Chapter 13: Chapter 11

25 years ago (Rafael, age 14)

Taormina, Sicily

“The body of a man that washed up near Palermo has been identified . . .”

I put the dinner leftovers into the fridge and glance into the living room. My brother is perched in the middle of the sofa, eyes glued on the TV screen and the anchor who is relaying the news. “Turn that off, Guido.”

“They found a dead man!” my brother exclaims with wide eyes.

“Now!” I bark. “Go brush your teeth, then straight to bed.”

“No. I wanna see. Mamma, please.”

Our mother looks up from the dishes she’s been washing and points her sudsy finger at Guido. “Listen to your brother. Upstairs. Quickly.”

My baby brother mumbles a pretty nasty curse word and, throwing the remote on the sofa, dashes across the room.

“Watch your mouth.” I lightly slap the back of his head as he passes me by. “Next time, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“You say it all the time!” he throws over his shoulder, then runs down the hallway to our bedroom.

Our house is becoming too small for the three of us. Mom really wants Guido to have his own space, a proper bed—not the pull-put sleeper chair he currently uses. She also figures I deserve some privacy and tried giving up her own room to me. Right. Like I’d ever let my mom sleep on the living room couch. We just have to hang on for a bit longer, and then we might be able to move. Once I’m sixteen, I can finally be initiated into Cosa Nostra. For now, the small jobs they have me do from time to time bring in a little to help pay our bills, but when I’m an official member, that’s when the serious money will start to roll in.

I shake my head and reach for the remote when a crash sounds behind me. Spinning around, my attention lands on my mother. She’s standing utterly frozen in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wide and brows pulled up into a worried furrow. Pieces of a shattered plate cover the floor at her feet.

“Mom?”

“Turn up the volume,” my mother chokes out, her stare is panic-stricken and fixed on the TV screen.

“Are you okay? What—”

The shards of porcelain fling and ping off various edges as she rushes toward me, kicking the broken pieces of a plate up with her feet, and snatches the remote out of my hand.

“. . . detective was heading up the task force responsible for a successful operation that saw half a ton of cocaine seized by the police at the Port of Catania last week. His disappearance was reported two days ago . . .”

The news anchor continues to speak, and, with every passing second, my mother’s face grows paler. She has her hands pressed to her mouth, and her whole body has started to shake. I don’t understand why the death of some cop would unsettle her so much. It’s not that uncommon. Once in a while, one turns up dead, especially if they dared to mess with the mob.

“Mom?” I take hold of her shoulders. The last time I saw her so distraught was when Mancuso’s men came over with the news of my father being killed. “What’s wrong?”

She grabs my arms so hard, her nails dig into my skin. The impact of her alarmed gaze nearly sends me reeling. “We have to flee, Rafael. Right now.”

“Flee? Why would—”

“I know that man,” she stammers. “The detective whose body was found. I . . . I’ve been passing him some intel.”

An ice-cold shudder runs down my spine. “What?”

“He approached me a while ago, offering protection if I help him bring down the local Cosa Nostra.”

“Protection?” I roar. “We are under protection, Mom! That same Cosa Nostra you ratted out was keeping us safe! I’m supposed to be initiated into the Family in just over a year! What were you thinking?!”

“That!” She shrieks and shoves my chest with her hands. “I won’t watch either of my sons be lowered into the ground in a casket. Calogero promised me he would keep you and Guido out.”

“The don would never agree to that, Mom. We all know that I’m expected to join their ranks in Dad’s place.”

A pained groan leaves her lips. “And I know that Calogero already had you run a few errands for the Family, even though he knew that it’s not what I want for your future. He swore he loved me and promised to make sure Mancuso agreed to let you off the hook. And I believed him. I’ve tried to save my sons from their father’s fate, realizing too late that I spent years warming the bed of a lying snake.”

I stare at my mother in shock. “I thought you loved him.”

