Eroe

by Mj Fields

  EROE

  St. Andrews: A Sabato Origin Story

  Ties of Steel Book 3

  By

  MJ Fields

  Copyright © MJ Fields 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of MJ Fields, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  1st Edition Published: March 2015

  Published by MJ Fields

  Cover Design by: K23 Designs

  Cover Model: Bryant Wood

  Photographer: Scott Hoover

  Edits by: Veronica Park

  Thank you for downloading/purchasing this eBook. This eBook and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download/purchase their own copy. Thank you for your support.

  *Disclaimer*

  This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.

  All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

  Table of Content

  Raining Glass

  Ragusa

  Syracuse, Italy

  Eighteen

  The Dance

  So much For the Afterglow

  Together

  Coming soon

  Tanti auguri a te

  tanti auguri a te

  tanti auguri a Sabato

  tanti auguri a te

  Raining Glass

  Sicily

  May 27th, 1993

  (Age 7)

  “Sabato, venire qui!” Mama laughs as I look up at “The Death of the Adonis.” “Perché you always come back to this pittura every time?”

  She kneels down next to me and takes my hand.

  “Tell me, Sabato.” Her voice is soft, and she’s stopped laughing. “I want to understand.”

  “The man is...bleeding.” I struggle to find the words. The English feels clumsy in my mouth. “The women and child... sono tristi.... The dogs, sono tristi, troppo.”

  Mama doesn’t say anything for a long time then. She just stays beside me, holding my hand.

  “Mama, do you think papa è triste, troppo? We been gone for a long time. Is he...do you think he misses us?”

  It’s the first time I’ve asked about my father¸ since we left. At seven years old, I don’t understand a lot. But I understand that my father is not a good person. I might not understand why, but I know that he makes Mama cry.

  And I also know that when he finds us, he will make her cry again.

  “Sabato, are you happy?”

  “Yes, of course Mama.” I say, very fast, so she will know how much I mean it. “I am always happy when I’m with you.”

  At that Mama smiles, and the whole world lights up. My Mama is a beautiful woman. Tall and thin, but also strong. Her long, dark hair looks just like la Santa Vergine.

  “You are prettier than she is,” I tell her, pointing at the “Maestà.” Like the Holy Mother, my mother is almost as pretty as she is sad. I know their faces well, because we live so close to the Uffizi Gallery. It’s just down la strada from our little apartment.

  But Mama doesn’t smile at my compliment—instead, she looks like she might cry. “You are such a sweet, sweet boy, Sababto. I am so proud of you.”

  I smile, but I’m confused. My chest swells with pride, even as my heart squeezes. I don’t know what I did to make her proud of me. But whatever it is, I want to do it again. So I go back to The Adonis.

  “Mama, do you like him?”

  “If you like him, I do, too.”

  We both stare at the naked man, lying dead with all the naked ladies around him.

  “I think he was happy before he was hurt,” I tell her, softly.

  “Why do you say that, my son?”

  “Because I feel my smile on the inside when I make you happy. He has four women with him. He has two dogs, and an angel, Mama. I want four women, just like him.”

  She laughs, but then she looks sad again. “I want you to have whatever makes you happy, son. One woman may be enough, I bet.”

  I hold her hand a little tighter.

  “You are enough for me, Mama.”

  Another laugh, this one stronger. “You are my eroe, Sabato.” She takes off her necklace, holds it up and kisses it. “I would gladly go to the croce, for you.” She hugs me tight, and I feel that she is telling the truth. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you so much too, Mama.”

  The room shakes. The world around us explodes. My ears fall deaf.

  Mama’s arms surround me, as my back hits the floor beneath us. I try to look up, but she tucks my head under her chest, as it begins raining glass.

  I don’t know how long I lay still under Mama, holding my breath, until it stops. When I finally try to get up, my ears are still ringing, and Mama is frozen. I try to move her, but her head rolls to one side, and there’s blood running from her nose and mouth.

  I close my eyes and cry, because Mama is hurt, and everything is all wrong. I am her eroe, her hero. I am supposed to be the one who saves her.

  Just like the man in the picture.

  ***

  I sit next to a policeman in the hotel down the road, watching as the sun sets. The building is still surrounded with fire trucks, ambulances, and police vehicles. They can’t save Mama, they tell me. But to me, it seems like they don’t even try. When they ask for my name, I won’t answer them. They are strangers. I am not supposed to talk to strangers—especially strangers who won’t help my mama.

  I hate them. I hate them, and no matter how many times they ask, I don’t tell them my name. I hate them, and wish glass would rain on them, and no one would help them. I hate them, and someday, when I am bigger, and stronger, I will make them pay.

  I tell this to the policeman, but he only shakes his head and looks at me, like...sono tristi.

