by Jen Tirone
He was going to kill the motherfucker in front of everyone, consequences be damned.
But his chief and fellow officers didn’t let Michael get past them.
His chief even went so far as cuffing Michael to himself.
They scuffled, but his chief knew Michael was hurting.
“I know, lad. I know,” his chief hugged him, trying to calm him down.
The funeral proceeded.
Vicious words were exchanged in Italian from Alessandro Vitale Sr. to Giorgio.
Promises of retribution were vowed.
Wails were heard from Apolognia and Gabriella.
Sandro was silent, with angry tears.
The Vitales regretted pushing the two together since birth. They wished they’d paid more attention to the loneliness in their bambina’s voice over the years. They realized all too late her cry for help, her cries for attention.
Whispers of gossip from people all around the church enraged Michael.
But Giorgio was numb to it all.
All he cared about was seeing her. It didn’t matter how, so long as he was in her presence, her final time.
He had denied Domenico’s visit in prison. Giorgio still had a bone to pick with his father, but that was neither here nor there right now.
He only spoke to his lawyer.
He needed the birth certificate.
He didn’t believe anything anyone tried to tell him.
He had to see it for himself.
She wouldn’t have betrayed him, that prick detective was lying, saying anything to get a rise out of him.
Not his girl, he thought to himself.
Gia would never do that to him.
A few days later, after a particularly bad fight, though Giorgio ended it victoriously, he sat in his cell cataloguing his aches and pains from the group fight he was engaged in earlier.
Giorgio had years of murders on his hands.
He was a cold-blooded killer and would always be one.
He wasn’t going to lose, not in a fight, when he wanted to die on his own terms.
If it wasn’t because he had a baby to get out to one day, a baby who was his and his Gianna’s, he would have killed himself to join her already.
A busted lip, a few rib shots that smarted… nothing could compare to the constant pain he felt when thinking about Gianna.
He missed her.
He loved her.
He wanted to be with her.
Closing his eyes, he conjured up in his mind the first time he remembered seeing her.
Tiny, tan and dark haired.
He was watching her nursing, quiet and precious.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
He had only been four, but he decided then he was going to keep her. She would be his.
He smiled to himself, sitting on the cold floor reminiscing over all the beautiful memories of her.
Running through fields, watching her long, wavy hair whimsically flying in the wind. Her chubby cheeks and large green eyes watching him with all the adoration of a hero when they were kids. Returning to her to see she blossomed beautifully.
He remembered the way she felt when he got to make love to her for the first time.
He needed her, always did, always will.
His musings of Gia were interrupted by a clamoring at his cell.
A correctional officer notified him he had a visitor.
But he was led to a private room instead of the visitor area in the cafeteria.
He already knew who came to see him.
Gio decided then, he’d kill the bastard for lying about his wife and trying to degrade her memory, trying to get a rise out of him.
He wanted it, he’ll get it, the fucking pig.
He’d been handcuffed to the chair, both his hands and both his feet.
Fucking pussy, he thought. But it was fine; he didn’t need a fair fight. He was more than happy to accept the challenge.
But when Michael came in holding a piece of paper, he was on edge.
He’d been waiting for a certain certificate.
That asshole shouldn’t be holding it.
Michael tosses the paper to him as he began to speak.
“I’ve thought about all the ways I’d kill you with my bare hands, you motherfucker. But death would only be all too merciful for a depraved animal such as yourself,” he said, spitting in Giorgio’s face.
He just sits there, calmly. Calculating how he’ll grab hold of this cocksucker and snap his neck.
“I think I enjoy the thought of you spending life in prison with nothing but getting raped to look forward to more. Yeah, that’s all in order for you, you bastard. I’ve already spoken to a few degenerates who would love to have a piece of you.
“But before I go and never see your fucking face again, I thought I’d tell you all the ways I fucked your wife while I put you in prison the first time,” Michael taunts.
Giorgio’s nose flared, but other than that he showed no outward expression of the bloodthirsty rage he was in.
“She was beautiful, that one. God, I loved fucking her all night. Slapping that ripe bum of hers. Watching her plump lips wrap around my cock. Shit, it’s making me hard thinking about it,” he says, grabbing his crotch and rubbing it to make a show of it.
“Lies. You’re trying to piss me off. Consider it done, you pussy, but I better not hear you say another word about her, if you want me to kill you quickly.”
“Lies? No, you infertile piece of shit, I fucked her so good, so many ways, the babe is mine. I came in her so many times, she became nothing but my spunk. She loved it too, speaking all that Italian in her sexy accent. Calling me miele, telling me how I got under her skin. She told me all about some fucking witch when she was a little girl, warning her that she wouldn’t be able to get me out of her system.”
Giorgio’s heart disintegrated.
What was left of it anyway.
