16 years ago
The Romano Mansion; Chicago.

Mamma is gone for days sometimes. Santo is inconsolable. He worries for her, even though she has never spent a day worrying about him. He loves her, and every time, she gets a little closer to killing him. And it's like the closer she gets, the more he loves her.

Nobody knows of the disgust I feel towards it all. The abuse, the fights, the way Santo and Tommaso can still laugh together when Mamma's not here. The way my brothers love, like it's so easy. Worse, the mantra I've been repeating for years—that this is all for them, all to keep them safe—isn't working anymore.

Somehow, I know that this should inspire in me a certain depth of emotion, some kind of devastation.

But maybe because I just don't understand it, or them, all it does is leave a vague, sour taste in my mouth. I can't bring myself to care about any of it.

It's getting harder to keep my brothers alive. Mamma dismisses most of the house staff, and the place falls into disarray. Despite her episodes, which often end with one or all of us bloody and bruised, our main issue turns out to be food. There's nobody making sure we have any of it. Alerting the rest of the world to our situation seems like the one thing that would make everything worse, so I don't venture out of the oppressive walls of our prison. We eat when Mamma is lucid enough to send for food.

I know enough about my father's world to understand that Made Men look out for each other's families. The oath we all eventually swear binds us together as good as blood. If one man's wife suffers, the rest of the men take her in. They care for her because it honors the code. 

But nobody comes for Antonio Romano's family. Nobody helps us. We will always only have each other.

Tommaso is growing up into a rowdy, unpredictable mess. He's been raised in a hell house so I wasn't expecting anything different, but with Santo's issues—his anger digging deeper into him every day—it's too much to keep ahold of.

I lie awake sometimes trying to dissect my lack of emotional response to it all. It's almost relieving to be able to do that. The mental distance allows me to see it all clearly. We're dying in this house. I can feel it happening, but it has to be for the best.

It's those nights I wonder if I should just speed up what fate has already decided. 

I wake up forcing myself to be grateful Mamma hasn't killed my brothers yet and go to bed wondering if it would be better to kill them myself.

One morning, Mamma comes back after being gone for a week. We were beginning to think she was dead. I began hoping for it. But there she is, sprawled out on the floor in the kitchen, pale and sweaty.

The weeks after that are odd. She stops disappearing. Stops all the drugs and drinking, even starts showering and taking care of her appearance. It's like she woke up and decided she had mourned my father long enough. The change in her is fascinating. It only proves to me the pointless and complex nature of emotions.

They seem easy enough to control, even when the worst happens. Mamma couldn't control Papa, and I'm pretty sure she couldn't have stopped his death. The only thing she can do is stop crying about it, even if she still feels like her insides are rotting.

I practice it sometimes. Stretching my face into the foreign shape of a smile in front of the mirror. Laughing until tears streak my cheeks. At any given time I can express any given emotion, and none of it has to be real.

There's a kind of warped satisfaction to it. If I were to go out in the world, take a walk on the street, nobody who saw me would know what's happening to us. It's my secret, our secret.

I should be tearing myself apart with worry for my brothers, spending each day trying to get us out of here, not turning my back on them for a second. But I am calm. I eat when we have food, I watch my brothers do whatever it is they do, I make faces in my mirror, and I sleep.

Slowly, Mamma begins to look more like herself—or at least what I think she should look like. The weeks turn into months. She starts making food for us, smiling at us. Not at Santo—but her efforts to kill him have stopped and he's happy about it. His bright smiles don't cease even when she blatantly ignores him. When she gives me and Tommaso food, takes care of us, and acts like she doesn't even have a third son. He still smiles at her like his whole world is being made and she doesn't even see him.

I start having this feeling, like something is coming.

Then, on a quiet afternoon as I watch Mamma unload the dishwasher, it comes.

She's been throwing herself into house chores now that we don't have anyone else around to do it. She finds joy in playing house—or acts like she does. It would be believable if she knew how to do anything. She may as well be a child, too. Twice now I've caught her in tears over the dishwasher settings.

She's even mostly gotten used to me, the way I am. Her shoulders tense up when I'm in the room, and she moves differently. Like she's trying to take up less space. It's how she acted around my father. 

She goes on her tiptoes, sliding a stack of dishes into the cabinet. She's humming. She's happy. Something is wrong. And my world turns to ashes when I look down her side profile and notice it. Her belly—the small bump.

I must make a noise because she turns to look at me. And her cheeks actually have some life to them. 

"What's wrong?" She's still smiling. I feel like I'm about to throw up.

