“I won’t,” I say and find myself fighting with my gag reflex as the stench of burning flesh defiles my senses. Dio Lavoro – that’s what we are. We’re the doers of God’s work. Salvatore Abbiati is the only God that exists in this lifetime. I know better than to ever think anything else.
My father, Salvatore Abbiati, is nobody’s friend. Not even mine, or my brothers. I learnt never to forget that. Clearly, some people haven’t and for that misdemeanour they must pay. Just because I share his blood does not give me an automatic pass to freedom. I am very much a prisoner in this life, but he has me as a secret weapon. I am the empowered and cherished, a praised secret weapon. I might have a moral compass that kicks to life from time to time, but my father doesn’t. He sees morality of such sorts as a weakness. It’s the biggest defeat an Abbiati can fall victim to, so none of us ever really give into grief, worry – or panic.
To our father, we are all but perfect images of him. Behind closed doors, we all have a totally other side. Apart from Giovanni – he would sell us all out if it meant our father would give him just an ounce of the attention he offers to me and my other brothers. I know who to trust in my own family, and he isn’t one of them.
Suddenly, my father releases my chin, but his rich green eyes are still firmly gazing at me. I gulp, smiling at him, and I’m rewarded with the same response. He gives me a wink, and I could almost be fooled that the horror show behind him isn’t even there now.
“I heard it’s case closed with Carlson,” he quips, his tone falling for the dirty business of seriousness. I nod my head but don’t say a word. “Finally, it took you a little longer than I was hoping.”
“Sorry, he just wasn’t the easiest catch,” I respond and try my hardest to keep myself from sounding like I’m making excuses. “He just wouldn’t fall for me quickly. I tried to keep interested, but he kept stating something about whose daughter I was.” Of course, this is all a lie. I was physically repulsed by Carlson Matthews. Always had been when I was younger and age didn’t treat him kindly – or me, for that matter, as I wound up frisked against an elevator wall, I tried to keep myself from that climactic point as long as I could.
“Hopefully, the next one won’t be such a problem,” my father states and steps back and looks down at Ricardo as he lays still moving, but his actions now are a lot slower and less manic than before. Enzo has, at least, extinguished the fire, but apparently my father still isn’t satisfied with his suffering. “Is he not dead yet?”
“Apparently not,” Giovanni goads, standing, staring at our burning friend, arms crossed over his chest. He sickens me how much he really relishes when our father murders in whatever gruesome way he so chooses.
I don’t even see my father draw the gun, but when the bang resounds around the room, the ricochet of the noise echoing off all corners of the room, I feel myself practically jump out of my skin. My eyes water at the shock, and I gulp back against my heart as it was thrown up into my throat.
“Manuel’s going to lose it in a moment,” Giovanni chortles at the baby of our family after the gunshot had sounded. He nudges him, making his plight physically worse.
“Leave him alone,” Enzo interjects, pulling Manuel away from the smouldering corpse and pushing him toward the open doorways. “Get outside and sort yourself out.” His instructions are clear and precise, and Manuel disappears onto the back porch, running his hands through what little jet black hair he has.
“You really need to work on toughening him up,” our father instructs Enzo fiercely. “He’s the weakest link in this family and soon he’ll wind up exactly like Bruno - exonerated from the family. Do you want that to happen again?”
“No, but the kid is barely twenty, Papà, you can’t expect him to be like us,” Enzo tries to defend the youngest, but I can see it won’t bode well.
“Like you?” My father laughs at my brother’s incredulous explanation. “You’re Abbiatis, for Christ’s sake, it’s in your blood! Amelia made her first kill on her twenty-first birthday. Hell, you were the same. Giovanni wasn’t even sixteen. If he doesn’t perform soon then what good will he be? He’s the weak link.” For a moment, my father is silent, but I see glee mask him quickly. “Maybe he needs an incentive.” Just like the idea hit him, my father changes his demeanor once more. “He can wait. For now, Enzo, get someone in here to clear this up and get rid of him,” our father instructs, flicking his wrist at Ricardo’s still, fire smothered body. “Amelia, I know you’ve just finished a hit, but we have a new one.”