Massimo
3 weeks later

She's crazier than me if she thinks I'm actually leaving her.

This, however, is not an easily grasped concept. Made clear by Santo's constant appraisal of me. Having just returned from his honeymoon, one would think he'd have more pressing things to do than focus so intently on my moving back to Chicago. But it seems he can manage his giddy little wife and his expectations of me with impressive dexterity.

"So how is Vivienne, for whom you will sacrifice your life and dignity but also abandon out of nowhere?"

Santo sits across from me in my office, brows raised. I ignore him, because this is not what we're supposed to be meeting about.

"The cool thing," he continues, "is that even though you left her, you can still tell me how she's doing. Seeing as you're spying on her through cameras you installed in and around her apartment."

It's not as invasive as it sounds. I already had access to the hallway cameras since the earlier dismembered body parts drama, and I left one in her apartment for the same reason. I had forgotten to tell her. The issue is, based on what I've witnessed through those cameras, I don't know that she'd be receptive to my text informing her that I'm watching her.

So she remains unaware.

And I remain, according to my brother, a creep.

I have come to terms with a few things over the weeks. One, love destroys. Santo doesn't know and I'll never tell him, but I'm still waiting for the day he and Nina will hurt each other the way people in love always do. Two, Vivienne loves me in that way, because that's the only way to love. I cannot accept that because as it turns out, the semblance of feeling I can hold for her doesn't wish to see her destroyed. And three, despite the aforementioned, I feel as if I am being destroyed, even though she's in Rhinebeck and I am in Chicago.

Perhaps, I'm realizing, because of that fact.

Another thing I'm realizing is that Santo is more of a pain in my ass than I've given him credit for.

"You left her so that she'll stop loving you, which is definitely how love works," Santo continues sarcastically, because apparently kidnapping a woman and marrying her means he is an expert on love, "and you expect her to not only understand that, but to welcome you back once she's back to normal. Because that's something else you believe, that loving someone is like a cold you eventually get over."

"Shockingly, I didn't come back to have these daily therapy sessions with you."

Because that's another thing, he goes over this. Every. Single. Day.

Nina chooses that moment to flounce through the door of my office, carrying coffees for us. She looks tanned and refreshed from their time in Italy and other parts of Europe. Her new occupation of 'wife' has injected her with an undeniable air of joy and contentment. None of which she directs at me, ever since finding out I left Vivienne back in Rhinebeck.

She hands Santo his coffee, smiling into the kiss he gives her. I look away as his hand, flattened possessively at the small of her back, trails downward.

"Is he still being stupid?"

"Mmm, yeah baby," is Santo's mumbled response. "Like you wouldn't believe."

"Still refusing to admit he misses her?"

"Affirmative," he replies, and I continue to ignore their whispered conversation clearly meant for my ears.

I look back up when I hear a clatter and feel the splash of liquid on my hand.

Nina's practically thrown my drink down in front of me, brown splatters now staining my desk and shirt. She's glaring at me with unrestrained annoyance and contempt. Then she lifts her nose and sashays out, Santo grinning after her until she disappears.

I take a sip of my coffee and almost spit it out.

I don't know what she's done to it, but it's undrinkable.

Seems the little thing has finally gotten over her fear of rebelling against me. I remind myself to stop consuming everything she makes, lest she decide to poison me with something fatal.

"Now," Santo finally moves to actual business, "talk to me about Sokolov. What's his deal?"

Aside from Vivienne, Santo is also displeased with me regarding the Russians.

He wasn't wrong that my severing of the deal with Bianco put us in a more vulnerable position. Even so, I can't even pretend to regret my decision. If I ever see Bianco's face again, I won't need to be out of my head to want his severed from the rest of his body.

However, without the New York family's interception of Bratva attacks, there's a storm brewing with their Pakhan, Kirill Sokolov. He's recently developed the wildly unbased need for a stake in my territory because of what he deems a "clear and concerning instability in this already fragile agreement, Mr. Romano."

The agreement: him sticking to his territory, and me to mine. Quite simple on all accounts, really.

