“So I should leave the country like some scared little pussy,” I grumbled. When he said nothing, I let out a caustic laugh. “Guess I don’t have a choice then, do I?” I tossed back my drink, welcoming the burn down my throat before going in for another. “How long?”
He declined a second. “If I play my cards right with the people I know, a week or two at most.” When I didn’t reply, he stayed silent for a moment then added, “take the time out,Remo. If Dario is right about D’Angelo, I’ll be there soon and you’ll be back in action before you know it.”
“I’m not a kid, Renz.” Tight cynicism laced my voice, hating his inference. “I’m not asking for a fucking babysitter.”
“I didn’t say you were.” His laugh was strained. “You possess the vigor of an unbroken stallion, and you’re the epitome of a cage-fighting Pitbull when the flag goes up. I can barely restrain you when I’m present, leave alone what you do when I’m not. I’m just asking for time and maybe you can use it to settle some old scores?”
A sharp knot curled in my chest. “What scores?”
He shrugged. “It’s home. The place of nightmares and rage. Use the time to find yourself. Maybe it will help you calm the fuck down.”
My stomach filled with unease because he wasn’t wrong and he knew it, his affectionate tone said as much. “Whatever.”
“The jet’s fueled and ready for take-off. I’ll give you an hour.” He headed out, leaving me at the bar, cursing into another drink.
An hour and half later, my thoughts chaotic, I stared at the early morning, pinkish blue sky peppered with puffs of white, wanting to kill those fuckers all over again just for getting me on the jet. Annoyed, I leaned my head against the headrest and blew out a frustrated breath.
twenty
. . .
Remo– 36 years old
Sleep on a flight had never been a luxury for me, not even a forty winks nap. As the engines hummed beneath me, I found myself thinking about Lorenzo’s suggestion throughout the night and well into the morning until the taxing plane jolted my attention.
“Ciao, Remo.” I deplaned to find Uncle Frank next to a long black limo instead one of his men in a waiting truck. “You look tired, my boy.” He pulled me into a warm embrace.
“Too much to think about,” I muttered, unholstering my gun and the machete I never left home without.
“Then perhaps this break is what you need. Sort out those tiresome thoughts. Yes?” He chuckled. “Or maybe get some much needed shut eye.”
“No sleep for the wicked,zio, you know that.” I shared his laughter yet the tendons in my muscles refused to soften, anticipating a showdown.
However, the second I slipped into the vehicle, set my weapons beside me and rested my head on the backrest, mylids were already closing. I felt myself being dragged under by a gentle hand that promised reprieve.
“We’re home, son.”
My uncle’s soft voice pulled me from a deep slumber I hadn’t expected and opened my eyes to find I’d somehow stretched out on one of the long seats. I sat up, dragging a hand through my hair and glanced at my watch.
“It’s the hot Italian air, it makes you lazy.” Frank chuckled.
Seemed like the fifty-five-minute trip was all I needed to recharge. When I climbed out the vehicle and glanced around the estate, new energy rekindled the fire in my veins. Grabbing my weapons, I followed my uncle.
“Good to be back?” Frank asked as we walked through the estate.
“The last time I was here, Lorenzo usurped Mother’s title. That was a moment I’d waited for a long time,” I replied. “Now, it truly feels like home.”
My gaze drifted to an old olive tree, more so the two-seater bench swing my brothers had constructed for me and my best friend. After his death, I refused to go anywhere near that tree. Ironically, I came from a mafia family which meant my days would be numbered once I became a Made man, but my friend died before he even had a chance to live.
Steps slow, I walked toward it and sat down on the weathered wood. Still sturdy, the rope took my weight without effort.
“Seems like a lifetime, doesn’t it, old friend.” Not one for emotional shit, I strangely couldn’t stop myself from caressing the empty space beside me, as if by that action alone, he’d come back. Unexpected memories flooded my head.
Endless days spent under this tree, either Bastone fighting, an Italian martial art with wooden staffs, riding down the hill in our cardboard versions of a sled or filling our stomachs with Nonna’s famous bomboloni.
A grin tugged at the corners of my lips, wondering how I’d gone from a glutton for Italian doughnuts rolled in sugar and filled with rich pastry cream to a zest for blood.
“Life, Tanto,” I whispered, referring to the name he always preferred, it made him feel ten times bigger than his short build.
