Angelo's
POV
The
night Dante died…
I
sat in the living room, staring off into space, lost in my own thoughts. My
vision was blurry, and I could barely make out the people in the room with me.
I didn't recognize their voices, but I knew they were angry from their pacing
and loud talking.
I
was still clutching tightly to the toy Dante had given me earlier. It felt like
I was holding onto the last piece of him I had left.
"Master
Angelo, would you like to change out of your shirt?" Rosa, our housekeeper,
asked.
I
blinked repeatedly and turned to look at her.
"What?"
I whispered softly.
She
smiled at me, but tears welled up in her eyes. Her hands shook, and her lips
quivered. Of course she was hurting. She had taken care of Dante and me since
we were kids. She was practically our mother.
"I
was asking if you needed to change out of your shirt," she repeated, holding a
new blue shirt.
I
looked down at my stained shirt. At first glance, you would think the blood was
mine—but it wasn't. It was Dante's. He had bled all over me when I held onto
his lifeless body, hoping it would be enough to save him.
"No.
It's Dante's…" I said in a soft whisper, as if that would explain everything.
She
tried to hold back tears but couldn't. She sobbed, covered her mouth, and
walked away.
I
couldn't cry. I hadn't shed a tear in hours. I had turned numb when our men
arrived and took Dante from me.
Heavy
footsteps entered the room. "What happened to my son?" my father's voice
thundered.
The
room fell silent.
"I
asked a question. Where is my son?" he demanded.
"He
was shot…" someone answered.
I
drowned out their voices, lost in my thoughts. If I had known today would take
Dante's life, I would have stayed home. We could have done anything else—maybe
played games, drank alcohol—anything else.
A
gun went off. I sat there, unfazed.
We
wouldn't have that dinner again next year. I sucked in a breath.
My
father grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Angelo, what happened to your
brother?"
I
stared at him blankly. His eyes were dry, but I could see the emotions swirling
in them. He wasn't going to let us see his tears. He was Don, after all. But
when all of this was over, he would cry in private—for the loss of his son, the
loss of his heir.
"They
already told you…" I said quietly.
"I
want to hear it from you, Angelo," he said through clenched teeth.
I
glanced around at the men, their eyes on us.
"Dante
is dead."
It
was a simple statement, yet it had such a heavy weight. I hadn't admitted it
until then. I knew it when I held him in my arms, when I called out to him and
he didn't respond. I had known it then.
Dante
had been in so many scrapes all his life, and yet regardless of whatever pain
he was in, he always found a way to comfort me. When he didn't today, I knew
it—even though I tried to lie to myself, I knew it.
A
part of me wished it was a dream, and I would wake up to Dante smothering me
and shouting happy birthday, just like he did this morning.
My
father stood straight, staring into the distance. I didn't know why he needed
to hear it from me. One of the men had already explained how Dante died—and
that had led to his death. My father had shot him.
"You
swore to protect my sons with your lives…" my father began.
"Don
Marino, it was Dante's request to be left alone…"
"A
request you should have ignored!" he barked.
The
room grew quiet.
"You
left my son alone to be killed by a nobody—a worthless death—killed by an old
man on the streets of Sicily!" he yelled. "A nobody killed my son. He was going
to be Don…" He chuckled dryly, hands shaking, trying to control his anger but
failing at it.
Everyone
watched the Don. He was always a symbol of control and composure—now not so
much. They watched as he unraveled before them. He still hadn't shed a tear.
"Leave,"
he said gravely. "All of you, leave. And take that filth with you."
The
men left, carrying the dead man out of the room.
I
rose to my feet.
"Stay,
Angelo."
I
sat back down.
He
came beside me. "Someone killed Dante. Someone killed your brother…" he
struggled to say.
I
sat still, head bowed.
"And
they are still breathing air," he chuckled. "They are walking down the streets
unbothered, while my boy lies in a morgue, cold, alone…"
A
knot formed in my throat. Tears still wouldn't flow.
He
gripped my shoulders. "You let him slip away the first time because you were
grieving," he kissed my head. "I understand that. I can forgive that."
I
played nervously with my fingers.
"Angel…"
My father rarely called me that.
I
looked up. He had the same crazed smile Dante had when he wanted to do
something unhinged. We all shared a resemblance, dark hair, grey eyes.
"I
want you to find him, the man who did this, and I want you to destroy
everything and everyone he cares about. If he likes coffee from the shop
downtown, set it on fire. If he has a gravesite he visits, dig up the remains
and set it ablaze. Become the Angel of Death and rain fire on him and everything
he cares about." His breathing was ragged. "Can you do that for your father?"
I
stared into his eyes. The scene of Dante falling replayed in my head. I
remembered the gunshots, one, two, three. The man didn't shoot to scare; he
shot to kill. I remembered how his limp body felt in my arms. Tears welled up
in my eyes, and my lips quivered.
"I'll
scour the ends of the earth and overturn every stone to find him and bring his
head to you…"
My
father smirked.