The instability: my getting rid of Bianco which, apparently, signifies that I am insane.

There are clearly other things that more than signify that.

"Sokolov is paranoid, emotional, and insecure. One of us could sneeze wrong, and he would jump to defend himself. I am not entertaining his ridiculous ideas that just because I have cut myself out of a deal that has nothing to do with him, that means I am planning to act against him. Moreover—"

"I'm sorry I asked," Santo mutters.

"I will not let him insinuate that I am unfit to continue leading this family." Something he's been all too eager to tell me and anyone who will listen. "He's messy and holds no care for the way things should be done."

There's a certain respect that needs to be in place, first and foremost, when doing business. Even between Italians and Russians, who hardly ever get along. Sokolov bypassed respect when he started acting like my mental state is any of his business, when, over the years, I have never once let it taint the way I do business.

And I am certainly not doing so now.

"Even so, it would help if you acted less superior towards him. Every time you two speak, he gets more fucking homicidal."

Me doing that is unfortunately unlikely.

The Bratva represents everything I feel a deep loathing for, and my interactions with Sokolov reflect that. They have no order, no structure, and it shows in how they do business. With no clear, top-down hierarchy, the Russian mafia experience a high level of internal violence. The fluidity of their network makes it impossible to control uprisings and mediate disputes, and that extends to their external dealings as well. 

It's like doing business with feral dogs.

Santo and I spend the rest of our meeting butting our heads against the unsolved problem of Sokolov, with Santo being particularly combative towards me for exacerbating this problem in the first place. Even though I know, had Bianco touched Nina, my brother would have spilled his blood right there in the middle of the dance floor.

A double standard which he is more than content ignoring. But he's had more time and energy to get on my case since Tommaso is still in prison, awaiting his hearing.

Which, when that day finally arrives, is another ordeal altogether. 

Soon after I first arrived back in Chicago, Frank Monroe surprised me. She had someone on the inside keeping Tommaso under wraps, protecting him. Being a Romano and being in prison, there was a sizable target on his back. She'd texted me this information. I'd responded with the idea that this would mainly be good because of my brother's explosive temper and propensity for destructive outbursts, which would likely cause issues before any of my enemies did. She'd responded that Tommaso "has a stick lodged so far up his ass you'd think it's permanent."

Frank Monroe is an unrepentant force of a woman. Our deal was that she represent him, not coddle him. However, she's not only tasked herself with my brother's safety, but she holds the view that he's a "good kid." She's taken him under her wing in an unexpected way, and I notice the difference in Tommaso immediately as, on the morning of the hearing, he ducks out of the car outside the courthouse.

He's deferential to Frank and it's obvious from the way he looks at her and listens to what she says. He even let her button him up in a black Brioni suit to give off the best impression. It's perhaps the very first time I've seen Tommaso hold a remotely respectable opinion of a woman.

Even with Nina, there was a lengthy adjustment period.

Speaking of Santo's wife, she wastes no time rushing my little brother and throwing her arms around his torso. He nestles his chin in her hair, unable to do much else thanks to the handcuffs. Softness peeks through his arrogant expression, although it bleeds away as he looks to Santo, who'd also wasted no time in leaving Nina unprotected. Santo claps him on the shoulder, a hardened determination passing between them, softened by Nina's teary fussing.

Right there outside the courthouse, the three of them look like a family. Santo has Nina, and Tommaso has Frank to get him out of this.

Their moment is broken as Frank says a few words to my brother and he immediately steps back, letting her lead them inside.

Frank's dealings in the courtroom are just as impressive as her dealings with my brother.

The second we enter, all eyes are on us. Anger and contempt are sharp in the air, pressing in on all sides. It's me and Santo in our tailored suits, shoes shined, signet rings on display. Every detail is polished and perfect and that's what makes them angry. We are not what we appear to be.

Santo matches my calmness, our eyes fixed straight ahead and hands clasped in our laps, until the perpetually sneering detective who'd slapped handcuffs on our brother steps forward.

