Page 5 of Relentless Refuge

The alcohol I’ve ingested makes my head swim a bit. I’m not drunk by any means, though I’d like to be. My heart aches, as does my body. It’s like grief has the ability to affect my thoughts, emotions, and physical form. I haven’t cried this hard in years, not since Nanny D’Angelo passed from cancer several years ago. I was just a girl, but I took it hard. This time is worse.

“I want them back,” I say, my voice just a whisper. I curl against my mother’s side on the couch and lay my head on her shoulder. She is silent, unmoving as I cling to her. We haven’t even changed out of our funeral attire. My black dress has white hairs on it, courtesy of the long-haired cat Father loved so much. He’s around somewhere, but even he seems to notice something is wrong. Father isn’t just on a trip this time. He’s gone forever, and so is Lucco, both of them gunned down last week.

“We have to look forward now, Isabella.” Mom’s words are cold and hollow, something she’s forcing herself to say to avoid feeling the depth of mourning that I’m going through. My pain is visible, but she hides hers as well as she can. I suppose it’s herway of trying to be brave for me, something Father would have wanted for her to do for me. But I hate it.

I know she’s hurting. She hasn’t eaten a bite of food since Uncle Nicky came with the news that they were gone. The bags under her eyes are dark, and her eyes are empty, staring out across the living room blankly. I don’t know how she can sit so stoically and unmoved. Maybe she’s still in denial, telling herself that they’re not really gone. To lose a father and brother is one thing, but a life partner and son? I can’t imagine her pain.

Everything reminds me of him—the brown leather furniture he insisted was more aesthetically pleasing than Mom’s choice of red, the bookshelves lining the walls filled with special editions of all his favorite books, and even the flames flickering in the hearth, a testament to his winning the argument over whether wood or gas was better to burn. I remember that argument between my parents vividly.

I also remember playing on the floor next to the gas-burning fireplace as a child with Lucco. Our make-believe was anything but for us. We were superheroes and cops and robbers, days endlessly spent playing with toy cars and minifigures. God forbid I bring out my fashion dolls. Lucco had chewed the feet off one of them in spite for my making him play with me. I got so angry I threw it at his head, and then I got a whipping for hurting him.

Memories like that would normally bring a smile to my face, but not today. There will be no more memories made, except visits to their gravestones in the cemetery. I can’t believe they’re not coming back. This isn’t just a work trip. I have to keep reminding myself, because every time the door opens, I look up, expecting it to be them walking in after a dinner out or a meeting.

“Remember how Father fussed over that rug?” Mom asks, and I look down at the Persian rug. A hint of the deep-red wine stain near the corner still shows through. I remember that day. The maid came in with his wine in hand, and he was headed out, and they ran into each other and the stemware took a tumble. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw the mess on his rug.

“He was so angry when Elsa spilled the wine there by accident. I thought he’d fire her.” I squeeze Mom’s bicep, hugging her tightly as if to keep her next to me where she’s safe. It’s shocking how vulnerable I feel, as if death has a way of reminding me that I’m not in control of anything. It comes in and steals from you when you’re sleeping or otherwise occupied, and the worst part about it is that you can’t stop it. It’s not an enemy who can be thwarted with guns and security systems. It takes greedily with no recompense for your loss.

“Yes, and I heard about it for weeks.” Her tone is dry, not at all the warm, compassionate tone with which she usually expresses herself. I wonder what she’s actually thinking, but I don’t pressure her. Something has to be done about the Family leadership or chaos will ensue. I know they have a line of succession, but I’ve never been told what it is. Things seem really uncertain right now.

“Do you want another drink?” I ask her, glancing at her empty stemware on the oak end table next to mine. She’s had substantially more to drink than I have, but then she’s also had years’ more experience and time to build up a tolerance. Still, her blank stares worry me. If she only numbs the pain, I'll be picking her up off the floor for months. Who will pick me up?

“Of course, dear.”

Mom remains on the couch while I stand and carry the glasses to the kitchen. We’ve emptied one wine bottle already, but there are dozens more in the wine cellar. Elsa hovers as I refill the glasses. Tears in her eyes tell me she is mourning too, and part of me hates her for that, for the way she secreted away with Father at times. I don’t have the heart to tell Mom about it, but Elsa knows better than to cross me. She’ll have to grieve in solitude. She isn’t part of this family.