"You're pregnant?"

She flushes, looking down for a moment. Anxiously twisting her hands, but the excitement is evident all over her. My mother looks devastatingly young. She looks her age.

"Yes," she whispers. Her shy smile drops when she sees my face. "What? Why are you... why do you look mad?"

"I didn't know you were trying to have another baby."

"How do you even know about that stuff? You're eleven," she hedges, her voice small. She feels awkward around me, I can tell. Has no idea what to do with me. Probably has no idea what an eleven-year-old is even supposed to know.

I ignore her, staring hard at her stomach.

"Well, anyway, I wasn't trying." She gets that smile again. "But... I met someone. And I feel good about this, Massimo, I really do. He's a good person. He might actually start coming around, and you guys can finally have a dad. I'm so—"

"Where did you meet him?"

Don't say the casino.

"The casino," she practically giggles. "Oh, this baby has been so good for me. I stopped all of it. I've been sober since the day I found out!" Her hands fondly cup her belly. "It's going to be a boy. You'll have another brother."

The salt and pepper shakers in front of me are rattling. I look down and realize I'm shaking, my thigh jostling the table. "How long until he's born?"

"Um... a few months." She grows timid again. "Why are you—"

And I lose it. Something takes over me.

"How could you do this to me?" I look down to see the salt and pepper shakes shattered on the floor. My cheeks are wet and sticky, and my chest feels like it's loaded with cement. I'm on fire, torn open, free falling. "I can't take care of him. How could you do this?"

She's backed up into the cabinets, as far away from me as she can get. She's terrified of me. Her hands cover her belly protectively.

"T-to you? Massimo, please—"

"Yes, to me. Me!" Broken, I press a hand to my chest, trying to stop it from cracking open. I look around, half expecting for the world to be fire and ash. What's happening inside me feels too big for everything else to just be fine. "You won't raise him. You won't take care of him. He's just going to be another mouth to feed." Another person to try and scrape together a semblance of feeling for. To hide my real face from, to act like I care, all while keeping him alive in a house that wants to kill him. I collapse into my chair. "Please don't do this to me, Mamma. Please."

"Massimo." Her face is harsh, the most determined I've seen it. Even so, I can tell she's terrified as she walks up to me. Me, her eleven-year-old-son. I guess I'm too much like my father. "This isn't about you. You're a child. You don't understand. I'm having this baby and you can't stop me."

I shoot to stand, and she yelps. I've always been tall for my age, but she's tiny. Practically skin and bones. She scrambles away again, hunching around her belly. Crying. So much for her bravado. "Please, please don't. I already love him so much. You can't take him from me. Please, please..."

I leave the room. And maybe I should feel sad, I should wish that we could have been enough for her to get sober. But what I feel is some dark thing twisting its way up my esophagus, a desire to be free. At all costs.

I have never been free.

As long as both Mamma and Papa are alive, there's always someone reminding me of the poison I came from. The black disgustingness that runs through my blood. I hate her for bringing us into this world. I hate her for bringing another life into all this.

I know what this means. When indifference transitions to hate for someone like me, it's only a matter of time for them.

And I hate my brother, that unformed life growing inside her, for making me feel again. No matter how short the moment was, it still happened. He brought me to life and he's not even here yet. I know he shouldn't exist; it doesn't make sense to bring new life into a place of death, but it's inevitable.

I'm going to care for him. My baby brother. He's the only thing in my world that's not yet tainted by the darkness of this house and this family. He's not Antonio Romano's son. Maybe there will be hope for him after all.

Maybe he'll help us. Maybe there could be hope for all of us. And once I'm a little older, a little stronger... I can get all of us out of here, like I originally planned.

Mamma's hysterical sobbing follows me all the way upstairs. She's convinced I'm going to hurt her precious new baby.

But I'll wait for the day he's here and safe.

And then I'm going to have to hurt her.

Well. I collapse against the wall in the hallway, unable to make it to my room. My shoulders shake with quiet laughter. It doesn't feel so fake now. I'm going to have to do worse than hurt her.

♛

13 years ago
The Romano Mansion; Chicago.

Mamma leans over the sink. I can see practically every one of her bones, spreading sickeningly beneath sallow skin. Just like I predicted, she started to lose it again. She did last longer than I initially expected. But I just don't think she knows who she is without my father battering her.

I gave her long enough. I showed her enough mercy. But I did all those late nights with Nico when he was a baby. I feed him. I take care of him. I take care of all of them. Not that woman.