"Romano brothers! Nice to see the family reunion, but I'm surprised you two aren't handcuffed alongside little brother. Guess it's just a matter of time, right?"

I sense Santo's muscles bunching, unable to resist the bait. I place a hand on his arm, communicating a silent command, but Santo's a rubber band ready to snap and a mere hand gesture isn't about to contain him. Issue is, I don't have the words.

Frank does.

"Detective, I'm going to stop you right there. My clients are legitimate businessmen who have contributed more to the Chicago community than you ever will. I won't let you stand here and harass them with baseless accusations. And let me be very clear," she says sharply, gradually catching the attention of others in the courtroom, "you don't have any proof to support your conspiracy theories. So if I may be so fucking bold, I'd suggest you back the hell off. Otherwise, you'll be dealing with a lawsuit so big it'll make your annual salary look like lunch money."

"Damn," Santo mutters.

Without another word, she takes her seat with Tommaso, leaning close and whispering something to him. He nods, looking subdued and nervous. Not only does he actively listen to her, but his ego is practically gone. Santo and I exchange looks from behind them.

Things proceed quickly. The charges: second-degree murder, assault, aggravated battery. The judge and U.S. attorney happily bring their preconceived notions of my family into the courtroom with them. My brother's fate seems suddenly precarious, the tension in the room stifling. I clench my hands tighter in my lap.

While I maintain my composure, Santo is barely able to contain his anger at the attorney's smugness in detailing the events of that night at the club. Nina is all sad eyes and palpable worry at his side.

When the attorney requests that bail be denied based on the severity of the charges and Tommaso's "associations with known criminal enterprises," our heads swivel to Frank.

"Your honor. While we acknowledge the seriousness of the charges, I want to remind the court that Mr. Romano is presumed innocent at this stage. The evidence presented so far, though concerning, is largely circumstantial, and we intend to challenge its credibility as we proceed."

"He was caught on video committing the murder, for crying out loud! How much clearer can it get?"

"You'd be amazed at what technology can do these days," Frank replies with searing calm. "Manipulating a video is far easier than you might think. Your Honor," she turns smoothly to the judge, "Mr. Romano's older brothers are both respected members of the business community and are here today, prepared to offer surety for any bail conditions the court sees fit."

The attorney doesn't miss a beat, emphasizing that my brother is a significant threat to society, flight risk is a serious concern, and on and on. His voice rings through the courtroom and repeatedly, he directs barbs and venomous gazes in my direction.

Frank is a cool, confident force up against his explosiveness. She measures her responses, keeping them straight and to the point. I notice her assuredness beginning to affect others in the room, while the inflammatory attitude of the attorney ruffles feathers. He's too prone to tirades and ad hominem attacks.

As it continues, Nina and Santo are feeling hopeful, their hands clasped in her lap as they hang onto Frank's every word. As for me, I'm thinking about how Tommaso coming home won't even matter if he just goes back to prison following his actual trial in two months. His actions that got him here are a result of my failures.

It's not Frank I doubt, it's myself.

Something I don't actually know how to tell Santo with his constant harassing.

"The defense is willing to comply with any conditions of bail," Frank states, "including electronic monitoring and house arrest. My client has no intention of fleeing, and we would argue that the prosecution's so-called 'strong evidence' will be heavily contested in trial."

And that's how the court grants bail for one million dollars, and my brother is allowed to return home until the trial.

With the decision, Tommaso turns to Frank in utter disbelief, then back to us with a mixture of happiness and uncertainty. I notice Frank's brow furrowing as she no doubt sees that I betray no feelings of happiness or satisfaction on my face. But Santo and Nina make up for it, leaning forward to express their gratitude and excitement as the courtroom buzzes with activity.

Before he's escorted out by the bailiffs, Frank says something to Tommaso that looks like a warning—and probably is, considering house arrest is still a precarious position to be in. My brother is grinning as he's led out.

We step outside, the grey afternoon sky a more welcome sight than the harsh glare of the courtroom. Santo and I flank Tommaso's spitfire of a lawyer, although she exudes her own authority and hardly needs us towering around her.