“I did!” she whispers while tears flow down her cheeks. “Up until the moment he told me that there’s nothing he can do to keep you from Mancuso’s clutches. So I took matters into my own hands. And I failed. Dear God, they will kill us all.”

“Mom.” I take her shaking hands into my own. “What did you tell the police?”

“Everything. I told them everything I knew. Including about that drug shipment. But the police were not supposed to raid the port. I was told they would continue their surveillance because they didn’t yet have enough evidence against Mancuso himself. That detective assured me the three of us would be whisked away before anything that could give away my involvement happened. He said he needed to keep me safe as a potential key witness for the prosecution.”

My stomach drops to the floor, dread consumes me. Inside my head, alarms begin to blare. Half of the local police force is on the Cosa Nostra payroll. One of Mancuso’s lackeys must’ve found out that the detective has been talking to someone inside, and they took him out. Dumping dead bodies into the sea is the Family’s standard MO.

“We’ll fix this,” I rasp. “They don’t know it was you. We will—”

I cut off at the sound of a vehicle pulling up in front of the house. My head snaps toward the window overlooking the front yard. Not one, but two black cars pull into our driveway. The first is a regular-looking sedan, just like the one Calogero drives. But the second vehicle is a sleek limo with tinted windows. The don’s car.

“They know.” Barely audible words leave my mother’s lips.

Turning away from me, she rushes to the kitchen cupboard and hysterically starts pulling out the cleaning supplies.

“Go get Guido,” she says. “You can climb out of the window. God knows you’ve done it enough times.”

I grab the gun from where I keep it hidden on the top shelf among the jars of spices. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mom approaches me, her eyes are filled with unwavering resolve as she pushes a plastic bag into my free hand. “Money. There’s also a note with the contact number for a man in Messina who will arrange for the two of you to get to America.”

The sound of approaching feet. Several of them. Coming up to our front door.

“Mom . . .” The words get stuck in my throat.

“My actions will be seen as the ultimate betrayal, Rafael. They will not let me live. And they will kill you and Guido, too, if you remain here. You know that as well as I do.” She gently untangles my fingers from around the handle of the gun, taking the weapon away. “If you love me, you will go grab your brother and run.”

My mind is spinning, trying to find a way out. There isn’t any. Breaking the omertà means a death sentence for the entire family. Children who are too young and know nothing of Cosa Nostra’s dealings may be spared. But Mancuso is not a benevolent man. He will want to make an example of us all. I’m already dead, that’s a certainty. Guido is only four, but I have no doubt the don will choose to kill my brother, as well.

I grab my mother’s hand. “You’re coming, too.”

“They will come after us. But if I . . . stay . . . it might be enough. And that may mean they won’t chase you.”

No! How can I run and just leave my mother to her death?

The shrill ring of the doorbell reverberates throughout the house, thundering inside my skull like a blasted block of TNT. “I can’t.”

“Think about your brother, Rafael.” Mom pulls my face down and drops a kiss on my forehead. “Please. Don’t break your mother’s heart.”

I swallow, hard. My throat is barely working.

Wrapping my fingers around the plastic bag, I squeeze it with all my might.

“That’s my boy.” She nods. “Go. And never return here.”

Despair clashes with rage inside my chest, tearing me to pieces. My mother’s hand falls from my own. I take a step back, then run down the hall. Just before I dash inside the bedroom, I stop for a mere second to look at my mom one final time. She’s paused by the front door, her head held high, reaching for the handle.

“I’m coming back,” I whisper as I shut the bedroom door behind me. “I’m coming back and I’ll kill them all.”

I repeat that promise over and over while I cradle my sleeping brother to my chest. He mumbles something about his car toys while I push open the window pane. With him in my arms, I slip through the gap and run toward the line of trees lining the back of the property.

And I keep repeating my promise like a mantra, standing hidden behind an evergreen shrub, my eyes trained on our living room window.

Watching the don of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra press the barrel of his gun to my mother’s head and then pull the trigger.