“Hello…” I hear a male voice down the dark hallway and know it’s Uncle Nicky here to check on us. He was my father’s right-hand man for many years and probably thinks he’s taking over this family now that Father and his heir are gone. He may be the best person for the job, though I’d rather the Family remain how it is. My mother’s brother doesn’t have a claim to the throne.

“In here,” I call to him. Mother will be useless as far as conversation or family direction goes. She’s too numb, still in shock. Her life partner was just stolen away from her in the dead of the night.

After filling the glasses with wine, I turn to face him. He still wears his suit, the one he wore to the funeral earlier. He, along with a few of my cousins and other men, were pallbearers. It took twelve of them because we had two caskets, and Mom and I were devastated watching the men carrying them to their graves.

“Mom isn’t well, Uncle Nicky. She’s worse today. I think it was seeing them in the caskets.” I walk over to him, leaving Elsa to herself. He follows me as I pass him and head up the hallway to the living room again. I’m glad he cares enough to stop by, but I’m not in the mood for visitors. I don’t know when I will be again.

“It’s going to take a while, Isa. Grief isn’t something you snap your fingers at and it goes away.” Uncle Nicky is like a father to me at times, and he’s told me on more than one occasion that Lucco and I are like his own children. His wife is unable to bear children, and it’s unthinkable to adopt a child into this Family. So, he remains barren, and now, I know he will hover around me, attempting to parent me well into adulthood as my father should have.

I sniffle and take in his words. Grief isn’t something to snap my fingers at. Of course it isn’t. But I can feel grief as I move forward, and that’s what I’m going to do. Staying stuck in misery isn’t going to help anyone.

“What brings you by? I thought Mom told you we don’t want visitors right now.” My question comes out of sheer curiosity. Nicky knows we’re in no mood to talk business yet, and for now he’s kept the hounds at bay. Mom and I haven’t discussed what should happen next or who will lead us from now on. For all I know, she intends to sign everything away and leave this place. Just sitting in the same rooms where we shared time with Father and Lucco is too hard.

“Well, I know you don’t want visitors, but if we do not establish our chain of command now, we’ll face challenges.” He emphasizes the word “challenges”, and I know what he means. Without strong leadership, even the most loyal followers will disband or rebel. Father was well-loved and deeply respected, but my cousins can be obstinate at times.

I round the corner into the living room to find that Mother has lain down. Her eyes are shut and tears moisten her cheeks. She clings to an old throw pillow plucked from Father’s office chair. It probably smells like him—sweet tobacco and musky whiskey.

I set her glass on the end table next to her and lean down to kiss her temple, sniffling again. It’s hard seeing her hurting so badly, and it’s a good distraction from my own pain. If I focus my concern on her, I’ll feel more capable of moving on and healing.

“Giana, I’m here,” Uncle Nicky coos, but Mom’s eyes remain shut and her silent sobs wrack her body.

“She isn’t prepared to deal with this.” It’s the first emotion I’ve seen her express, and it’s healthy for her to let it out. I turn to Nicky as I sip my wine. My face must look horrendous—smeared makeup and mascara lines—but I’m no less capable of rational thought now than any other time.

“We must enact our plan, Giana. You have to give consent to my leadership.”

And there it is. Nicky’s plan is to take over. It upsets me, but there’s little I can do to stop it. If this is what Father wanted, then I have to respect it. Mom is in no shape to answer him, so I wipe my face and take it upon myself to answer.

“What is the plan you’re enacting? Who did father say was his appointed heir if Lucco wasn’t here?” I’m direct because the only way to get answers in this family is to be this way. Nicky sobers, his eyebrows rising. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to step on toes or cross boundaries. He loves my mother and he loved my father too. But no one told me anything about this, and I can see he’s nervous about it. He mops his bald head with a handkerchief before he responds to me.

“Well, Isa, there is no appointed leader. Your father believed Lucco would take over, and his son after that. Your mother and I discussed?—”

“In her grief?” I interrupted. “You mean to tell me you swooped in here and took advantage of her grief by pushing your agenda?” I’m calm, just like Father taught me. I am not letting anyone take this Family and make it something Father would be ashamed of. Even if it means leading them myself.

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