Page 2 of King of Omen

With another chin jerk to Mauri, I indicated that he remain at the vestibule to monitor traffic in and out of the sanctuary.

The knot of silent watchers parted like a moving tide as I stepped into the cool church.

It was half full, with the mid-morning light from its stained glass windows filtered over the assembled congregants and mourners, fitting and solemn as required.

The atmosphere in the church was heavy with sorrow and unspoken grief. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with muffled prayers.

Yet sobs stilled, potent whispers rose, and bodies rustled as all eyes turned to me.

Pulling close my deep navy jacket, I ignored the murmuration and strode to the front of the sanctuary, where I hoped to find Vitto.

I spotted him, head bowed, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched, with suppressed grief and anger.

Even as a child, he’d always found it hard to hide his passionate, sometimes eruptive nature.

My youngest brother had come to live with Bianca at seventeen.

She’d filled the empty void that my mother’s death had left. Vitto, in particular, had suffered the most after our parents’ passing, as he’d been my mother’s bambini, spoilt rotten and loved by all.

Our aunt had done her best to shield him from the harsh realities of life since coming under her wing. However, Vitto’s wounds had cut too deep to be healed by a change in scenery.

In recent years, he’d flown the coop and relocated to Melbourne, but he’d often visited with Bianca and considered her an angel.

This loss would only add to his agony.

I discerned the tension in Vitto’s shoulders as I approached.

His profile was steely, jaw tight with hardened resolve, yet underneath lingered an anguish evident in his eyes, aimed dead ahead, with burning intent.

The face of courage in the face of insurmountable grief.

I tagged it, for I, too, had had to find the same gritty strength of will. I’d made it my mask, one I’d worn since my parents had been blown up in a car bomb a few years ago.

Yet he also radiated potency in his face, and I was hit with a nudge of pride at the man he’d become.

‘Vitto, ciao,’ I murmured, placing a hand on his arm.

He flinched and whipped his head around, only relaxing when he caught on to me.

‘Renzo?’ he uttered, eyes astonished, brow cocked. ‘You’re supposed to be in Naples. I thought you wouldn’t make it.’

He surged to his feet, tears misting his eyes.

‘I booked a private non-stop flight because I’m meant to be beside you. Brother, I couldn’t let you carry this on your own,’ I growled, wrapping him in my arms.

‘I’m here now,’ I added.

‘Grazie mille.’

His eyes, often bright with deviltry, were now clouded with heartache and anger.

I followed his gaze to the altar, where Bianca’s casket lay adorned with white lilies.

‘She didn’t deserve this,’ Vitto muttered through clenched teeth.

I nodded in silent agreement, knowing that my brother would not let go without suffering.

Neither would I, but I showed less emotion than he had always done.

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