This morning, she became hysterical and locked Santo in the walk-in freezer in the basement. Nobody goes down there anymore. The only reason my brother didn't die is because I started looking for him as soon as I realized I hadn't seen him in fifteen minutes. He was nearly blue when I found him.

And still, he tries to protect her. Still, he wants her to love him. He vies after her attention like a starved dog who doesn't care how many times it's kicked as long as it gets a scrap of food.

It's time for this to stop.

But thanks to whatever Nico cracked open in my chest before he was more than a lump of nothing in our mother's womb, I need to be careful. I need to do this in a way that appears real. I need Santo not to hate me for this. Because I need him. If I lose him, I'll lose the rest of them.

I know she hears me walk up to her, but she doesn't react. Her eyes are shut and she sways dangerously in place. She stinks like vomit and dying things. I don't waste any more time.

"You were right about Santo," I say. "All this time. Something about him just isn't right. Do you remember what you'd always say? How he's from the devil and it's your duty to get rid of him?" Her eyes peel open, pinned to my face. "Papa was lying to you when he said you were crazy. He just didn't want to admit that you were right." Trembles start wracking her body. "Santo really is a punishment. I don't know what you did, but it must've been really bad. He hates you. He tells me how much he wants to hurt you." She groans, drool trickling past her lips. She's panicking but her body is too sick to move. "He's going to try and kill you in fifteen minutes. He told me. He's evil, isn't he? We both know that now. I'm sorry I never believed you, but I see it now too. He's going to be upstairs in my bedroom." I reach into the drawer in front of her, handing her a jagged kitchen knife. "Use this. He's going to kill you if you don't kill him first. Fifteen minutes."

Then I leave her. I make sure Tommaso and Nico are going to be occupied for the next hour. It won't take me that long, but I'm taking precautions. And I take Santo into my room, talking with him about something stupid like what we're going to have for dinner.

Preparing myself to act like this is going to hurt me too. I'll cry, say something about how this was never supposed to happen, how sorry I am.

Because I've realized something about myself. I'm a good big brother. And I'll do anything to protect them.

♛

Present Day.

Something is moving against my thigh, unbidden and unknown.

All the breath returns to my body in a thick rush, and a throbbing pain explodes in my temple. I blink as the edge of my granite counter comes into focus. I'm on the floor, having just shot out of some version of slumber.

The buzzing is my phone.

It's Cora. Once the call goes to voicemail, I see that I have seven missed calls from her.

Groaning, I maneuver myself into a more comfortable position. I can't think about anything but getting breath into my lungs around this pain that has taken me over. Each inhale feels like it's trying to squeeze past a bowling ball lodged in my throat. My body does not feel like mine.

One.

Two.

Vivienne.

My counting is interrupted by her name flashing through my brain like neon lights. With shaking fingers, I check my other messages, scrolling to the one between me and my soldier. My last message to him is from last night. I quickly type out a message telling him to deliver something else to her door. She'll certainly be hungry by now.

The action depletes an unfortunate amount of my energy, forcing me to sag back against the wall. My heart thrashes in my chest, so hard and fast that I can hear it echoing around me. Or maybe my head just amplifies it.

I haven't stepped foot outside my apartment since I drove back from the city with Vivienne. I had my soldier install a lock on the outside that only he holds the key for.

Whatever's in me right now is going to hurt her. I know this because I dream about it every time I close my eyes. I dream about it like I'm yearning for it, but I'm not. I have never wanted to hurt anyone except those who deserve it. The day I shot my soldier for giving Vivienne a bump on her head was the first time I hurt someone who didn't outright deserve it since my adolescent days.

I don't lust for blood or death. I don't want to kill her.

My head pounds so hard that nausea immediately grips me.

But I think I do.

I want to get rid of her. She doesn't seem delicate, not with that sharp mouth and that stubborn streak. But I'm certain she'd feel delicate if I were to take a knife and...

No. Nonono. I want to hear her voice. I tap almost blindly at Vivienne's name to call her.

"Massimo! Goodness, I was so worried. Are you there? Massimo? Hang on... I can hear you breathing. Oh, you're okay! I was—I was losing it, thank goodness. Can you hear me?"

I stare blankly around me as an unfamiliar voice fills the air. 

"I've been trying to get ahold of you for so long, my dear. You haven't been ignoring me, have you?"

Finally, I look down. I'm on the phone with Cora.

"Massimo," she snaps. "I don't have much time. Answer me."

"I was trying to talk to someone else."

