Savage Pride

27

“That’s the part I haven’t totally figured out. I’ve been so concentrated on getting through school that I haven’t had a chance to fully consider what I’ll do once I’m done.” That’s not totally true. I know what I want to do, but I’m just not sure how to make it happen. I want to write my own stories— create my own characters and watch them evolve into multidimensional people—but the process is daunting, and I’m not sure I want to tell anyone until that first book is complete. The pressure I put on my own shoulders is more than enough. I’d rather not have to bear the expectations of others as well. “That sounds perfectly reasonable. I don’t believe anyone can truly know what they want from their lives until they’ve lived a little. If I’d gone to college, I wouldn’t have had any idea what degree program to pick. That was one of the perks of having my life already decided for me.” Both De Rossi boys had followed in their father’s Mafia footsteps, but I’d always assumed that was because they wanted to and not for any other reason. The suggestion that my assumption could be wrong shocked me. “Were you forced to join the family?” “No, not exactly. It was more like an expectation, and I wasn’t a fan of school, so going to college was never an option. I could have lived off my father’s money easily enough, but then I’d have felt like even more of a failure than he and Zeno already thought I was.” “Why would they think that?” I balk. “Why were both of them always hard on me? My father didn’t think I was tough enough, but Z just had a stick up his ass. He wanted to be the favorite and saw me as nothing but competition.” His words are spoken with a cool impassiveness that reminds me of the hard layer of ice coating a frozen pond, hiding the treacherous water below. Nevio was concealing a world of raw emotion centered primarily around his brother. “Yesterday, you mentioned something about Zeno being the reason you were sent away in high school.” I’m feeling a little awkward about pushing for an explanation on such a delicate subject, so I technically don’t ask a question. I figure he can take the hint and offer an explanation or sideswipe the issue entirely if he chooses. He was the one who brought it up in the first place, but still, I don’t want to intrude on a private matter. Nevio shows no signs of being uncomfortable, launching into his account of what happened so many years ago. “Z started acting funny his senior year of high school. He was distant and more uptight, but he also began to work for the family, so I assumed he was acting tough to fit in. He wasn’t around much, and while I missed the friendship I’d had with my brother, there was little I could do to change matters. You and I were only around fourteen at the time and starting our sophomore year. After Christmas, everything got so much worse.” “I remember that Christmas. Mom let us have Bailey’s in our hot chocolate—it was the first time I got a little drunk. Or at least, what I thought was drunk. Now, I’d say I was barely tipsy. I remember laughing our asses off.” The memory brings a broad smile to my face. Nevio smiles as well, but his eyes bear a sadness to them at the same time. “That’s one of my absolute favorite memories. Unfortunately, it’s followed by one of my worst. Two months after that, I overheard Z talking to Mom and Dad about me. He insisted that I needed more discipline and that the only way I’d stay out of trouble was to be sent away to school. He argued specifically for a military school on the West Coast. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My own brother was trying to exile me from the family for no good reason. I wasn’t getting in trouble at school or making bad grades; he was the sole instigator. It’s the same reason he didn’t want me here for the funeral and asked only this morning when I’d be leaving.” Nevio looks at me, pleading in his eyes. “Can I be totally honest with you, Luisa?” “Of course, you can.” He glances up at the house looming before us. “He’s never said anything directly, but in my gut, I’m certain it’s always been about you.” “Me?” I blurt, totally caught off guard. “I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but I want you to know the truth. To understand. I think you and I were getting close, and he saw that, so he found a way to keep me away from you. It didn’t click with me until years later. I had a lot of time to think while I was away at school, and it’s the one thing that made sense. He wanted a clear line drawn between our family and anyone he deemed lesser than. I told him once that I wanted to ask you out, and he told me I was a fool. That I’d end up like your dad, stuck at the bottom of the organization with no hope of success. I told him he was being absurd. I think he was stepping in to make sure nothing developed between us. He probably thought he was protecting me, but it wasn’t his call to make.” I’m dumbfounded. It makes sense in a way, but it’s still hard to imagine someone could be so shallow. “Why would he be so narrow-minded? Our parents are friends. We grew up together.” Nevio shrugs. “Dad groomed him from the day he was born to lead the Giordano family. There’s no telling what he said to Zeno to warp his thinking. Being friendly with a soldier’s family is one thing but marrying into it is another.” I shake my head in wonder that anyone could cling to such archaic principles. I wonder if that’s what happened that day so many years ago. Had he run into his father and been given a reprimand about hanging out with me? It’s all so odd. People marry whoever they want—Mafia jobs aren’t some makeshift caste system. At least, I’d never gotten that impression. But once I start thinking about it, I wonder why Dad never did advance to a capo’s rank. If Silvano saw him as inferior due to his job and hasty marriage, that could explain it. It’s a question I’ve never considered, but now, the need for an answer feels imperative. “It’s strange to think I could have been so wrong about people. Your dad was always kind to me, and I thought he and my father were friends, but I’m starting to wonder if I knew anything at all.” Your intentional ignorance keeps you from seeing life’s truths. Is that what Zeno had meant when he’d said those words? That I was turning a blind eye to reality in regard to our stations in life?