My chest tightened. “Mamá, you’re scaring me. I’m not your only child, and I’m here, goddamn it.”
“You killed my Elio.”
I dropped my head to the crook of her neck from behind. “I’m alive, Mamá. I’m okay. Listen to my voice.”
She calmed as she mumbled, “He’s dead.”
“No, he’s very much alive. He’s holding you. You gave birth to him on this day, nineteen years ago; you said he smiled at you even if he couldn’t see you; you said he refused to let go of your hand. You said you sang him a lullaby in Spanish every night. You said he was priceless.”
“Priceless,” she whispered.
“Yes.” I held her tighter, kissing her hair. “I’m here.”
“Here.” It was barely above a whisper, and I knew she was passing out.
“I’m never leaving you. Ever.” I rocked her back and forth, looking around at the mess in the room, knowing it would freak her out when she woke up.
I stayed that way for five more minutes before laying her on the bed and proceeding to clean the room. When I was done, I went to her bathroom to grab a medical kit before cleaning her wounds and tucking her in.
I watched her for a few seconds and then exited the room.
I forgot my shoes, my bruises, and that I needed to calm myself down as I charged down the hallway, aiming for my father’s study.
I didn’t bother knocking; I just barged in. The fury swirling in my veins was fucking blinding. My chest heaved as I watched the two men sitting opposite him stare up at me with frowns while my father looked at me with disappointment.
“Elio, what is the meaning of—”
“Out!” I bellowed at the men.
They looked baffled, and my father gasped.
When no one moved, I sneered. “If you make me repeat myself, I will make sure the both of you regret ever fucking leaving your homes. Try me.”
A second passed before they hastily got to their feet, and from the pinned castle emblem on their suits, I could tell they were two of my father’s highly respected capos, and I still didn’t fucking care.
When they left, my father shot up from his seat.
“You do not disrespect—”
“Quiet!”
His mouth clamped shut; surprise and caution filling his wide eyes.
“My mother’s sick. You will not turn a blind eye to it anymore.”
“Elio—”
“It was not a fucking request, Father.”
I was running on adrenaline. I couldn’t—on an average day—speak to this man like this. But I was done keeping quiet.
“She’s getting worse,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said in Italian.
I gawked. “She hurt Enzo. She hurt me! Don’t you fucking see it!” I responded in English because I realized he was trying to take control.
“Your mother is fine! And you will not speak to me this way, boy!”
