Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
The gate creaked when I opened it and stepped into the dark inside of the crypt. Dankness and dust crawled into my nose. Several grave lights cast their eerie reddish light on the slots in the walls where the bones of Domenico’s ancestors rested, and he too would eventually find his last rest in one of them. Now, his mortal remains still lay in a massive coffin positioned in the very center of the vault, with the saint Mother of Christ casting her benevolent eyes on him. He’d never been laid out. Everyone had said their last goodbye to the shiny oak instead of a waxen face.
Flowers covered almost every surface of the coffin. Some of them were fake, but the others looked fresh, as if they’d been put there only this morning. My family had sent a generous amount of cash to all three families, and Domenico’s mother seemed to invest it in flowers. I knew she visited daily and had done so since the funeral a year ago. I’d seen her several times during my visits but had always avoided her. She didn’t need the additional anguish of seeing the man who was responsible for her son’s brutal murder.
Our first encounter after Domenico’s death, when I’d confessed to her why he’d died and apologized, still haunted me. Her anguished cries, her knees giving in, how Domenico’s uncle held her up.
I touched the coffin briefly. “I’m sorry, my friend.”
I uttered the same words every time, but they felt as hollow as on the first day. Feeling sorry for something that couldn’t be changed was wasted time, especially in our world where death was a constant companion. I’d been to countless funerals, and many more would follow. Domenico’s mother had driven me away from his wake with curses and slaps. I had allowed her to hit me several times before I’d taken my leave, knowing the pain she’d inflicted wasn’t nearly as potent as the pain she felt.
Steps crunched behind me, and I tensed, my hand going to my gun in the holster around my waist.
“I knew I’d find you here,” Renato said.
I lowered my hand, relaxing as my best friend approached me. He crossed himself, then briefly touched the coffin.
“It still feels surreal,” he murmured.
I smiled bitterly. Surreal wasn’t the word I would have used. Renato and I had often spent the weekends with Arlo, Enea, and Domenico. Now, it was only the two of us.
“Today is one year, right?” Renato asked.
I nodded. He wasn’t certain. I hadn’t been able to think about anything else these past few days leading to the day when I had ripped three sons from their mothers.
Renato let out a sigh. “You need to stop feeling guilty.”
“I am guilty.”
Renato gave me a frustrated look, his dark-brown brows pinching together. “You didn’t kill them.”
My lip curled, but my stomach became hollow like it always did when I remembered Enea’s death. “I stabbed Enea.”
“Not on purpose, for God’s sake, Samuel. They were Made Men. We all are. Death is always a possibility. Many die young. Do you think Dante cries himself to sleep every night over his soldiers who have died on the missions he sent them on?”
I glanced at a photo of Domenico leaning against the coffin’s bottom. He had his arms around Renato and Arlo. Enea was beside Arlo, and I had been beside Renato in the photo, but I wasn’t now. Someone had cut me out. I didn’t blame them. “There’s a difference, Renato. I wasn’t their Capo. I was their friend, and they were doing me a favor. They trusted my plan, and I failed them.”
Renato shook his head. “They knew of the plan before you went to Las Vegas. They thought it was a good plan. I would have followed you there too if I hadn’t been in Chicago.”
Three of my friends had followed me, no questions asked, to save my twin sister from the hands of our worst enemy.
Renato wasn’t dead like the others because he’d been on another mission in Chicago with his father so he couldn’t join me.
“Come on, let’s have a drink. You need one.”
One drink wouldn’t be enough. I followed Renato out of the crypt and closed the gates. We went to our favorite bar and settled in one of their VIP rooms on the red satin armchairs with lion-clawed feet. I ordered a Negroni, my poison of choice, and took a big gulp. I let my head fall against the headrest and briefly closed my eyes.
Arlo’s shocked face flashed before my eyes as he died by Remo Falcone’s knife. He was gone in a blink, the kindest of all three deaths.
Then it was Enea’s face that popped up. His expression was a mix of surprise and pain when my knife buried itself in his stomach. My face had probably mirrored the same emotions. My stab had been aimed at Remo, but he’d pulled Enea up by the collar and used him as his shield. Enea hadn’t died right away. It took a few painful gasps and intakes of breaths before he passed away. I wished I could have held him in his last moments, but I’d fought for my life against the madman from Vegas.