  A woman walks in, and motions to the policeman. I hear her say Mama’s name. Then I hear my father’s name: Salvatore Efisto.

  The way the policeman’s face screws up when he hears my father’s name makes me a little less sad. He looks afraid. Good, because I hate him.

  He comes back to sit next to me.

  “Son, is Salvatore Efisto really your father?”

  I look up at him and scowl.

  “Yes, and he is going to make you pay for not helping my mama.”

  “No one could, son.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Take your hand off me!”

  “Son,” he says, again.

  “I am not your son!”

  He looks at me with more sadness. But I don’t care. Let him be sad. As for me, I will be angry, and I will have my revenge.

  What seems like many hours later, my father walks in with an old woman and some men walking behind him. I remember the one named Benito.

  He was kind to me, long ago. I remember that, too. I go to him, arms open, tears already swimming in my eyes. He will help me feel safe, I think. He will tell me it is going to be all right, that my father is here to help Mama. But when I reach Benito, he holds his hands up, stopping me dead in my tracks. “Not now.”

  “But....” Tears escape to trickle down my face.

  “Maria, get him out of here,” my father sa
ys. He doesn’t even look at me. The woman—Maria—I remember her, a little. She was my nanny, before. She holds her hand out for me to take. I don’t take it. I look at my father, wanting more than anything for him to be the one to comfort me.

  But even more than that, I want him to be dead. I want to trade his life for Mama’s, and see her standing in his place. The moment I think it, my heart hurts.

  She is really gone. I am alone in the world, with no one to care for me, except Father.

  And he won’t even let his servants hug me.

  RAGUSA

  17

  May 27th, 2003

  I watch out the window of the Dean’s Office as father’s car pulls up to the front. A uniformed driver opens the back door, and my father steps out, with about as much attitude as I assume Christopher Columbus had setting foot on North America for the first time—as if laying claim to it, the way he always does with everything.

  He’s dressed the same as always. Dark suit, wing tip shoes, impenetrable sunglasses covering his eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, impervious to the wind. He walks towards the door with a patented sureness—because, remember, he might as well own the place—even though I’m the one who’s called it ‘home’ for the past ten years.

  I’m already in the hall waiting, when he rounds the corner. My heartbeat kicks up a notch as I wait for him to remove his sunglasses and put them in his pocket; slowly, deliberately, like a surgeon putting away his scalpel after gutting some poor asshole.

  Never mind the fact that I’m the poor asshole here—and he hasn’t even started gutting yet.

  As he approaches, I stand taller, milking every bit of my six foot frame, subconsciously showing off how much more muscular I am now than I was last year on my birthday, a year ago today.

  He stops in front of me, and I brace myself for a sharp slap across the face. It’s always the first thing he does when he’s called here. It’s actually become kind of nostalgic for me—our own special father-son greeting.

  “Did you do it?” He doesn’t step closer.

  I nod, once. “Yes.”

  His eyes narrow, nostrils flaring. Normally, this would intimidate me, maybe even bring on dark, stinky rings of pit sweat. But somehow, it doesn’t even bother me anymore.

  He lets out a harsh, angry breath that grazes my face as he walks by me. Once he’s inside the office, he slams the door.

  The old building’s walls are too thin to hold onto their secrets, though, so I settle myself back against the wall to listen.

  “This is his tenth offense,” Dean Greco tells him. His voice comes out a bit stronger than last time and I almost laugh out loud. Finally, the man’s balls must have dropped.

  “This time, it was my vehicle he stole. And wrapped around a tree.”

  My father’s tone sees the dean’s anxiety and raises zero fucks. “Then you will explain to the rest of the faculty that he was running an errand for you.”

  I can hear a sound like air being let out of a tire, all high-pitched and wheezing. “But...but that was the excuse last year, the reason why your son borrowed,” Greco whines. “...my assistance vehicle.”

  Translation: his golf cart, which he needs, for his morbid obesity.

  “And no questions were asked. Were they?”

  “It’s not going to fly this time, don’t you understand? People know who he is around here, and more importantly who his father is. It doesn’t matter that I have never accepted a dime offered by your... your organization—and I will not start now—but you must see that appearances....”

  “Appearances? Who the hell do you think you are talking to?”

  The rage I was expecting to fall on me suddenly unleashes full force on Dean Greco. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir. But...I do want to point out that this...this kind of thing seems to happen every year on the same date. The day your wife—”

  “You do not need to remind me of today’s significance. You know nothing. Nor is it any of your business to know.”

  “I apologize. I am just saying that I’m not trying to be unsympathetic to your situation. I can imagine how difficult it was to lose your w—”

  “Enough! Enough excuses. I’m a very busy man. Just give me a number, Dean. How much will it cost to make this go away?”