I thank her and force myself to shake her hand, reporters' cameras shuttering around us, swallowing my disgust at the feeling of flesh on flesh. Swallowing equal disgust at the publicity this trial is bringing to me and my family at quite possibly the worst time.

"Just doing my job," she says evenly.

I'm reminded how that coolness of hers can so seamlessly become a raging fire, burning everything in its path, before dying back down into a steady flicker. How she loves explosively but it doesn't seem to weaken her. Even dripping in blood in that motel, she still held onto vestiges of that steadiness. Frank has mastered the balance it seems I've struggled with all my life, and I search her for answers.

Santo interrupts the moment with his own expression of gratitude. As we walk down the steps, onlookers and reports crowding around, Frank informs us of everything. After the paperwork is done, Tommaso will be able to come home. Him staying out of trouble, regularly checking in with a parole officer, and wearing a GPS monitor will be of the utmost importance until the day of his trial.

Santo keeps a firm arm around Nina, shielding her from even the most innocuous glances, and unwittingly I find myself thinking of Vivienne. I used to think my brother handled his wife with such tenderness because he believed she could so easily be broken by the world around her. It seemed that way, despite the fact that she'd exhibited strength proving she could handle more than her looks suggested. But thinking of Vivienne, and how often I need to check in on her through the cameras, sometimes just to be able to draw my next breath, I realize I was wrong. Despite knowing what Vivienne can handle, that she's up to the very same thing she's been up to for the weeks I've been gone, seeing her is a not merely a need. It's a compulsion.

Sometimes I watch her for long stretches of time, and it fills me with a settling calm. Until that shifts into sharp stabs of something.

Briefly distracted, I'm at first confused by the sudden prickle of danger.

I shift, looking for the threat. Frank feels it too. Something is wrong. A stiff breeze rustles over us, the crowd shifting as people grab onto their coats, hair, belongings. A man in a black suit is walking casually in our direction. His hair blows over his face and he makes no move to fix it. I move in front of Santo and Nina, and everything descends into chaos.

He pulls a gun from his briefcase, setting off volleys of screams all around us. Santo curls himself around his wife and I don't think before I'm lunging for the man.

But he gets his bearings and fires, three times.

A terrible silence follows, dread and terror hanging over the crowd, waiting for a body to hit the pavement. I expect to feel something. Burning pain, the warmth of blood making my clothes slick.

But a small gasp from behind me somehow reaches my ears in all the chaos exploding around us, the police firing back too late—and I turn around just in time to catch Frank as she collapses.  

♛

That evening, we wait for news on why my brother's only shot at freedom was just gunned down in the street.

The mood is tense and dreary, despite the fact that Frank survived thanks to a bulletproof vest nobody knew she was wearing. Nina had prepared an elaborate meal in anticipation of Tommaso's hearing going well, and it did, until his lawyer was shot.

Once Frank Monroe recovers from the ordeal, so later tonight, I'll be asking her just how she plans on upholding her end of our deal if she's riddled with bullet holes.

Santo made sure to let me know he didn't think I should phrase it like that.

I glance down at my phone as it buzzes but it's just another flurry of calls from Adamo. Every day, he calls. Several times in a row. But if he wanted to talk so desperately, he'd do it in person. So I continue to ignore him. It's probably pretty clear to him at this point that there's no helping me, yet he refuses to give up.

Tommaso's relief at being home is understandably shattered by recent events. His black mood means he's drinking, and him drinking means he says things he doesn't mean. So that's why it comes out that he and Santo were planning on sending me to another psychiatric hospital.

From that moment, all pretenses of a celebratory, peaceful evening absolutely dissolves.

"You were planning on sending me where?"

Tommaso for once finds it in him to shut his mouth. Santo's piercing glare moves between the two of us before he speaks up.

"We've done research into this place. Alpine Meadows. It's—Simo, it's really promising. They have doctors that specialize in severe bipolar schizophrenia, psychosis, an—"

I shove back from the table, disrupting plates and silverware, but Santo is in my space before I can go anywhere.