He hadn’t believed a single word Michael was saying until he mentioned that strega from their childhood. Only he and Gia knew about that day, being told that absurd fortune.
Had she really told this asshole about that?
Why?
How?
Did she truly betray him?
“I see it finally penetrated your thick skull, you dumb fuck. Not only was her pussy so tight still with your skinny limp dick, but she was a wild one in bed. I enjoyed licking the little beauty mark right under the curve of her breast,” Michael said, identifying her mark.
That’s right, Michael thought.
He hated talking so sordidly about her, but Michael wanted to torture him, making sure Giorgio understood their tryst wasn’t a lie.
He needed to.
Michael wanted the image to haunt Giorgio, for as long as he was going to live.
With that, Michael smiled at Giorgio and walked out.
It felt too good to be bad, Michael thought. I felt good to make others hurt, just as he was hurting.
Giorgio, though... Giorgio felt as if he was being flayed alive picturing all the vile things Michael said about Gia.
He didn’t want to believe it.
He didn’t.
But he did.
How else would Michael know about Bianca De Luca, or the intimate details of Gia’s body?
When the guards returned and unfastened his cuffs from the table in order to transfer him back to his cell, Gio swiftly wrapped his arms around one of the guard’s neck and slammed him into the other guard before the second guard could reach for his gun.
Gio quickly snapped the guard’s neck that was in his grip, scrambled to the other guard before he got a good hold of his gun, and quickly twisted his neck as well.
Panting, he grabbed the guard’s gun and crawled to the paper laying face down on the floor.
Afraid of what he knew he was going to confirm with his own eyes, he put the nozzle of the revolver in his mouth and flipped over the paper.
He would have rather hung himself, to suffocate and go
poetically as his wife did, but there was no time for that. Not with the agony he was already dying in.
Mia Vitale Adair.
Signed by the mother, Gianna Vitale Moretti.
Signed by the father, Michael Inys Adair.
She did.
She betrayed him.
His Gianna.
His tesorina, his bella, his girl since forever.
BANG!
Years later, Michael’s kneeling at Gianna’s grave.
Missing her still.
Fussing with the flowers on her tombstone he got for her birthday.
“Love, I ache for you... it doesn’t ever stop,” he whispers in torment.
“I’m afraid if it does, I’ll lose everything about you, even your memory... and someone needs to miss you. You deserve to be missed.”
“Da, I miss mama, too!” Mia says running to her father, trying to comfort him.
She’d been playing about as he arranged the flowers for her mother.
“I know, love bug. I know you do,” he says to her and lifts her up in his arms and stands to leave.
He takes one longing look at Gia’s headstone and begins to walk away.
“Da, you always say I look like mama!” Mia exclaims excitedly, “So just look at me and you can see mama all the time!” she tells him with both her hands on his cheeks.
His heart clenches.
He stops walking to adjust Mia from the side of his hip, up high to his front so he can look into her green eyes while he speaks.
The same green eyes that mirror his. Green eyes on a face that resembles Gia’s.
“I do... you’re the living, breathing, remaining piece left of your mam’s heart. You’re the manifestation of the beautiful love we had,” he tries to give her a smile, only it doesn’t reach his eyes.
The injustice from life was more than he could’ve ever imagined.
He clears his throat before he continues. “So my clever little love bug, you’re right…”
He nuzzles his nose against her temple, breathing her in and she giggles from it.
He slowly makes his way over to the petite blonde who was waiting for them outside his car.
“…I look at you and I get to see your mam, too.”
FINE
My maternal Italian grandparents inspired this novel.
They had a romantic beginning, a very miserable middle, and then a tragic conclusion.
Childhood sweethearts separated by a move to another country, my grandfather went back for his girl after some years apart. Marrying my young grandmother and bringing her to America to start their new lives together, where did it all go wrong?
It is that exact question that developed this story. But it is all from my imagination where things went wrong.
Some names and recognizable details have been changed and/or adapted for this book.
The closing of Farewell, my Loves is derived from the actual crime of passion in their story.
Please keep in mind that the bulk of this novel is fiction. Because their real story after arriving in the U.S. was nowhere near as romantic as Farewell, my Loves.
Actually, their real story is much, much more heartbreaking than what I wrote.
Join here for my Facebook group Jentibooks to discuss truth from fiction, characters, and upcoming novels. Go ahead, fuel your morbid curiosity… I’m an open book.
Preview to upcoming novel
(May be edited or omitted before publishing)
Reviving Michael
A Farewell, my Loves Sequel
The undertaker had explained they’d have to put makeup on to cover the bruises that marked her neck when they would display her at her wake.
To hide the unsightly evidence of her strangulation.
Because, showing off her lifeless body in a pretty manner is what mattered.
It was fucking bullshit.
She shouldn’t have been morbidly paraded for a bunch of no-good motherfuckers to see. She should have been treated with dignity; with kindness and respect in her final days here. But there was nothing I could do about it. There was more than enough I had to deal with already.
