Page 1 of The Bonventi War
1
RAVEN
The grass always feels different when I sit here.
I always feel different when I sit here.
I pour the water over the marble plaque in the ground and wipe it down with some paper towels I picked up from the store up the street. It doesn't look like anyone's been here in some time.
I add some water to the small vase and gently drop in a few roses, making sure the petals are facing the sun. The breeze is gentle and calm, rustling the leaves of the tree to my right.
Tracing her name etched on the stone, I think about the fact that I used to spend hours here before I left. Now, five years later, the only difference I notice is that the surrounding trees aren't so small anymore.
"Hey, Mom," I say in a somber tone. "Sorry it took me so long to get back here."
I pause for a moment and wait. It's crazy, but sometimes I still hope she'll answer.
"You know, I still talk to you all the time, even all the way in Florence. I hope you hear me," I say, my eyes starting to sting. I blink rapidly, trying to bury the tears back in. "Of course, you do. I know you do," I say, rubbing the inside of my left wrist where my raven tattoo is.
"Florence has been amazing. The job I had at the museum, restoring all those old Renaissance paintings. God, you would have loved it."
I nod to myself and look around. You know, that's something they never tell you about losing a parent—or a loved one, I'd assume—is that sometimes you feel almost silly speaking out loud to them. But you do it anyway because, well, you love them, even if they aren't here.
"I guess you know why I'm back," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Gosh, things are so fucked up, Mom. Johnny… well, you know what Johnny did. And Dad… I don't even know where he is. He left a real mess," I say, shaking my head.
"God, I really miss you, Mommy," I say, tears starting to stream down my cheeks.
I wipe my eyes and straighten myself up. "But don't worry. I promise, I'm going to take over the gallery, make you proud. I will not, under any circumstances, let your dream—your vision—be lost."
In truth, a part of me wanted to stay in Florence, live my own life, but Mom... I can't let her dream die.
I trace the dates on her headstone, wondering if time is supposed to heal wounds or just make them deeper.
Sixteen.
I was sixteen when she died. Some days it feels like yesterday; other days, it feels like a lifetime ago.
A crow lands on a nearby headstone, tilting its head at me. Mom always loved ravens and crows—said they were messengers between worlds.
I think she's right.
"Johnny really fucked everything up before he..." I can't finish the sentence. Even now, the words stick in my throat like broken glass.
The wind picks up, sending fallen leaves skittering across the cemetery ground. I pull my jacket tighter around myself.
"The gallery's accounts are frozen, there are suspicious transfers I can't explain, and half the inventory documentation is missing."
The crow hops closer, and I find myself wondering if Mom really can hear me through these dark messengers.
"I should have come back sooner." My voice cracks. "Maybe we wouldn't be where we are. I can't help but feel like it's my fault."
A sob escapes me before I can stop it. I press my hand against my mouth.
I don't cry.
I haven't properly cried since the day we buried her. Crying means losing control, and I can't afford to lose control. Not now. Not with everything that needs to be done.
"I'm going to fix it," I tell her. "Everything. I'm going to put it back together. Just like I do with the paintings. Sometimes themost damaged pieces can be restored to something even more beautiful than before, right?"