"It's not going to be like before," he says calmly, holding his hands up. That's when I realize I'm shaking, my vision tunneling, head pounding as the room tilts sideways.

"You. Have. No. Right." My words poke holes in stomach as they travel up and out of my mouth.

"Brother, I don't know what else to do," he says in a helpless rush. "If we don't help you, there isn't going to be any of you left."

"I'm fine. I've been fine." Better, at least. Maybe the answer all along was coming back home and getting back to my life.

"No, you haven't." Santo is still talking very softly, which is unlike him. "You've been fucking up business with the Russians. You and I have the same conversation a hundred times in one day and you only fall asleep in front of those damn cameras."

An itch starts beneath my skin. Same one I felt outside the courtroom, seeing how whole this family is without me haunting them like a lonely ghost.

They don't need you.

It's not a matter of death, it's just you not wanting to be their problem anymore.

It wouldn't be selfish or pathetic if those were your reasons.

"Well, since we're putting it all out there, did you end up murdering Vivienne?" Tommaso pipes up. "Because she's not answering my texts."

Nina gapes at him and I feel something in my chest turn.

"Can't believe I'm defending the bitch," Tommaso mutters, rubbing his hands down his face. "But it was our idea, okay? Mine and Santo's. She didn't like our plan so she agreed she'd get you to do it yourself, which I knew wouldn't work, but you didn't have to kill her!"

"You had Vivienne do what?" Santo snaps before swiveling back to me, clearly forgetting I've been watching the woman practically every second. "You killed Vivienne?"

Tommaso drains his most recent glass of whiskey. "It was a better plan than having him drugged—"

"Oh my God," Nina cries, her face white.

"I can't believe you were going to go behind my back, and that you'd involve her! I was fucking waiting for your ass to get back here so I could beat it!" Santo lectures, and suddenly, the random lengthy visits he paid Tommaso over these last weeks make sense. He was probably chewing him out for the fact that I wasn't in a goddamn institution.

Plotting, for all I knew, to send me away one of these days. 

Maybe he'd even get Nina to slip something in one of those coffees. In the food.

That spinning feeling intensifies.

"... and bringing it up like that?" Santo's lecture fades back in. "Why the hell would you do that? That's something you fucking tell me in private."

"In my defense, do I ever shut my fucking mouth?" 

They continue to argue, Tommaso claiming How was I supposed to know that he spends his time watching Vivienne on cameras and therefore that means she's alive, Santo claiming You were supposed to fucking talk to me first.

As always, I quickly lose track of everything going on, all the words and emotions flying around. It's always been that way and I've always been unable to keep up, which is why they argue and I stay out of it.

But at this point, I am about one inch away from swiping the steak knife off my place setting and either impaling my brothers or myself.

There's a burning hot iron stuck in the center of my chest. But instead of making it hard to breathe, it invigorates me. I soon realize that this is called rage, the kind I imagine Santo feels, because it's so strong I feel I could burn down this entire room with one breath.

Nina's voice, clear and loud, suddenly cuts through the noise.

"You two," she snaps at my brothers. "Quiet. And Jesus, you're banned from making another plan for the rest of your fucking lives. Massimo," she says my name calmer, "nobody thinks you killed Vivienne, and nobody is sending you anywhere. Let's all just calm down."

But I am past calm, and past wanting to be in the same room as these people.

I make my exit, their chatter bursting back up behind me with a vengeance. In my room, I open the laptop that allows me to access my cameras and look for Vivienne with my heart pounding and my mouth dry. The fury, which took me by surprise, is still sending flames shooting through my veins. I think the extremity of that emotion is what has me rooted in reality, but I don't know for how much longer.

I never thought Vivienne would go against my wishes in a way that feels like betrayal. Unfortunately, everything Vivienne does is—by definition—correct as far as I'm concerned.

But she went and found the one thing that would get me angry.

The kind of angry that would make me act.