I’m Detective Michael Adair.
I tried not to love Gianna Vitale.
It went against everything in me to lust after a married woman when I first met her.
I especially didn’t want to poach fucking Giorgio Moretti’s wife. Not New York’s most notorious mob wife, seemingly hidden away in her ivory tower until it came to light she was Gia—my love, from all those years before.
I unwillingly fell for her hard, and I fell for her bad.
She plagued me.
And it seemed nothing could stop it.
I tried.
My God, I tried to stop it.
But there was something about her.
Our deep and instant connection made me lose all reason when it came to her.
I knew she’d be my downfall if I couldn’t keep away.
What I didn’t know was that she would be my ruin too, when she was brutally taken from me.
Because even though we made a beautiful daughter together, I gave up.
My heart had stopped.
And so had my moral compass.
Until she silently brought me back to life.
There’s nothing Jen loves more than the ‘beauty of doing nothing’, though you’ll find her devouring a book in bliss if she’s not lost in her world of writing.
She’s a Miami girl to the fullest with an accent that makes her sound like a native Spanish speaker, but in actuality she can only defend herself in the language, at best.
This Colombian-Italian descendant loves her pasta, espresso, wine, and empanadas, and there isn’t a dessert she can say no to.
Her stories have pieces of her edgy heart woven secretly between the pages and at the core of most of them is the essence of a true story.
Inspiration comes to her mostly through melancholy music and morbid family sagas, but random occurrences like a good night’s sleep can do wonders for her imagination.
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Being my debut novel, there are many, many people to thank and credit to the production of this book. The saying “it takes a village...” is completely true. (And I’m sorry but I don’t know how to write anything short and simple so bear with me here!)
My husband, my favorite person aside from our son. Thank you for listening to me about the books I love. I mean really listening. We have actual conversations about fictional characters like they’re real people; as if they’re my real friends, and you humor me even when I interrupt you while you’re watching CNN. The fact that you could care less about an imaginary person and what happens to them, but you genuinely ask me questions to complete the picture I try to paint for you with my overly detailed word vomit, is just amazing. Also, thank you for not giving me a hard time over the shitty dinners I threw at you because I needed to get this done. I’m just going to apologize in advance already, because you’re going to have to endure many more. Also, and most importantly, thank you, honey, for being you, which is perfect for me. Xo
My mom used to tell me all these melancholy bedtime stories, just us two, in her bed every Friday night while we waited for my dad to come home from work with a late-night pizza. As a child, the stories were fascinating. As a teen, the Friday nights spent with her instead of boys, were priceless. As an adult, the nostalgia kills me slowly. No words can ever truly encompass what it was like to have her as my mom. She was the best. She was so beautiful and not just in her looks. If I’m a decent person, it’s because of her. If I’m any good at storytelling, I got it from her. Thank you, Mom, for telling me morbid stories when I was too young to have heard them, but I’m glad you did. You laid the foundation fo
r me and as always, you were a visionary. You managed to even help me out from beyond. See? She was, and still is amazing.
Dad, no matter what this life has journeyed us through, the terrible trying downs or through the wonderful ups— you have been consistently a wonderful father. I was so blessed with Mom, I’m so lucky to have you. It is an honor to be your little girl in all the stages of my life. Thank you for your unwavering support, unconditional love, and unrepentant enthusiasm for all my “bright ideas.” You are the best.
Lee Pie, you started all this. You are reading this because it was you who said the magic words I will never forget. When I said “I hope to grow up and be just like you,” I meant it. I truly believe everything happens for a reason because I was so off my planned path when I started working with you— it was unreal how far of a detour I had taken. But I see now, it had to happen because I had to meet you and hear the words that changed my life, talk books, and get a glimpse of myself in 40 years. To see I was going to become funny as hell, even more sarcastic, and still reading books like a bad ass. I’m telling you, Lee, who doesn’t want to be just like you? But honestly, thank you. Even though we don’t get to see each other as much anymore, you will always be treasured in my heart, and my writing will always be attributed to you being the catalyst for it.
My siblings, thank you all for encouraging me and believing in me. Dina, thank you for listening to me talk about books you really didn’t want to hear about, but pretended anyway! For helping me anywhere and everywhere you could, and for being one of the most generous people I know. Jr, for humoring me when I asked you to read some of the very first excerpts/drafts that are not even in the book anymore and for always being excited about me being a writer! And Adrian, for having stars in your eyes like I do when we talk about it.
Uncle Joey, thank you for your blessing when I talked to you about writing this story. You are so much like my mom, having your approval felt like it was given through her. You can’t imagine what it meant to me. Even though it took quite a detour from the real story, it derived from it nonetheless, and your ‘okay’ was the most meaningful one for me.