"Oh, my prince," she immediately says, soft like old times, "it's so good to hear y—what?"

My throat feels like cotton. The red button that would end the call takes up all of my vision, but my hands stay stationary. My thoughts flit in and out of my grasp like fractured butterflies. I can catch some of them, but my hands are too weak and they float away from me again.

Cora's been talking to me again.

I was trying to talk to... who?

"... been going on with you? You're not well, and it's not like you. You're really struggling, darling. I'm worried for you. It's been months of this."

"How... do you know?" I manage.

"Massimo," she sighs, "after your poor brother died, I've been keeping a bit of a closer eye on you. Just to make sure you're alright. I know what he meant to you. I know that his loss hits harder than if you would've lost Santo or Tommaso. I know. And you've never been good at asking for help. It must be so lonely. But I get you. I always have. You have me."

"Cora. We agreed no more." No more calling. No contact. It's been years since I've had her voice in my ear, and my body is quickly responding to it as if no time has passed at all.

"Things change, don't they?" She's wistful for a second, then angry. "You've changed. You've never been one to run away. What are you doing? This isn't you. And you know what else? I'm the only one who knows who you really are. Don't forget that. What we share, you can't emulate with anybody else. Do you remember when we met, Massimo? You were so young and so broken. I helped you, yes, but you're ultimately the one who pulled yourself out of the pit. You're unbelievably strong! Which means that whatever's happening to you now, you can get through." Her voice becomes hard as flint, stabbing into my skin. "You need to get better. Think of your brothers. Think of Nico. He wouldn't want this for you."

My stomach swoops like I'm on a roller coaster, and with fumbling fingers, I end the call. Just in time for the contents of my stomach to empty onto the kitchen floor.

I'm floating in a world so unfamiliar to me that, for a moment, I feel like I am a little boy again, achingly uncertain of everything except for that twisting darkness in him that tells him things, that asks for things, like an arm or a leg or maybe a life. His life.

When my phone rings again, thoughts of dark hair and glossy lips flash through my head. Cinnamon honey, warm lips, and hands that don't burn my skin. VivienneVivienneVivienne. I was trying to call her. It takes several tries to answer it, and when I finally do, her name escapes in a rasping plea.

Talk to me. Tell me if I've destroyed you yet.

"... Simo?"

Dark eyes. Aching, leaking, and shadowed. Too devastated to see that my own tears are fake, my own sobs counterfeit. The body of our mother still lies next to us. Still fresh. Her blood still smells so strong. Renewed grief grabs onto him and he breaks under it, my brother, but it's okay, and I wipe my own tears that have gone cold on my cheeks, forgetting to school my features into something that resembles sadness, but it's okay, it's all okay, because my brother will be okay now.

My brother...

"Santo."

His deep, disbelieving breath is audible. "You answered." There's a long pause. "Tommaso is—"

"Don't. Not him. Don't get him."

An awkward beat. "He's right here."

I close my eyes. Neither of my brothers say anything as I reign it back in.

"Are you..."

"Don't." I don't know which one of them started to ask it, but it's the last thing I want to hear.

My hand aches, making me realize how tightly I'm holding my phone. But my fingers don't cooperate with my brain, and they won't hang up.

"I was thinking about that time when we were kids," Santo says quietly, after some time. "You must've been... I don't know, sixteen? Those years are all a fucking blur. But it was winter. I swear I haven't felt a winter that cold since. We'd just gotten kicked out of the place we were staying. I told you we should drop Nico and Tommaso off at some nice, rich stranger's house. So they'd be fine and you and I could go off, fucking die somewhere." He scoffs out a dark laugh. "Remember that?"

I shut my eyes, slowly bringing the phone closer to my ear.

"You refused, and I thought you were going to get all of us killed. I began wondering if you resented us and this was your way of just... ending things. Slowly and painfully. Then... shit, not long after that, we were okay. You got us a place to stay. We had food and shelter and everything we needed. We were more than okay."

Gradually, his voice begins sounding gruffer. Angrier. It's how I know he's masking emotion.

"I never asked you what you did to save us. I didn't even think to, until years later. You said it was nothing and I believed you. But I've been having this feeling recently, that I missed something important in your life back then. Something that changed you. I'm not asking you to tell me about it. I just don't want us to miss any more of those things. Good or bad. And this wedding, Simo, it's going to be good."

Santo abruptly clears his throat, somehow managing to convey annoyance at me for making him pour his emotions out to his phone. "So come. Fucking stand in the back where no one will see you. But be there."

I don't respond.

He hangs up.