Remo grasped the knife with a growl and cut his wrists. Of course, he did. Remo had burnt for us before. He’d die a thousand deaths if it meant protecting his family. Nino’s gaze met mine and I knew what was coming. Now it was my turn. Diego and I had planned to visit a house party this weekend. I’d looked at new cars. Nothing of that mattered today.
“Fuck.” I closed my eyes briefly. Remo and Nino didn’t fear death. It was their fucking disposition to have made peace with the inevitable end a long time ago. I’d preferred to ignore the possibility of dying. It had been a distant concept that didn’t concern me, even if I’d killed many men myself.
“One,” Mother warned. For some reason, Kitty’s laughter the last time we’d fought in the cage flitted through my mind.
I opened my eyes, tore the knife from Remo’s grip and slashed my wrists before I could lose my nerve and hate myself forever. Nino’s expression filled with relief.
I looked down at my wrists, at the red rivulets dripping down my palms and fingers. The sight of blood had never bothered me, not its smell or sticky feel either, and it didn’t today. Maybe I should have been scared of the unknown darkness ahead, but I felt a strange sense of calm. It could have been my head wound and the resulting dizziness, whatever it was: death didn’t bother me as much as I’d thought it would. And then everything went very fast. Suddenly Adamo barreled in, jabbing a knife into our mother’s back. We all sprang into action, overpowering the traitors.
When our mother took her last breath, killed by our knife, I could see peace descend on Remo’s and Nino’s face.
Shoulders hunched, I perched on the edge of the sofa, staring at the angry red marks on my forearms from cutting my wrists. The Camorra doc had stitched me up and soon bandages would cover up the wounds, not the memories though.
A tight sensation took hold of my chest, a mix of burning fury and numbing gloom. The former I could deal with, the latter annoyed the shit out of me. I glanced toward the corpse of our mother in the center of our living room. She’d invaded our home, our fucking lives, to kill us. Some people had mommy issues. That term didn’t even begin to describe the kind of fuckery we had to deal with. This was the second time she’d tried to kill my brothers and me. Our own fucking mother. Looking at her dead body now, I didn’t feel anything but rage. When other people got that warm feeling when thinking about the woman who gave birth to them, for me, there was only darkness and pain. The last time she’d tried to end our lives, I’d been too young to understand or remember, but Remo and Nino had carried the baggage of that day with them. My brothers were everything for me, but even I knew both of them teetered on the edge of insanity. No fucking wonder when your mother slit your wrists and tried to burn you alive. That had been many years ago, and today she’d tried again, and almost succeeded.
My brothers sought the closeness of their wives and children. Fabiano had left to pick up his girlfriend, Leona. Only Adamo and I were in our own bubble. Our eyes met, guilt and shame flashing across his face. Maybe he hoped for absolution, for me to walk over to him and tell him all was forgiven.
After the doc had bandaged me, I staggered to my feet, ignoring the stars dancing before my eyes, and headed toward the stairs.
I dragged myself into my room and fell into bed. Reaching for my cell, I considered sending Diego a text, but then I wasn’t sure what to write. I didn’t want him to think what happened bothered me, didn’t want to appear weak in front of anyone, even my best friend.
Dropping the cell, I stared at the ceiling. The silence bothered me today, when it never had before. Usually, I would have gone out and found a girl to fuck, but I wasn’t even in the mood for that. With slashed wrists and a head wound, I wouldn’t be able to deliver a satisfying performance. I’d probably pass out mid-fuck and bury the girl under my unconscious body.
For the first time in my life, I wanted someone at my side, if only for