no one’s fault. Mick grabbed the gun, Mitch tried to take it from him, and somehow it discharged in the struggle, barrel turned toward Mick. It was Mick’s finger that had pulled the trigger.
Who was to blame? No one. Neither man did it on purpose, though the result had been written in stone.
“I—It didn’t even come down to her, in the end. Just us. Brother against brother. Past grievances against new. We could never get over that—whatever it was that stood between his blood and mine. Why? I don’t…”
He rose up from the ground, stumbling but steady enough to face the tomb. His fists balled at his sides. His tears were coming faster, harder, and he breathed out in dense gusts. Then his fists came down on the stone, not hard enough to desecrate it, but hard enough to let his brother know that he was knocking, demanding that he hear him.
My heart squeezed painfully in my chest as I sobbed silently with him, as he poured his heart out to the brother he’d never see again, telling him things that he should have told him in life.
He wasn’t sugar-coating his feelings or lying about what had stood between them. I sensed that if he did, he would have disrespected the shred of closeness the two had shared. It had been disrespected for far too long.
Though Mitch and Mick had their differences, the love between them was strong, and was possibly what had caused this situation. There’s a reason the law recognizes a crime of passion. They loved each other enough to hate whatever it was that could never be resolved, yet they could never find a solution to settle it.
I almost ran forward when his knuckles started to split, blood running down the white stone in crimson rivulets. Brando beat me to it, putting a firm hand on Mitch’s shoulder. His voice murmured in Mitch’s ear.
Mitch became still, Brando’s hand providing the restraint I doubt he even felt. A sense of detachment seemed to radiate from him, and I had to rest all of my weight against another tomb to keep from collapsing from the rush of emotion. I had never heard a man cry like that, not even my father when he had lost his son.
It was the cry of a man who wanted the world to know that he had lost half of his heart and soul. And it was just out of reach, buried behind cold stone.
Brando squeezed Mitch’s shoulder even harder. The tick in his jaw jumped, and the strength it took for him not to cry was crushing my heart.
My husband didn’t need to give me direction; I walked up to the two of them and turned Mitch around, letting him bring us to the ground so he could cry against my chest, rocking him like a child.
His muscles tightened under my hands as the cold seeped through my clothes. I wasn’t sure how long we sat there, me holding him, but at some point, Brando leaned down, telling him it was time to go.
Mitch shook his head, refusing. “I can’t leave him, Fausti. I need to be here.”
“I’m not leaving you, Lewis.” Brando glanced at me and I nodded. “I’ll call Guido,” he whispered.
“I’ll call him.”
Mitch touched my face before he scooted over, resting his head against the stone, eyes to heaven, still overflowing with tears. Brando sat next to him, handing me his phone.
Fifteen minutes later, Guido brought two canteens of coffee, hats and gloves, and a few blankets. I kissed Brando and Mitch goodnight, resting my hand against Mick’s stone before leaving with Guido.
“Do you mind?” I stopped in front of Elliott’s place, resting my hand against the marble. It was so cold that it burned the skin.
“Go ahead, Scarlett,” Guido whispered. “Capisco.”
I didn’t know what to say to Elliott, so I let my heart speak for me.Take care of Mick, Elliott. I miss you—dear God, how much I miss you every single day. Still.The pain still consumed me so strongly, I could have lost him that morning.I didn’t realize we were moving again until I smelled Guido’s cologne in my nose, and felt his warm arms wrap around me, leading me out of the cemetery.
“Hush now,cugino. Our faith promises us that we will all be together again. This is only a moment apart.”
Reaching for the cross around my neck, I held on tight, feeling as flightless as a wounded bird.
To my surprise, Guido and I slept in the car that night.
