by Bethany-Kris
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Cella muttered heavily.
“It’s okay to not be okay, Cella.”
“Is it? I think it’s easier to pretend, Ma.”
“But you shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I know.”
John used two knuckles to knock on the wall as he stood in the entryway to his mother’s living room. He didn’t want to interrupt the conversation happening in the room between his sister, and his mother.
At the same time, he also didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping on a conversation he knew really wasn’t any of his business. Cella would not like to think that John was stepping in on her personal shit—mostly because it was John.
“Hey,” John said when the two women looked his way.
“Mio ragazzo.” Jordyn smiled. “Come in, John.
John took a step in the room as Cella cleared her throat, and dropped one of the items of clothing she had been folding back into the basket on the couch. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but he didn’t take it personally.
“Cella,” John greeted.
“John.”
Well, his name was better than nothing, he supposed. It was more than he had been getting where his sister was concerned.
Jordyn didn’t look all too surprised to see John standing there, but then again, she had known he was coming over. After all, he had sought out his mother’s help to try and make some kind of amends with Cella over what happened to her husband.
Jordyn had been all too willing to play the go-between in that regard. She always disliked how John’s sisters—mostly Liliana and Cella—were not willing to close some of the distance between them. John understood why, of course, given their history. It was not a good history shared between them. He was once known to burn bridges with harsh words.
Here he was trying to fix a bridge instead.
Funny how that worked.
Sure, William’s death was not done by John’s hand. It had not been him who pulled the trigger, and took the man away from his wife and child. Nonetheless, it had been—in a way—John’s involvement and subsequent dealings with the Calabrese that started this feud between the two families.
So, maybe, it was his fault.
Shit.
He felt far too much guilt.
“John,” his mother said, “I will go make you a coffee. Your father is upstairs having a nap, too. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Keeping a firm grip on the gift bag in his hand, John nodded to his mother and came closer to the couch. He didn’t set the bag down, step in his sister’s way, or even get in her personal space. John wasn’t here to upset Cella in anyway, just … try to apologize.
If he could.
If she would let him.
“Don’t bother Dad,” John told his mother. “Let him sleep. I bet his ribs are still sore.”
“A little,” Jordyn replied. “But he won’t admit it.”
John figured.
Lucian was too proud a man to tell someone he was in pain, or that someone had bested him in a way that kept him down for the count. That, and Marcello men just didn’t talk about that kind of shit when it came to pain, or injuries. Weaknesses were not publically acknowledged as to not give someone a vulnerability to pick on.
So was their life.
So was their ways.
He gave Jordyn a quick kiss to her cheek, and let her pat the side of his face with her warm palm. He was trying to be more affectionate with his mother—affectionate gestures did not always come easy to John because a lot of the times, they just made him feel awkward and out of place.
This wasn’t the same thing.
It was his mother.
He loved her.
He should show her.
“Thank you for trying,” Jordyn murmured too low for Cella to hear. “Regardless of the rest, that matters, John.”
He nodded once. “I know, Ma.”
She patted his cheek once more, and then darted out of the living room. He knew she probably wouldn’t come back, despite her declaring she was going to make him a coffee. He would likely have to go find her after this was all said and done.
“Do you have a minute?” John asked his sister.
Cella shrugged, and probably just to keep her hands busy, grabbed the item of clothing that she had previously discarded. A baby onesie. “I guess. What do you need?”
“Very little, actually.”
“Not sure I’m the right one to help you then, John.”
Probably not.
He was hoping to help her, maybe.
John eyed the baby onesie she folded with careful hands. “You’re staying here, huh?”
Cella nodded. “It’s easier. Ma helps me with Tiffany, and Daddy gives me someone to rage at when it’s all …”
“A little too much,” John finished for her.
“Basically.”
“Dad’s good like that.”
“He is,” Cella agreed. “And besides, it’s hard being home. Seeing things, and being around things. I cleared a bit out because someone said that might help—it fucking didn’t.”
“People don’t know anything about this kind of grief, Cella. Nobody really knows what it’s like to lose someone—your spouse, I mean. They’re well-intentioned, but a lot of the shit they say still sucks. I know you probably don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but you can tell them to stop when you need them to fuck off. It’s okay to do that.”
Tears gathered in his sister’s eyes, but she kept her passive expression turned down on her work. “So I am learning.”
“And I’m sorry.”
Cella’s hands froze in her work. “Pardon?”
John shrugged when she shot him a look. “You blame me for things, and I get it. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I’m a catalyst in a way to William dying.”
“Are you?”
“The Calabrese, and Siena. I know my place—I know my choices. I know what they did. You weren’t wrong when you said what you said, but you said it in the wrong way at the time. You were angry, though, so I get it.”
“Do you love her?”
“Siena?”
Cella shrugged one shoulder. “Daddy says you’re still seeing her sometimes.”
