Don

14

Pierto closed his eyes in pain. His heart literally hurt, but he had to do it. He slid from under his girlfriend with bated breath.

Melanie stirred, clutching onto him, snuggling into his chest. His head dropped, his eyes closed. He let out a heavy, remorseful sigh.

Gritting his teeth, he chanted to himself why he had to leave.

Somehow, that didn't make easier.

He coaxed her off of him, replacing his chest with a pillow as fast as could.

She smiled, holding tight.

He turned his head, trying to block the image. He had to leave.

But every time he looked her, he forgot about everything else.

Forgot about his family dying. 

Forgot about his duties as an under boss.

Forgot that he wasn't normal.

He couldn't afford normal.

He couldn't offer normal.

It was easily forgotten, but it never went away; never changed.

He couldn't have this. 

He couldn't afford to have it.

Pierto shook his head, breathing a self-depreciating scoff.

For a millionaire, he couldn't afford anything he wanted.

That's why he was doing this. It was going to hurt-no doubt about it. But he had to.

He couldn't forget. He knew he would if she looked at him the brown eyes, smiled at him with those lips, her hair everywhere.

So, he snuck out at 3 am, where only his own thoughts and misgivings could plague him.

Funny, he thought, last time this happened, I was on the other end.

Kissing her forehead, and scribbling a note, he vanished, leaving only a note, a broken heart and his scent behind.

°°°

DiAngelo was horrible at goodbyes.

You'd think being a Mafia boss's eldest son and having to send relatives home to the Lord, he'd be acquainted with Goodbyes by now.

But he wasn't. He kept a stone face but his heart broke every time.

His Padre would tell him, still told him:

"I sentimenti vanno bene; L'amore è bene. Non sto scoraggiante che. Sentirsi triste è bene, ma non si può sentire troppo quando non siete a casa. Ovunque non è a casa, il figlio. a casa di qualche volta non è a casa. Sentono attorno a quelli ci si può fidare, o saranno pugnalarti a tornare non appena si piega a piangere."

(Feelings are fine; Love is fine. I am not discouraging that. Feeling sad is fine, but you cannot feel too much when you are not home. Everywhere is not home, son. Sometimes home is not home. Feel around those you can trust, or they will stab you in back as soon as you bend to cry.)

His Padre managed that. He was good, loving father and husband; he was tough when he needed to be, he was Don when he needed to be. But he got home, he was Padre.

His father managed to not let the Mafia world taint him completely; he was stained, but not tainted.

Most didn't, or couldn't do that.

DiAngelo was thinking he'd be one of those who couldn't do that.

He was going to Capo, or he was going to be Padre-He couldn't do both.

Even still, as he left Miranda in her sleep, he wished he only had to be Padre.

°°°

Melanie awoke with a pillow. Which was most peculiar, because when she went to sleep there was a whole man in its place.

A patch of white caught her eyes, making her pick up the note.

"I am sorry I left you while you were sleep, but I couldn't say goodbye. Not goodbye and leave, so... I left before I could talk myself out of it. I will be home as soon as I can, but soon may not be soon enough. In the meantime, watch your back and trust no one. Not even the people we put in the house. The only person you can trust for sure is Kelly. I have to go, because I keep looking at you and that's not helping. But I wanted you to know...Ti Vogile. I will tell you what that means when I get home.

Love,

Your Italy.

Melanie wrapped her arms around herself, staring off into space. She felt colder than she had in her life.

°°°

Pierto and DiAngelo sat morosely in their private plane on the flight back home to Italy, both thinking of what they behind. Of who they left behind.

Then the plane started to rumble, and their phones chimed in unison.

Meglio comandare che a scopare. 

Better to command than to f**k.