The kind of angry that is born from betrayal, which my blood ties with my brother prevents me from acting on, but my relationship with Vivienne is different, and different means you betray me and you die.

I almost curse when I realize I can't see Vivienne on the cameras.

This could very well be because she's out, or because she's anywhere except in her living room and kitchen, which is all that the cameras show me. But she's always in her living room or kitchen at this time of day because she's making dinner and feeding her cat. Or she's entertaining someone, Amir or that old lady across the hall, or another random person I don't know but she does because Vivienne knows everyone.

I'm being frantic for no reason.

But I find I can't calm myself with logic. I'm a battleground of panic.

Suddenly, I see movement.

Vivienne's front door falls open, and she stumbles through it, closing and locking it quickly. She leans against it for several moments, like she's struggling to stand, before she turns around. She's clutching her stomach and hunched over as if she's been shot, and she slides against the wall with her face tilted back in pain.

I'm up and moving, and within two minutes, I've chartered my jet. 

♛

Vivienne 

For about a week, I'm really good at talking myself out of feeling sad.

The fact I've made it to twenty-six without getting my heart broken is honestly very impressive. Also, he would break my heart more should he lose the rest of his sanity and his life. See? Not at rock bottom. Obviously, he needed to leave, so maybe he's doing great and very sane. Additionally, does it really count if technically he doesn't understand feelings or emotions, much less love? Maybe I can just pretend this one didn't happen, or like it cancels out?

Then the next week I am a fucking mess.

Because it turns out I am sad, and that's just what happens when you go your whole life convinced you're never going to care this much for another person, and then you find that person and then they take your heart and shit on it. And also, they're not doing well, and even though they shit on your heart all you can do is worry that they're okay.

It also doesn't help that Jason fires me.

Did I see this coming? Do I deserve this? And should this have happened sooner? Yes, on all accounts. But it's still just another blow.

Then week three hits and I am optimistic. I'm good. I end up spilling my guts out to Mrs. Chambers and her posse of chihuahuas, and that makes me feel better. I have Amir over every couple days for one thing or another; mainly I fuck up with my grocery shopping and end up with way too much food and need someone to help me eat it before it goes bad. I also spend time walking through town and visiting all my favorite shops and local spots. That baker with the nice buns, for example. Been a while since I've been in to see him. He gives me a free muffin and a flirty smile that makes me wonder if he overheard Shiv and I all those times we wandered in and gushed over his buns.

But the point is, things are looking up and I'm actually thinking I'll be okay.

Then, two things happen.

First, I manage to maybe perfect one of my cookie recipes. I'm thrilled before I remember that Massimo's the only person I want to taste it. That was yesterday, and they've just been sitting on my counter because I haven't been able to make myself try one, but throwing them away feels oddly symbolic.

And the second thing is that my period hits me, completely off schedule and out of the blue, which I couldn't have anticipated but also kind of should have, because this happens when I'm extremely stressed.

And I guess, technically, getting your heart broken is a pretty significant cause of stress.

So that's why, after a day of job searching and finding a few potential opportunities, I spend a good couple hours curled up on my kitchen floor, unable to move. The pain is astronomical, but I cannot bring myself to get up and get in the shower, fetch my heating pad or my painkillers. I'm too focused on not vomiting everywhere. Nik eventually gives up on trying to get me to stand up and feed him, and I eventually give up on spinning this or anything about my current life into something positive. So I'm letting a few self-pitying tears seep into my floor when the banging on my door begins.

And I'm at the point where I just don't care.

So I lay there until the banging kind of fades out because the pain makes everything fuzzy, thinking about how maybe this time it's an actual serial killer, not a damn criminal with perfect skin and eyes and everything, which is really unfortunate because for how nice he is on the outside he's all twisted up on the inside.

Then there's a mighty splintering sound, and he's here.

♛

Don't forget to keep up with Frankie's side of the story in her book! My girl Sabrina has done WORK researching and putting together the details of this case and these court scenes. She's incredible, go show her love.

Until next week!

- G