“It’s complicated given the situation, but yeah, I love her.”
“She seems nice.”
“She is wonderful.” John scrubbed a hand down his jaw, and decided to just get this over with. Say the hard shit—stuff he hadn’t ever said to his sister, but she still deserved to hear all the same. “I’ve taken a lot from you—and Liliana, too—over the years. Safety in your own home. Peace and quiet. Possessions. I’ve said a lot of shit, and done a lot of shit when we were growing up. It should have been a good time in your life, but I turned it into chaos. I recognize that, Cella. I know I can’t change it, but I am sorry.”
A single tear made a traitorous line down Cella’s cheek. She didn’t try to wipe it away, or even acknowledge that it had escaped.
“I do love you, John,” Cella whispered. “I just have to do it from afar.”
“Yeah, I know. We all have to do what we have to do for ourselves, so don’t think I expect anything more from you than what you’re willing to give.”
“Thanks.”
John placed the large gift bag on the coffee table, and took a step back. White tissue paper overflowed from the top. “Ma helped a little bit. I hope it helps you, and the baby, too.”
Cella glanced at the bag, and then back to John. “Nothing really helps, John.”
“Yeah, I got that. I’m sorry, Cella.”
“I know. I wish it helped.”
John headed out of the room when Cella went back to folding clothes, but didn’t touch the gift bag. He didn’t want to push or pressure his sister for anything. She was going through enough shit as it was.
He found his mother in the kitchen. She already had a cup of coffee waiting for him, and a seat open at the table.
“How di
d it go?” Jordyn asked as he sat down.
“Uh, well, she didn’t tell me to fuck off.”
“That’s good.”
John smirked. “She didn’t say much else, either.”
“Did she like—”
“She didn’t open it with me there,” he interjected.
Jordyn nodded, and took a quick sip from her coffee. “Oh, I see.”
“It’s got to be at her speed, Ma. On her time.”
“You’re right, John.” His mother reached out and cupped his cheek. “You’re good that way, my boy.”
Something like that.
He stayed with his mother until he finished his coffee, but quickly got up to leave once it was done. He had business to do, and Andino to meet.
Things on the Calabrese side of business were starting to move forward. John was anxious as fuck to put it all to rest.
“I’ll see you later, Ma,” John said, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Tell my father I’ll call him.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
A quick I love you to his mother later, and John headed for the front entrance of the house. He had to pass by the living room on his way to the front door. The sight of his sister sitting on the couch stopped him for a minute.
She was holding his gift—hugging it, actually.
And crying.
John had managed to get one of William’s T-shirts from Jordyn when Cella cleaned out some things. A soft, cotton T-shirt with one of the man’s favorite band logos on the front. He’d sent it to someone his mother suggested, who made it into a throw pillow, of sorts. Something for Cella to keep, or hug. Something for her daughter to have when all that was left would be pictures, and dusty knickknacks.
John had nothing else to offer.
He didn’t have the right words.
He did hope it helped.
Even if just a little.
• • •
“John.”
Andino greeted John with a hand already outstretched to take his. The two shook before Andino sat down at the table. John fixed the lapels of his Armani blazer before he too sat down.
Waving two fingers at his empty placement, he said to the passing waiter, “Water, but put ice in it.”
Andino smirked. “Always making it look like vodka, huh?”
John shrugged. “Do what I got to do, man. I’m not late, am I?”
“Right on time, actually.”
Andino didn’t explain more, instead standing from his seat. John looked over his shoulder to see a familiar man walk through the front door of the restaurant. At the sight of a familiar District Attorney, John stood from his seat to greet the man, too.
It paid to know people.
It really paid to use people.
“I thought it was strange that you didn’t want to do this meeting in your own business,” John said under his breath.
Andino nodded. “You know how these button-up-types are.”
“Yeah. Can’t be seen in the place of a mobster.”
“I hate that fucking title.”
They all did.
People used mobster or gangster like they were slurs. Especially people who fancied themselves firmly on the right side of the law. They didn’t truly appreciate what it meant to be a Mafioso, or how the mafia had come to be the rock-solid foundation it was today.
Not that any of them cared to explain.
It was what it was.
“Arthur Lorde,” Andino greeted, holding out a hand to shake.
The D.A. gave the place a look as he shook Andino’s hand. “Shit, Andi, you couldn’t make an effort to get us a better table? One that might not be so goddamn close to the windows.”
“Relax,” John said, “we don’t use this place, either.”
Arthur didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded nonetheless. John didn’t offer his hand to shake, but that was mostly because Andino had been the one to call this meeting. It was his job, and his show. John was just there to take attendance, and know what the hell was going on plan-wise.
Because he didn’t know shit.
Not at the moment.
Andino gestured at the table. “Sit, Arthur, and we’ll chat.”