  There’s a long moment of silence, during which I hold my breath, waiting to see if Greco will puff up or deflate.

  Finally, inflation happens. “I’m sorry, Mr. Efisto. But there is no other way. Sabato is being expelled.”

  “You cannot be serious. He has one year left!”

  “It could be worse.” I can clearly imagine the weasely, passive-aggressive look on Greco’s face. “I could be pressing charges.”

  “Are you threatening me?” My father’s laughter booms through the air, sharp and cold.

  “Of course not, sir, I—”

  “Oh, I hope you are ready to live with the choice you just made, Dean Greco. Because there will be no going back.” I hear the door open and scramble away from the wall before my father walks out.

  He doesn’t even look in my direction, just heads for the exit. “Let’s go.”

  “Now?” In spite of what I just heard, I feel shock. “But I need to pack.”

  “Get in the car. We are leaving, right this—”

  I take off, running toward the stairs. I’ve always been fast, but this time I also have familiarity with the terrain on my side. Once in my room, I grab a bag and start throwing only my most valuable possessions in it: my mama’s cross, the blood stained shirt I wore seventeen years ago, and the folder of artwork that held the memories of who I could have been, had I been the eroe she needed that day. I keep nothing else, because nothing else matters.

  I walk down the stairs and right past the dean, who just stands there, eyeballing me like the useless prick he is. I raise my hand, drawing a finger across my throat in the international gesture of ‘you’re fucking dead, buddy.’ Then I wink, just for fun. His jaw drops, and the sudden fear in his eyes gives me great satisfaction.

  Outside, I take the steps of the crumbling staircase two at a time. My father is pacing in front of the car, veins protruding out of his neck. When I come to stand in front of him, he finally raises his hand to strike me. I grab it, stopping its swing in midair.

  “Do not ever hit me again.”

  He looks surprised, which quickly morphs to angry. His other fist cocks back and sucker punches me before I can stop it.

  I can taste salt and metal in my mouth, but I don’t flinch away. My blood boils. I want to kick him, slap him, or at the very least punch him back. Instead, I grit my teeth and say, “That is the last time that will happen.”

  “Or what?” His voice is amused, his face incredulous.

  I don’t answer him. I simply stare him down, directly into his eyes, with all the hatred I have in me. And I wait.

  For the first time in my life, he is the first one to look away.

  SYRACUSE, ITALY

  May 26th 2004

  I stand on a cliff overlooking the sea below.

  It’s warmer here. That much I like. We drove straight from Ragusa, after I got kicked out at the last place. I’ve been here in Syracuse, attending St. Andrews of the Holy Cross, ever since.

  Saint Andrew is said to have been bound to a cross and crucified. I feel like I too have been bound for years, waiting for the day this miserable existence of mine ends.

  Father made it clear that I wasn’t to fuck up this time.

  I really want to though, just to prove to him that I am exactly who he thinks I am.

  I only exist in his world to ruin his day, screw with his schedule, and embarrass him. I serve no other purpose. Maybe that’s why I am so incredibly spectacular at it.

  Once again I hold her cross in my hand, wondering what it will feel like to die. What it felt like, for her to die. I hate that I wasn’t big enough, strong enough to protect her back then. Well, I’m strong now. St
rong as steel, with a will of iron. If glass rained down on me today, I’m sure I would live through it. If I was like I am now back then, I would have covered her body with mine and saved her. The two of us would have survived together.

  Maybe then survival would have actually meant something...more. More than just breathing, eating, sleeping, living, fighting, hating.... Something worthwhile.

  “Hello?” The voice is coming from behind me. I turn and see a girl. A beautiful girl. Long black hair in curls, almond shaped eyes, tan skin, rosy red lips...a body much like the ones I fantasize about when I get myself off.

  I nod to her, and she comes up to stand beside me.

  “I can’t believe you can stand up here without throwing up. It gives me butterflies.” She holds her hand over her stomach. The fabric of the shirt bunches up and tightens around her breasts.

  I’m not used to being around women. They make me...uncomfortable. So instead of saying anything, I just stare at her.

  “Oh! How rude of me,” she says after a long, awkward moment. “I’m Luciana.” I keep staring at her until she blushes, smiles. “Forgive me for saying this, but you are a beautiful man. I can’t help but stare.”

  It’s funny; I’m just thinking the same thing about her. My eyes drift down her face, back to her breasts.

  “I...excite you?”

  A quick intake of her breath tells me that I’ve startled her. Or maybe even scared her. I’m not sure.

  “I have to go.” She turns to leave, but I reach out and grab her elbow.

  “Why does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “Sabato—”

  Immediately, my curiosity turns to suspicion. “How do you know my name?”

  Her pretty face turns a deeper shade of pink.

  “Um, well...I see you at Mass...sometimes. On Saturdays.”