A deep exhale escaped Primo as his arm tightened around me.
“You’re doing it,” he said, voice tight.
“Come on. Let’s go back to bed,” I said. Sure, I didn’t personally know too much about grief, but I did know that most people took to bed during it.
“I can’t. There’s too much to do.”
“Let someone else do it.”
“They can’t. I have to. I’m the boss. And I’m the next of kin,” he added, making my heart crack for him.
Making funeral arrangements on Christmas morning.
“Are you leaving today?” I asked, knowing I had to accept his way of handling everything.
“No. I have to talk with my… with Dawson and Dulles. But downstairs.”
“Okay. Have you eaten?” To that, I got a snort. “How about you go sit down, and I’ll make you something, okay?” I offered.
I might not know how to comfort grief, but I did know that the women in my family always showed they cared with food. Which gave me something to do so I didn’t feel completely useless.
“Okay,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before walking off.
Grief made his steps slower, his shoulders more slumped. And when he sat, he dropped down, almost as if his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore.
I could hear him on the phone as I cooked, and from the sound of things, it was with the funeral home.
Eventually, Vissi was the one to join me in the kitchen, looking just as wrecked and sleepless as Primo had. In the absence of Primo the night before, I imagined the weight of the family had landed on Vissi’s shoulders since Terzo was gone.
“How is he?” he asked, accepting coffee when I passed it to him.
“It’s Primo. He won’t say exactly how he is. But he’s… I think he’s processing. Not repressing it, but dealing in his own way.”
“There’s a lot of death in our lives,” Vissi said. “He’s had a lot of men close to him die. But I think all of us always figured we would be exempt from that. Terzo took a bullet that was meant for Primo,” Vissi explained. “Primo had bent down to grab a magazine he’d dropped at the exact second the bullet got Terzo, from an angle that said it likely would have hit Primo instead of his brother if he hadn’t ducked down. So he’s likely feeling guilty about that too.”
“Was there… did anyone else…” I asked. I already knew Dawson and Dulles were okay. And Vissi, since he was right in front of me. And while I didn’t know all the other men well, I did know some of them well enough to be a little sad if they were gone.
“Got one in critical, two more with gunshot wounds, but they’re minor.”
“Did you… do you know who it was?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t supposed to ask questions like Did you kill any of theirs? Will someone pay for this?
To that, Vissi’s jaw went tight.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as whoever this is when Primo gets his hands on them.”
That was true.
“He tried to make me leave.”
“You should leave,” Vissi said, shaking his head. “This isn’t over. No one wants you to be in danger.”
“I’m not going anywhere. This is where I belong.”
To that, Vissi’s brow rose, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
“So, you’re not a prisoner being kept by her warden anymore, hm?” he asked. “The boss man found his ride-or-die after all?”
“Well, I mean, I would really prefer not to die,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But this is my place. I’m here. Through the good and the bad.”
I didn’t know then, though, just how bad it could still get.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Primo
I spent Christmas morning making funeral plans for my slain brother while looking at the tree Isabella had so painstakingly put up and decorated.
I’d wanted this morning to be something special for us. That was the plan after the evening with her family had gone so well.
We’d reached a turning point, and I wanted to keep taking strides in the right direction with her. I wanted to wake up early and make Christmas breakfast, knowing she was going to insist on making dinner. I wanted to sit with her on the couch and watch Christmas movies and discuss how nice it would be to maybe have a kid with us the following year.
I wanted happiness and new traditions.
And I got death and grief instead.
The night before was a bit of a blur in my mind.
The only truly clear moments were when the bullets first started to fly, and I knew that I needed to get Isabella safe, and hearing her scream for me as she was dragged away.
And then the moment I watched a bullet blow a hole open in my brother’s head.
I’d known grief in my life. It started with uncles and cousins getting gunned down when I was barely a kid. Then my mother’s death. Friends who became a part of the Family with me were long gone.
Death and grief and funerals were a normal part of my life.
But it was different with Terzo.
A brother.
And not a shithead like the other one who’d been killed.
Terzo was rough and cold, but he had been a good man. He’d been caring and loyal and hardworking. I’d naively thought I would always have him at my side.
This life was cruel and cutting and no one was guaranteed safety from it.
Except for Isabella.
She was off-limits.
No, this new generation of criminals didn’t always respect the sanctity of family the way they had in the past. They kidnapped and raped and extorted to get what they wanted.
That said, I was going to send a very clear fucking message.
My wife—and my children someday—were off fucking limits.
Anyone who threatened them would call death a mercy by the time I was done with them.
I would have them gagging on their own blood, begging for me to put a bullet between their eyes and end their suffering.
But they’d find no goddamn sympathy from me.
When they did eventually die, slowly and in as much pain as the human body could endure, I would make it clear to anyone else who threatened what was mine that they could expect the same exact ending.
I failed to protect my brother.
I would not fail to protect my woman.
I’d gone right to her after. After the cops pried me off of Terzo’s lifeless body to ask me inane questions about my business, about my enemies, as if I ever let the law handle my shit for me.
After all that was done, it was Isabella I turned to.
And it was Isabella who’d held me, who’d cleaned the blood off of me, who’d been there for me even when she hadn’t been given a whole hell of a lot of reasons to give a shit about me and my pain.
It was Isabella who woke up in a panic, looking for me. And Isabella who stomped her foot and crossed her arms at the idea of me sending her away.
It was Isabella who made me breakfast while I told the funeral home which casket I needed for my brother, and what time worked best for the funeral.
It was also Isabella who curled up with me on the couch later, not making any demands on me, just sitting with me, resting her head on my chest, stroking her hand up and down my arm or my chest.