Page 37 of Vicious Behaviors
My grandfather spots us from across the room, that signature DeLuca grin spreading across his weathered face.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Been a minute since either of you graced my gym,” he says, pulling me into a loving hug.
“This visit’s long overdue,” my father explains, though his eyes stay locked on me.
“Looks like you’ve already got some battle scars,” Nonno says, nodding at the bruises on my face.
“Just one of the reasons we’re here,” my father answers, glancing toward the empty boxing ring. “Mind if we use it for a bit?”
“Of course not,” Nonno says, ruffling my hair. “I’ll grab some gloves, though I doubt I’ve got any in Marcello’s size.”
“That’s fine,” my father says. “We won’t need them today. Come, Marcello.”
I throw Nonno a weak smile and follow my father into the ring. He’s wearing his business suit while I’m still in my Sacred Heart uniform. So it’s no surprise when a few people in the gym stop what they’re doing to watch us, wondering what is about to happen.
In all honesty, their guess is as good as mine.
Once we’re in the middle of the ring, I notice most of the crowd has walked closer to it, blatantly staring at us. I shift uncomfortably, uneasy under their gaze, since their eyes feel like spotlights. As if there was no way to run from them.
“Dad,” I start, my voice low with embarrassment. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Look at me, Marcello,” he says with the same forbidding tone he sometimes uses in his office—the kind that means that I shouldn’t argue.
I do as he says and lift my eyes to his. I swallow hard again when I see something different there. Something dark, and a little frightening.
“You’re too young to understand this fully,” he begins, his soft tone so at odds with the menacing hue in his eyes, “but I lost my way once, too. Years ago. All that kept me tethered was rage. Blinding, ruthless rage. I just wanted to hurt everyone around me because I was hurting. I didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire. I just wanted to burn it all down.” He pauses with a sharp gaze, as if daring me to ask about his evil deeds. However, when I stay silent, he continues on, nonetheless. “And you know what I learned?”
“That we shouldn’t take out our problems on innocent people?” I offer, thinking it to be the lesson he’s trying to teach me.
He shakes his head and replies, “No, son. What I learned was that, for a few brief moments after tearing the world apart around me, I didn’t feel pain. At least not the same kind. I could breathe again. I could feel something other than anger and crippling rage. I was back in control, even if it meant I had to experience a new type of suffering for all the people I had hurt. I was me again.” My brows pull together since that wasn’t the answer I expected from him. It doesn’t sound like the kind of advice a father should give his son. “Sometimes,” he continues, “our minds are our worst enemy. They play tricks on us and make us doubt who we really are in here,” he says, pressing his palm to my chest, where my heart lies underneath. “Sometimes the sound in our heads is so loud that we have to use our fists, our bodies, just to silence the pain up here.” He taps my temple gently.
“I…I don’t understand,” I admit quietly.
Even if my father wasn’t speaking in riddles, I doubt I’d be capable of understanding anything right now. Not with all the stares from the gym crowd burning holes in my back.
“You will in a minute.” He lets out a sad exhale. I become even more confused when my father begins to strip off his suit jacket and carefully drapes it over the ropes. Then, with an inflated chest and an unreadable expression, he steps toward me and says, “Hit me.”
My eyes go wide. “What?”
“Hit me, Marcello. That’s an order.”
I glance over at Nonno, then at the rest of the gym. My palms are instantly sweating, and my throat is parched dry.
“I…I can’t do that, Dad.”
“I’m not your father right now,” he says firmly. “Not in this ring. Right now, I’m what’s standing between you and your anger. So hit me.”
Then, to my shock, he shoves me hard, right on the shoulder. My father has never touched me like that. He’s hugged me. Ruffled my hair. Rubbed my back when I was sick or afraid. But this? Physically trying to hurt me? Never.
“Dad—”
He shoves me again, harder this time. So much so that I stumble two steps back.
‘Hit him,’ the voice says in my ear. ‘Hit him hard.’
I shake my head, trying to shut the voice out. I don’t want to listen to it. Not now. Not ever.
Then, to my utter shock, my father slaps me. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it’s enough to break something open inside me. The tears immediately come, blurring my vision. Not from the pain because there is none. It’s the shock. The final crack in the dam.