Arthur glanced at his watch as he sat down. “I don’t have a lot of time here, Andi. I am running shorter and shorter on time lately.”
“This won’t take long.”
Once all the men were sitting at the table, the waiter came back. He had John’s water with ice ready, and a glass of what looked to be whiskey for Arthur.
“Still your preferred drink, right?” Andino asked.
Arthur nodded. “It is when we do business. What do you need, Andino?”
“Always to the point.”
“I have to be with you and your father.”
“I need quiet streets,” Andino said. “Peaceful business. Less attention from the media, and officials. I would like for the detectives to quit calling my lawyers five times a day trying to get me in for different interviews. Do you get what I am getting at?”
“Don’t you think you and your father have called in enough favors with me?”
Andino smirked. “I mean, you call them favors, but we call it repaying a debt. You know how this works Arthur.”
The D.A.’s face reddened.
Andino nodded like he expected that. “Or blackmail. That works, too. You see, we would really hate for information to get out on that dog fighting ring you had going on. Dad keeps impeccable records when it comes to his people, though, so something could still accidentally slip out should it need to.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “There’s no need to go down that road, now.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Andino—”
“And yet you give me trouble every time I need something from you,” Andino interjected with a calm, cold tenor.
It was almost amusing to John how his cousin often reminded him of their uncle, Dante, at times like this. Giovanni—Andino’s father—could, of course, be cold and harsh when needed, but this was something altogether different.
This was a strange kind of detachment that Giovanni—no matter the situation he was put in—just could not achieve. He was like John in the way that he reacted based on emotions, and it was often that same thing that worked to his benefit when it came to making a point, or getting what he wanted.
The cold detachment, though?
That was Dante Marcello all over.
“Maybe that’s because you need things from me far too often,” Arthur responded heatedly.
Andino kept his demeanor, unruffled and unbothered. “And I will continue to need things from you until you are useless to me. At the moment, you are not useless. Maybe you should count that amongst your good traits because once someone becomes useless to me, you would not be pleased to find out how I dispose of them.”
John smiled to himself.
This was amusing.
He was glad he showed up.
“Jesus Christ.” Arthur took a long sip of his whiskey, and then set the glass down a little harder than was necessary to the table. “You’re fucking relentless, Andino.”
“I have to be in my business.”
Arthur pointed a finger at Andino, and shook it. “I almost prefer to walk into a meeting, and see your father sitting in a chair rather than you.”
“As you should. Giovanni has a far greater tolerance for nonsense than I do.”
“What do you need?”
“I told you—less attention, and peaceful streets.”
“I don’t understand what exactly that means.”
“It means,” John said, stepping into the conversation just because he could, “that things will be heating up soon between the Marcello and Calabrese families. As it is, we already have enough attention on us because of their little tricks. You like a quiet city—you prefer we Marcellos keep our business clean, and out of sight. We are trying to do that, but they are making it
very difficult.”
“I don’t see how I can help you with that problem.”
Andino chuckled. “I just need your word, Arthur. Nothing more.”
“My word for what, exactly?”
“When the time comes, you will make every effort to help the Marcellos go back to their previous position in this city. Business that does not make headlines every other day, and so forth. We will make the streets quiet again.”
Arthur sighed heavily, and cleared his throat. “Tell me, then, how I am supposed to help your family go back to the edges of society with the rest of the—”
“Careful,” John murmured.
The man passed John a look.
John smiled coldly in response.
“You have the floor,” Arthur said to Andino.
“I want a guarantee of freedom,” Andino said. “For my men, and me. Whatever we do to quiet the city again, and make the streets safe, we will do it. And in return for giving you a peaceful city, and you know, not exposing your dog fighting history to anyone with a screen in front of them, you will make sure any and all attention or charges from officials can be either put away, or disabused in whatever fashion necessary. Not enough evidence. Destroy statements. Burn a goddamn police station to the ground. I really don’t care—you will make it happen.”
“You are asking for a lot,” Arthur said.
Andino nodded. “And you have a lot of contacts in this city to make it work.”
“What exactly are you planning to do that you need this kind of guarantee, Andino?”
Andino looked to John.
John responded for his cousin. “Watch the news. You’ll see.”
Andino flashed his teeth in a wicked smile. “It’ll be a blast.”
• • •
The lead up to anything should always come with a palpable feeling. Be it dread, excitement, or something altogether different. It should make a man’s heart race, and his palms sweaty with the knowledge that everything he wanted or waited for was finally there.
It was finally happening.
It should thrum through his veins, and beat with his heart. He should be left awake in the night from the anticipation of almost, almost.
And yet, the one moment John had waited for had finally arrived, and there he was, entirely calm. Eerily so, even. He felt nothing but a confident assuredness that this was everything he had wanted to see come to fruition, and it was almost over.
